These cradles of green and
pleasance. These crescents of Tintagel. As the moon and sun beguiles a lark, and
remembers. Through augured gate of
dragons wise; across the grassy way to a tree aflame with angels, as Blake saw.
Strange signs upon the wall and the rye.
Signs of vulva, chalice, well and
well-wishing. Here at this sacred way. This Path of Her. O Rose, thou art healed. By work and wielding of Albion. Promise of New Jerusalem, a realm beyond these
divisions of war. For a table of plenty
we pray, at mural and song. That we might
never forget our brothers and sisters. That we might yet make friends of our enemies.
To fill a cup with living waters, and
slake this thirst. As it once was of our
dreaming. Our spirit. By raven, hawk or wren. Winged circling upon unseen movements of
light. Overtures and underscores of each
successive Age. M'ithriin, Talis,
Caedmon. I would wish these larks
ascend. Higher and higher still. A king and his land, a servant and his
people. I speak as Kasi has always
spoken. Where there is hunger and anguish there is no king at all. No
queen, nor regency. Only stolen thrones
and false lineage. A fallen realm. You wish to know of the Oma'turi? Never a conqueror. At least not of flesh and foreign land. Man begets himself upon the dreaming of his
Age. Visions of his peace-time, or his
violence. Dark Age warlord, dragon of
Celtic echoes, medieval Christian prince. A child, only glimpsed, now hidden from
history for fear of his mythic power. That
ghost in the courtyard. People say of
him only as much as they know of themselves. The supposed limits of a vassal. The imagined breadth of a king. It's a strange path, this interpretation and fulfilment
of prophecy. Signs of Kathari. Legacies of Albigenses. It is utterly hideous; this lie of a thousand
years. This false succession of wraiths.
But there are still stories, wild and
dreaming. Still lands pregnant with life
and dragons wise. Trees aflame with bright hosts of higher thought. And Kasi still holds true to that shining
promise of restoration. Peace, but a
sword. The promise of truth, love and
honour for all people. Of all faiths, in every sovereign
land. All deserving of a place at the
table, if earned. Men must know why they
fight. And if they have no choice but to
undergo such solemnity, who do they fight for? Themselves or their people? The true
wealth of any world is not riches, but wisdom. Devotion and trust. If the spirit be a lark what use is rising if
we rise alone? I tell you now, it is lonely on the hill. Let no man be king lest he truly know the
meaning of a chorus, and the struggles of his kingdom's most vulnerable. Such is the living of a radiant, humble
life. Green and pleasant. Hand, hilt and chalice of Albion's true
regent.
I follow the Path of the Rose. I try to walk the Way. Like the pilgrims, seekers and mystics of old. A hidden path somewhere between the soul
and the land. An illuminated manuscript. Psychic vision can truly bridge
imagination and the earth. I've heard
many speak of this Way. I can always
tell who has actually walked it. In
rhythm and cadence. As history, myth and
symbolism begin to share space and time hymns of strange union can be heard. Perpetual choirs. Obelisks rising from the living waters of the rose, as I witnessed just a short way from the site of Powles Crosse. At the turret where I prayed and gave thanks. But I know there’s more to see. The way is endless, and the grail is gathered
from the halo of the hidden. That
liminal light at perception's edge. The
spiritual sun. Laurentum & the
Rose wasn’t St Paul’s first vessel of living waters. There was another fountain at the cathedral before it, gifted
to another place. An open Priory. A green and pleasant land. I sense that I need to go there, and walk. Just as I walked the ruins of another Priory
at the groves of St John.
Even as my journey begins I notice something significant. The first two sentences from a poem by Keats. Someone has affixed them to the lintels above
these travellers. It’s an excerpt from
Endymion. The shepherd locked in
dreaming raptures of Selene's ghost-flower. For a moment I’m taken aback. But then I smile at those words, realising it’s
a beneficent augur. A counter-point to
darker worries beneath the surface of these waters. I think of Kiskuh. Phantoms and witches of the sea. Shelley, Lamia and the banks of the Via Regis.
But no, this is a gentle smile from somewhere.
A beautiful well-wishing. I vow to treasure the joy. The green spaces of the Priory are quiet,
except for the music of children playing happily together in the empty fountain
of St Paul’s. They have climbed into its
high stone basin. It seems a delight for
them. Yet, about the rim of the old
fountain are many candles. Flowers and
memorials for lost loved ones. The children
seem oblivious to these solemn offerings.
