28. Mahogany Wood
“Want to go for an adventure?” Vesper offered me some wine. It’s wrung from the blood of the sailors who died; young white bodies adrift in the tide. *
I took a sip. The rich texture vaporized my mouth to numbness. Vesper and I sat in his study of mahogany wood. Old maps and charts strewed across several tables untidily, whilst occult books from centuries foregone were flipped open to pages showing varied diagrams of geometric alchemy. There were also many globes of arcane worlds, most of which I’d not encountered. And it was all generally pretty cool; you could touch the dots representing towns and cities, or place your palm on a continent or country, and historical facts and myths will project onto a screen. This high-tech function seemed out of place in a mildewed atmosphere of magic, reminding me suddenly I lived in the end of times, and was not in a fantasy novel as I’d first romanticized.
Vesper in his study is a serious scientist, a contradiction to the modish or psycho avatars he wears in public. Here he is just a bohemian gentleman, a bit rapt in his studies. I wonder if this was his true form; but I never asked. He’ll just give me some philosophical answer on the existence of being. I know, `cos I’ll probably do the same if solicited.
A substantial problem for life, in whom all things are possible, is that we lose count of the number of characters we’d composed throughout the ages, and thus, muddle up the image of our origin. Perhaps that’s why life is so fucking confusing. And that’s why life is as fucking confusing for creatures of mortal qualities. In each and every cell that makes up their being, its essence is from an eternal source. And the film or mote that blows into the formation of that cell can be myriad, from a zillion galaxies and dimensional timelines, a whisper of dust flown across the universe, carried by the winds of ages to settle in the components of that cell, influencing the entire body, soul and mind, rumouring secrets to the brain concerning the alpha and omega, baffling it with countless anecdotes and algorithms birthed from far flung corners of existence’s expanding jigsaw, assorted flakes dipped in DNA (like fondue or steamboat), asserting contradictory versions of truths on that poor human being who cannot make matter or meaning of his life.
I coughed. Fine particles puffed into the air and on to my face when I jumped onto a chair.
“Don’t you clean things around here?” I asked, choking and sneezing out the powder entering my nose.
“Don’t want to disturb the aura.
“Shhh…watch,” he added.
I wanted to voice my ignorance, but stopped, partly due to Vesper’s gesture, but more so because of the dusty sprinkle now glistening and gleaming in the musty air.
“Pixies.”
“Ohh…” I was dumbfounded. Residues danced before my visual sphere, singing a tune lulling me to slumber. It wasn’t dirt, but tiny, almost microscopic life-forms with wings, pointy ears and miniskirts.
As sleep crashed over my consciousness I heard Vesper chanting…something about opening the passages to Esotoria Lane.
* Soul Cages - Sting