by Debra Cazalet
a filament to capture the small, rotating object that came alongside. He and
his companion autónims, Pri and Seg, had been travelling through the great
wailing planets, their transparent outer layers excoriated by the continual
rasp of white-noise.
Těr rolled the object along
In autish, Seg asked
replied. "Book-not-book-mirror-not-mirror..." Pausing before adding "Alive."
Pri and Seg's filaments joined
Těr's, feeling along the object, all three delighting in the shifting
marks on its surface. Then, Těr pulled back.
In the space between them he
began re-ordering elementary particles into a translation of what appeared to
be some form of archive radiating from within the object.
This story has become old, as I.
I hold within, preserved, the essence of characters who came to be important in this tale of cosmic
metamorphosis, through their telling of events which, I hope, you will come to
unravel in a moment, though the telling contains language long redundant. Words, so far as I can know, with no alternative in extra-planetary
or extragalactic languages, though meaning may still be conveyed, at the very
least, either chemically, or perhaps vibrationally.
I will mention Mary the Jewess here, a sought after practitioner
in the growing alchemical arts of the 1st century, as hers was the overwhelming
energy, it would seem, that drew Adamus toward his desire after he came into
possession of me.
Aided by her influence, his interest and influence in the
occult amplified and, ultimately, unlocked those deep and hidden parts which
exist solely on the magical plane. A manifestation of his interest in these
arts can be seen in the illustration that accompanies this text. A sort of
channeling of imagery, if you will, which, in his guided hands, might have
expressed something of the nature of what was to come, if it had been
If there had been time.
The text transitioned into the
image, shimmering with infrasound from Thul, the largest of the near planets,
A number of Pri's filaments
gravitated toward it, but a sudden colour pulse across Těr's outer layers
halted their progress.
The image hung there, ripples of
energy flickering and warping it until the form of, what they understood to be
that of a missing celestia, took its place, her words already attuned to
I'd been there all along, patient as the eternally old must be.
For mortals, I was one of the unseen, holding the sphere of
Luna in the nest of my hair. At once I was both Luna, and She Who Carries The Moon, forever in perpetual, trailing orbit. Always held
at a distance, quietly following the footsteps of Helios, that great and adored
fiery orb held aloft by He Who Carries The Sun. I was his drudge. Tossed scraps of dying light from his mantle. Left to tame unruly tides in the dark.
They say in love, only one truly loves. That one is servant to
the other, much as I was to He Who Carries The Sun. He
who was forever ornamented in the gold flowing downward from his charge, while
I slowly came to harbour to all things feared. Always the
That was until him.
Until Adamus. The mortal who glimpsed through the cataract of illusion.
It was because of his mirror. His Tezcatl.
A sundered piece. Merely a fragment. But still, one of the old kind and
therefore a catalyst for power and whose alignment, one night, was perfectly
plotted so I might drift across his surface as Adamus scried his depths.
Turning the disc of Luna, I became radiant. Felt
Tezcatls delight in Adamus's inability to doubt my presence.
And I? I
revelled in the reflection of my own power, no longer begging the crumbs of
Oh, how we were captured that night, Adamus and I.
All the next 16 nights I appeared in Tezcatl to Adamus's, at
first reticent, then eager countenance, drawing him in and being drawn in to
some kind of madness. A conduit for annihilation.
I see it now for what it was.
It was Tezcatls design.
Cunning, as only the wise can be.
I see myself, reduced to ego. Lonely and
It is strange now, how I understand the beauty--the paradox--of
The celestia smiled and faded as
a new cluster of particles bonded, forming another being, a male earthling,
hanging between the autónims. His sound vibrations, wave-like and rhythmic,
harmonised with the melody of Thul.
Some partial text appeared, scrolling across the open palms of Adamus as he spoke:
Not oft do we fall in love, least not deep or true
observing the old, I hypothesise anew
twas infatuation kindled this grievous coup
Many things occurred I cannot reverse
the least of them a harrowing curse
where I solely exist in rhyming verse
'Tis born of a folly of long ago
in which Luna's face I came to know
casting her light in beguiling tableau
till vanity strummed us both in unity
casting off life with reckless impunity
of signs and warnings, we'd immunity
Penny Magazine - Of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge, dated
scenes at every coast...'
manner of fish and creatures of the sea washed ashore, dead...'