Indeed, I notice a fallen bouquet of dried flowers beneath a bench, some
distance away. It’s tied with a bow of
purple silk. I intend to document many
portions of this path. This walking of
the way. The Rose is near. I can
feel her. I have no laurels to mark this
particular victory, but I leave the flowers resting against an emblem depicting
the crossed swords of the Apostle. I
light one of the many new candles left so thoughtfully there. Not a light of mourning but a flame of life. Water & Fire. I feel awakened. I thank the spring and leave the park to
find the path again.
It's shortly after this that I unexpectedly stumble upon St Mary's
Tower. I feel a sense of mild surprise
at the name and I’m intrigued by its haunting similarity to St Michael's
Tower at the summit of Glastonbury Tor. I had no conscious knowledge this was here. Still, I think of subtle bridges between
places and times. I recall an old line of poetry from
William Dunbar: London, thou art the flower of cities all. For a while I wander the open churchyard in a
strange reverie. There are tombs and
gravestones all about. I give thanks to
God to have come upon this threshold place.
The Path is with me, I realise. A
choir in my breast, perpetual. For just
a moment I stop to rest against the edge of a large tomb in an effort to gather
my thoughts. There, atop the stone lid,
is a book. Wrapped carefully in plastic to shield it from the rain.
I have no idea how long it has been
waiting there. I unwrap the gift with fascinated trepidation. Something
is definitely with me, just beyond the edge of ordinary sight. The gift is a book of London folk-tales,
written for children. I almost laugh as
I read its title, recalling the smiling little ones in the Priory’s fountain. I glance through the magical book,
delighted. It’s filled with stories of ghosts
and gallant knights, flower-children and tower-ravens.
Among the pages a note has been hidden, written in red ink. It says, quite succinctly, Please read me and enjoy my stories. As I stand in the open churchyard of St Mary's
Tower I know that I've been blessed with the gift of laurels and laughter, as well
as folklore. The Path exists. The Rose is near. I can hear the way.
With the book in my possession I now steadily climb the great hill
towards what they used to call the People's Palace, renamed for Alexandra. A princess they say. Another park awaits upon the hill, and a small
garden near the crest hides yet another fountain of old stone. I tell myself that I'm certainly among heaven's
living waters today. For a few minutes I'm alone in this quiet
garden. It is silent and still. I'm intrigued by this other fountain, all weathered
and cracked. It’s a lion with four
faces, like the quartered sun of the old Celts.
Or the angels of Abraham. Again I
imagine the susurration pouring forth from each face of the Ari. I notice a little message on one of the benches. Sit a while and turn your face to the sun.
So, I do as the plaque suggests here at
this high place. I close my eyes, turning
inward as I try to find the spiritual sun once more.
Finally, as I approach Alexandra Palace at the peak of the hill,
I know my journey is coming to an end. It’s my
first time here. I find the grand edifice
waiting for me – the old BBC transmission mast still standing beside it, and I smile to myself. Eventually I reach the palace’s heart; its stunning rose window.
It echoes those stained-glass windows found in cathedrals all across the
world. Indeed, with its sprawling arches
the building has the manner of some vast industrial church upon the hill. A secular cathedral that once sent pulsed frequencies across the London skyline. There are
many people here today but the bench directly beneath the rose window is
mysteriously vacant. I happily sit,
thinking of signals and stone. I think of those lines from Keats at the start of my journey, and the
gift I was given. I hold the book of
London folk-tales in my hands as I peer at the evening city all laid out before
me. Directly above, the winged Angel of Plenty stands perched at the apex
of the palace. A cornucopia at her feet. She is the highest thing. Her left hand is raised in victory, a laurel
wreath clasped in her right. It's only then
that I realise this wonderful journey has moved me far more than I
expected. For a moment it’s almost like
hearing the angel speak. I turn and sure
enough there is a plaque on the bench at my back. I laugh with something approaching joy at the perfection of what
is revealed here, at the summit of my journey:
I have conversed with the spiritual sun.
