Monday, 21 September 2015
In firelight, in the place just beneath the world, the young traveller makes marks in the dirt. He thinks of how the firmaments were formed, from stories. He knows that he is merely a poem wrapped in flesh, given cognizance for a brief time. The Magi had come here to this secret place long before him, and would return long after his death. The young traveller sits at the fire, gazing into the flames.
It was said they followed a star. Some called them kings, others called them sorcerers, prophets. Some even said that they were ghosts, daemons, strange spirits from other realms. But they spoke of a birth, that human flesh had been touched by divine fire – that a great light had been born upon the Earth. Others had foretold of this coming light. Something so powerful that it would connect rather than cripple, love rather than hate, liberate rather than enslave. Tall tales fit only for children, or the mad. But there were those who believed. In a light that loved them, bled for them, would die for them.
The young traveller smiles as he gazes into the fire.
The flames are fracturing time, stories splintering into a thousand mirrored shards of ancient knowledge – encoded glyphs, secret languages, dead histories rousing beneath the living.
The Magi are with him now, circling the fire. He feels their kinship. He senses their resolve. They want to show him something.