I did not know of Tezcatl's power
to foster love, that ruinous flower
and of the world, sculpt Babels Tower
Made at the Royal Observatory, Edinburgh
By Thomas Higson, Esq.
for the year 1809
...moon's axis... serious
Adamus closed his fingers around the fading words:
for nightly as we abetted desire
Luna's influence began to retire
from ocean tides, swelling now higher
gathered to one tumultuous wave
casting men to a fathomless grave
and chaos, too consuming to save
our unearthly passion became the thief
of life, of love and all worldly belief.
Against this, mortal love's a blessed relief
but too late Luna and I do cuss
locked in Tezcatl, spinning through time thus
There's naught left of earth
nothing but us
As Adamus turned, weakening,
Tezcatl's text overlaid him in fractured bursts, finally stabilising; the
figure beneath melting away.
I was a portal, you might say. My lineage
old. Born of the Earth, I was Gaia's fiery eye, erupting from her core
and flowing over Mesopotamia. A by-product of Earths shifting skin, existing in
the fissures below her surface, until I was teased out. Revealed.
Black. Translucent obsidian, polished over centuries
by an unending love of perfection. A succession of ceaseless
hands. Magical hands through which I passed from my
birthplace and onwards through Egypt and Persia. My properties were
honoured. Sacred. But eons have shaped and contorted the morality of the times as they
have cracked and rendered me. Now a lost twin to my other
But even as a shadow of my former self, I saw all before us. The next wave of palingenesia in which Man created the great
machine of industry. But what Man couldn't see was the inevitable cycle
of decline to follow in which that very machine would destroy its creator. But
not before that creator sucked the life out of the earth, as surely as an
unseeing tick on a faithful and placid old dog.
Still, Man would race toward this enlightenment and yet again
be blinded by his own achievement, falling away to a lower cycle of
renaissance. Nothing comes from renaissance. Only decadence.
It is mankind reaching for the light when Man is blind. And each sullied
rebirth can only deplete its mother.
I might have let things continue in an infinitely slow trajectory,
but, as happened, I came to hasten matters instead. A vessel
amongst vessels. The tiniest constituent of the whole.
There is no space between things. Between us. Each of
us can be the vessel to call forth destruction or creation at any time. But destruction
is merely symbolic, for no thing can be reduced to nothing. It merely becomes
In the Tarot, the cartomancer might have drawn equally of two
cards; Judgment and The Tower and their inevitable companion to follow;
Death. But as all true diviners know,
Death is far from the end. It is, in fact, a clarion call for beginnings. The
beginnings Man reached for in his renaissances but could never truly call
forth. But I, I had all the ingredients
for such beginnings, especially since the powerful influence of the 9 vibration
came to assist as the year turned to 1908. A fortuitous
numerological condensing. Indeed, the elements materialised before me
like an invitation to dance and my surface, the cucurbit in which these
ingredients might begin the process of transmutation. Not just the mundane
kind. No. This transmutation would evoke the divine.
But first I had to coax. I had to attract. To appeal to the
vanities of Gods and men, forgetting all trace of sentiment. One cannot afford sentimentality
when broad strokes are required.
And so here we are, locked together,
Adamus, Luna and I. A book of pages
spinning infinitesimally slow through the void, waiting.
Yes, waiting. For I am only the right eye.
One half of myself. A self I must reconcile.
As must we all.
The object's energy dwindled as
the messages began to replay themselves, overlaying each other in waxing and
Těr wound his filament
inward, releasing the working particles so they could find their own order once
again, and as the autónims moved away, the object was left, for the moment, a
piece of cosmic detritus, intermittently projecting against the fabric of
Light years distant, She Who
Embraced Thul released an arm from its ageless pose, reaching into the folds of
the galaxy and, still humming her planetary song, she plucked Tezcatl's other
half from the strings of darkness.
Held captive within the fragment
was a second long-lost celestio, He Who Carries The
Sun, along with the mortal, Eeva, who'd lured him from his station.
Recognising at once, the
parallels between the two fragments, Thul marvelled at the little grain of
potential while patiently waiting.
Perhaps, she sang to her
attendant stars, it will be the start of something.
Debra Cazalet is a non-practising hermit and published poet with an allergy to being constrained. She has a lifelong interest in all things hidden and is torn between the archaic and the futuristic. She also paints and photographs random stuff and is editing her first completed suspense novella.