I saw him on Primrose Hill. As Blake did. The subtle sublime. Quiet, hidden, immense. The light behind the light. Barefoot at
the door, I hear it. And I’m lead to the
way. Ruins of the Priory. The groves of St John. As it was in the courtyard at the place where
Powles Crosse once stood. Like the quartered
sun of the old Celts. Little Golgotha,
the Christian elders called it. An
allegory of stone, whereby common folk decided the fate of future kings. Once, upon that time. Before the burnings and the hush, and these
lies of succession. Back when the people
still spoke of miracles and magic. It
was something more than allegory, they said. A boy in the courtyard. And a sword, perhaps a thousand years old,
hidden within the stone shaft of the old crosse. Torn from its foundation in the earth; the
outer casing crumbling to reveal a blade. Still sharp and gleaming like a tongue of
silver flame. A dragon's blade, to the
old Celts. The boy was only a figment,
some said. Or in several places at once.
A ghost of each Age, wandering beyond
the veils of time and art. Dreaming
beneath the landscape of Albion. Others
claimed him as flesh, of the moment. A
medieval prince hidden from sight as a child, expunged from the records for
fear of his emancipatory future. An
augur that would one day dare to question the terrifying supremacies of Rome,
Constantinople and Isfahan. The wraith-priests
of every faith who were leading innocents to slaughter. Distort and damnation. The darkest magic, spreading like a sickness
across the lands. Bleeding mirrors. The icons of crosses, crescents and stars, all
hungry for blood. But he was called the
people's prince by those who believed, by those who claimed to have seen him
with their own eyes. The boy was blessed
by the winds themselves, they said. Crowned
by the painted blaze of dawn. Light of
Eth'iir, still wandering the veils of the threshold. Places and Ages. But these stories are nothing more than
medieval confections, our learned scholars now claim. Chivalric romances, they say. French fancies. But I tell you now, Fallen. I have conversed with the spiritual sun. He is at every high place. Each sacred hill. And he dwells also among the low-born. The poor, the common. There is nothing elitist or exclusive about
that subtle light. Kasi has seen only glimpses
since the Fall, but so much more than he deserved. I speak as the myriad elders spoke. Keepers of the oldest wisdom traditions. Emet, Mi’raj, Omkara. Those true learned souls who knew fluently
the tongues of their brothers and sisters in distant lands. Those who conversed with the spiritual sun at
the source of each faith and each culture.
It matters little of such emblems if we cannot find a place at
the table for strangers. I speak of peace,
but a sword. Like that boy in the
courtyard. Do you hear me, wraiths? Do you have any real grasp of sacrifice? I know exactly who I am. I'm not a god, or a king, or a prince. And neither are any of you. I'm not even an angel since those rebels and
the war. Truth be told Kasi is a ghost
at the table, but I shall prepare a feast for you. As I have always tried to do. As my brother commands. Do you know who my brother is? The famished shall eat first of this feast. Bread, wine and fish. The neglected shall be fed, the lonely held. None are abandoned in the light of that
spiritual sun. Tell me, do you even
remember why those laurels were first placed? It was not for the victory of violent
conquest. I still recall the wholesome joys
of Floralia. The kiss of a guiding
muse. The smile of a friend. New life blooming on the banks of the
river. Are you lost, Roma? Byzantium? Isfahan? Perhaps you are thirsty. Perhaps you've lost your way. I would happily sup with you, if you lay down
your arms. And your ignorance. We have water here, from the rose. By the light of a painted sun.
Kashi tries to follow these choirs in
perpetuity. Hidden choirs beyond the
known, connecting all things. In
listening to such choirs I pray for mended steps. Re-forged paths. I wish to be a learned knave at the very
least. In time, perhaps. Or just beyond it. Chevalier.
Cathedral stone. And once again I’m
recalling those Wars of the Roses. Frightening,
secret wars in the grey. Upon the hill. Druidic thorn. Sinister Venetian
revelry. Dark sylphs of Tudor
glance. Shifting silences. This disturbing new chronology. But Kasi sees nothing more than warlords and
stolen thrones in this lie of a thousand years. A lost shining age. A corruption of Plantagenet kings. These false lineages, and I'm forced to witness
the endless sorrows of each maiden of a shattered realm. Of course I see her in each one of them. Sisters of Kathari. Daughters of Albigenses. Pre-Raphaelite angels with Yasha'lem in ruins
all around. I marked their day with my
descent, to honour them. And to honour
my brother. Those feet in ancient time,
as Blake wondered. A land once green and
pleasant. Now become a vessel for
perpetual night-fall. An isle of dark angels. They were blackest alabaster, those tears
upon her skin. It's written in her eyes,
isn't it? Via Dolorosa. Haven’t you seen those images? She knows there is still more to come. Delicately braced for future cataclysm. In grief, with grace. Oh, fallen. You think you understand it all. You think you reign supreme, with your abominations
and altered chronologies. But only Love
is supreme. And egalitarian. It never hordes its wealth. So, knowing these things, I choose to heed
the silent choirs. Once more I'm lead
through the folding city by a trail of whispered signs. From Navah'tri to Camri’lach. To the bridge at Ari'ma'thea, nearest the
ashen hill. I find winged lions guiding me
to stolen histories. Arts and science,
coins and stars. Dragons, knights and
swords. Right here in this city of
ghosts. Hidden in plain sight. I hear the lament of those perpetual choirs. Making wine beneath the bridge. A sacrament.
And I recall Ga'hala on his knees before the chalice. River-flesh and laken hilt. Blinded, speechless, like a king of fishers. But not quite. Both of us were acolytes of a cathedral
beneath the waters and the rock. Brothers
of Kathari. Sons of Albigenses in this
church of the hidden hymns. Stitching
letters in the flesh of each shoulder. Our
maiden, courageous and kind. A lover at
every turn. Mourning and singing, as the beloved at the
empty tomb once sang. From the mouths of
each Ari come the susurration of those waters. Where spirit is the truth. The resurrection and the life. And I know what brings me here. A trail of living lights like kisses just
beneath the skin of the city. Carried
West, though bending East. Quietly I
speak. Ferry me gently, girl of all
priests. Let me see through John's eyes.
And at last I am come to the truth. Shining, unassuming. A promise of wisdom worthy of any grail
quest. Before me stands a turret of
living waters. The Fountain of the Rose.
The end, and a beginning. Only a glimpse perhaps, as Ga'hala once
searched and saw. Only a place to start.
But it's enough for Ka'shayel on this
strange, blessed day. To follow these choirs
in perpetuity, through this seemingly endless valley of the shadow of death. Thus, at mended steps I pray. Thy rod and thy staff. I find great comfort at the Fountain as I peer
upward into the mournful eyes of the Rose. And for a moment I hear something beyond
lament. Beyond thorn or sinister
revelry. A path is opened before me and
my heart is with my love, because I hear the way.
Mortals are strange, aren’t they? But we angels are even stranger. Creatures of the threshold. Winged carriers of royal blood. Part of me would still rather choose a lie
over the truth, and Kasi really should know better by now. But eternity is a curious thing. Ample time to forget our hard-earned wisdom
and relearn our common mistakes. In the
lie these wings are burned away and this blood is purified. All shields and crowns buried at last. In this tempting, beckoning untruth I give my
whole heart to another and there are virtually no secrets between us in our
bed. In the lie I don't suffer in
silence anymore. I'm just a man. Occasionally charismatic, I would hope. Still perceptive, brave and kind. Or always striving to be. But in the lie a certain healing has occurred,
through heavenly grace. I don't
constantly ache for things that will never be mine. Worlds and souls long since lost. Secrets within secrets wrapped in shining
flesh, illuminated waist-deep in rivers of starlight. The lie is wonderfully succinct, you see. Beautiful and full of depth, but comprehensible.
An everyday certitude any man or woman
can live with. But the truth is
something else. It is glittering. Mercurial.
Almost ostentatious. A shifting
thing of dreams, myth and revelation. Forever
defying a complete understanding. Daughters
and sons, sisters and silences. Oma'turi
thea. The truth is a crucible that I
continuously put to choir and vision, in hopes that it might be of use somehow.
To someone. Somewhere. These strange fragments and painful prophecies.
But I'm just one angel among many. Angels
don't exist in the lie, you see. Only in
reality. No-one in their right mind
would ever want to be an angel, or a king. Not when faced with the staggering truth of
all this. In the lie I don't bleed
anymore, and I finally escape the incalculable gravity of my own centre. A black star, dark as the sleep of an eternal
peace. In the lie my loved ones are no
longer lost. They are found again, and safe.
Full of kindness, courage and purpose. I watch them from afar, a silent guardian. Absent but grateful. And at last I'm free to love again. To wander playfully through the realm, a wink
in my eye and a spring in my step. But
these are lies, aren’t they? Betwixt and
between. Half-truths at best. The strange imaginings of mortals. The floral fancies of angels. They are fairytales, in a word. And we all know that fairytales aren't
real. Don't we?
Those pages in the river are there
for a reason, my love. I place them to
calm the wake and soothe the tides. Pages
and songs. I think you still do it too,
on occasion. When the heart yearns. When the forests hush and the grey light is
just so. Tattooed leaves, passing
secrets. Still whispered to this day. Hidden and half-hidden. Leaves from a broken book of shadows; a tome
of once-wed promise. Those losses and
lake-beds. Exorcising the agonies of
Akasha's Fall. Mika's war, and the storm. I miss you but it's enough for me to watch
you grow, free of all this. Free of the
veils of darker fay. Sisters and
silences. Let me be the one to hold
Markana’s gaze. You know I have the will
and the strength. Even in this mortal
flesh. Trailing songs of Mithriin, Talis
and Caedmon. From the old world to the
new. I've long since prayed that heaven
would grant you peace, my cherished, and recall your prince to clarion. I was answered despite the complications of
this war. And so, I give thanks every
morning to the watchful sky. Now we
patiently tithe, don’t we? With our wonders
and our work. We wait amidst wilding stars. A thousand held by the chalice of shores. As our Father's key, our Mother's revelation. This sacred oath. Hearing those melodies beneath the water. Harrowing the black beneath the sun.
These are the years without summer,
aren’t they?The Floralia without
spring.Spatium, tempus.Serpentine.Places of night's amnion, cradling every broken ladder of Jacob.Dark, secret work.Full of changelings and grief, as the keepers
of Absentia want it forever.But we were
never the same, Kiskuh.I was only a
boy.An innocent, and you mocked me
terribly.Kasi will never be a bard of
war despite those scars.Your favoured
glories of the shattered trench are all your own.I want none of it.Bombed grammar
and sinister psychologies.Divine fires,
stolen.Always the appetites of the
elect.Prometheus, Polidori,
Vampyr.Such frightening decadence on
these banks of the belle rive, my sister.But it takes no skill at all to detune the instruments of sky or storytelling.And yet, I'm still taken with the shining
form you so brazenly stole from my fair one.My cherished.Blue of those
eyes.Curve of that mouth and breast.Turn of those hips. I suppose it’s enough to give you a brief measure
of my attention.Ever the pragmatist is
this wilding wolf. I'm sure you
understand, my red-robed wraith. But I
do recall your true face. Winter,
dark-haired. Beautiful and vicious. Like a king’s mistress. Oh, Kiskuh.I want to share something with you.Something you really should have grasped by now. Something you still haven't the heart nor
wherewithal to understand on your own. The
speaker will live unencumbered, eventually. She will heal from these ravages in a quieter,
gentler place. A place of spring, and
summer. I watch you and your acolytes
flee from that place like cowards, because you are all dead.On the inside.And you’re running out of time.Do you even grasp this foretelling, daughter
of rain?The struggles of my kith are
private despite the horrors of your looking-glass. Abomination technologies. The petty, silvered skins of the half-light
cults.My family shall not be robbed of
their dignity, and my beloved is so much more than a living sacrifice. She is a shining spirit of the eternal
hallow. Her tears are not a matter of state or celebration.We angels watch over all the kind ones,
everywhere.I was never among your
bitter poets of Los. Not even when we
were lovers.Hear me, witch.Lillibeta has a garden grown. Bells and shells and pretty maids.A mother's magic, you might say. Fidelia, Speranza, Charissa. Guardians
of the living Praesentiam. And what of Esme?
Oh, she survived the fire and the
humiliation.I told you, didn't I?I told you who I was even in the
beginning.But you didn't really listen.You were prideful.Seduced.Blind and deaf. Mea Culpa, dark
one. And I am laughing at you still. A thousand cuts were found upon my flesh, yet
not a mark upon her beautiful spirit. Do
you understand me now, elect of Vorteth?What I’m capable of?Incanto
Dolorosa, my fallen Florentine. Like a
black star.I want you to know that I
shall meet you at the end of all things. Your executioner, upon cathedral stone. I shall be standing in the ashes of every divine
fire. And you will know me at last.There shall be no mercy, or remorse.You're not the only pale raven of the hidden
folk. Not by half. I too am a shapeshifter.There are still flowers on the shore of these
thousand stars. There is still dancing
in the distant fields, Kiskuh. Life
belongs to love, and laughter. You know
nothing of your Father, do you? Or your
son.
