The Gnome House, Deleted Scenes #1 MG, Book #1

     “Let us go to a more hospitable place,” he said.  He spoke yet another magical phrase.  There was a loud thunder clap and flash of lightning that accompanied the phrase, then nothing.  The Merlins looked around at each other, some wondering if Myrridian was losing his touch.  He stood with his back up against the tree.  Cyprian looked at the tree and noticed something extremely peculiar.
     “Did anyone else notice that tree is moving?”  He asked the group.  It looked for a moment like the thick bark of the ancient oak tree was running upwards, like a river flowing.  They all noticed at once that the tree was growing before their eyes, widening as well as growing taller, rapidly.  Myrridian continued to watch them, as they wondered what happened.  It was Mungan who noticed the grass around the tree had gotten taller as well.  He walked over to an acorn and figured it out.  This tree hasn’t grown, he thought, as he picked up an acorn from the forest floor.  It was the size of a large melon.  Why, Myrridian has shrunk us all down! 
     As he realized this, he looked around at the rest of them as they were having the same realization.  They had their heads hung back, gaping at the enormity of their surroundings.  Their minds were taken completely off of Stone Henge for a moment.
Myrridian didn’t stop them.  He laughed quietly to himself as the six inch tall Merlins perused their new environment.
     Cyprian walked around the tree and noticed what looked like stairs that led beneath the tree’s visible roots.  It looked like an ordinary foxhole.  I would never have seen these steps, he thought.  If he had been his ordinary size, which was nearly five and a half feet tall, he would have walked right past the hole.  He was just the right size to look down under and notice a vey tall set of double wooden doors at the end of the short landing after the subterranean steps.  They were sturdy, just like German Alehouse doors.  He was tempted to walk right up and knock on the door, but thought better of it.
     Cyprian walked around the tree and saw Myrridian still leaning up against it, waiting.
     As Cyprian approached, he said,
     “Cyprian, you found it.  Thank you.”  The Merlins all looked over at the two.
     “Found what?”  Asked Mungan.
     “If you want to know, come on,” said Myrridian.  “Take us to the entrance, Cyprian,” he said.  Cyprian walked around the tree and looked down into the hole he had discovered beneath it’s roots.  No one seemed interested except Myrridian.
     “Well, good job, Cyprian, you found a hole.  Congratulations,” said Rinauld.  He was the Merlin of the West Midland Birmingham District, where the Forest of Arden is located.  Myrridian walked over and looked down into it.
     “That is much more than a hole, my friends.  This is the house of a gnome,” he said.  He walked down the steps and gave an extremely peculiar sequence of knocks on the door.  It was a series of four knocks in rapid succession, then three loud knocks.  He repeated this cycle three times, and the door opened suddenly, revealing a plump white haired gnome woman who was holding a cast iron skillet that had thirteen pastries on it.
     “We were wondering if you all would ever get here,” she said, “the tea has been ready for an hour.”
     “I must apologize, my dear madam,” said Myrridian.  “We were nearly murdered by the heathen hunters just moments ago.”
     “Even more of a reason then; please tell your friends to come on down.  Dweldin’s waiting for you in the study,” she said.  “My name is Braelyn.”  Myrridian looked up at the Merlins, except Cyprian, who was already down with Myrridian and Braelyn.
     “Let’s go, men,” Myrridian yelled up the steps.  Rinauld peeked his head down.  “Come on, we’re running late already.  We are invited into the home of the renowned Merlin, Dweldin,” he said.  The men began to file into the house, Braelyn first, then Cyprian and the rest of the Merlins.  Myrridian waited until the last one entered and followed behind him.  
     As Myrridian entered the threshold, Braelyn was leading the Merlins through her kitchen, which was saturated with the delicious aroma of mushroom and potato stew, and the bread that was baking in the oven.  He lagged behind the others and looked over the simmering cauldron.  He heard the woman’s voice,
     “Come on Myrridian.  You’ll have to wait with the rest.  It’s not ready,” she said.  Myrridian, impressed with her sight, followed her order.  
     “Of course I could see you.  That’s my kitchen, son,” she said.  The small kitchen was walled with wood planks and the roots from the tree below.  Passing into the next room, a vast expanse lit by bright clear mirrored lanterns opened up.  This was the dining hall, and an enormous round oak table sat directly in the middle of the room.  At the far corner, facing the entrance to the kitchen, was the Merlin Dweldin.  
     He was a gnome; his outfit was complete with a tall red conical hat and blue coveralls.  His cheeks were red, and he wore a large smile on his face.  As the Merlins filed in, he retained his seat.  When he saw Myrridian, he jumped up as spry as a toddler, ran to him, and embraced him.  He squeezed Myrridian so tightly it knocked the wind out of him.
     “Why, you’ve been gone too long my brother,” said Dweldin.  Myrridian was crouched with his hands on his knees, still attempting to resume his normal breathing pattern.
     Between gasps he said, “Yes it has Dweldin.  Maybe if you didn’t try to squeeze me to death every time we met.”  He was smiling, and began to laugh as he regained his composure.
     “When are you bringing the boy to see us?”  Asked Dweldin.  He was referring to Goldach, and had no way of knowing he had even been born.  Dweldin heard his thought.
     “This great tree surrounding us told me.  That’s news around here.  Everything has come to life over this boy.  What’s his name?”  He asked.  
     “His name is Goldach, and he’s still rather young to be smearing on flying ointment,” replied Myrridian.
     “You and I both know, Myrridian, that child can get here without it.  Why, look at your men,” he said.  “They’re all here.  Were you going to introduce me, brother?”  He asked.
     “Please pardon my lack of consideration.  Please make each other's acquaintance.  Here is Cyprian, Rinauld, Mungan, Adair, Forgall, Gabhan, Ernan, Conlan, Doran, Trefor, Heddwin, and Cullan,” he said.  Each of the men tipped their hats as his name was announced.
     “Pleased to know you, men.  Anyone care for a drink?”  Asked Dweldin.  He held up his stein, then tipped it back, draining it and slamming it down onto the table.  He then walked over to the corner adjacent the kitchen entrance, where a large oak barrel was sitting on a marble slab.  He opened the valve and refilled his cup.
     “Feel free; the steins are on the wall,” he said.  The mugs were hung on wooden pins that were securely fastened to the wall.  A line formed.  Myrridian was at it’s head.  He sat down, directly opposite Dweldin.  The rest of the Merlins found their chairs, and began to enjoy their ale.  
     “This is a fine brew, Dweldin,” said Myrridian.
     “Yes, it is,” he replied.
     “What are the ingredients?”  Asked Myrridian.
     “I do not know.  This barrel was a gift,” he said.  As Myrridian tasted the brew, he allowed his mind to wander.  He did not want to ask Dweldin who contributed the barrel, but he had to know.  
     “Well, just ask me then,” said Dweldin.  Myrridian saw his answer in his mind’s eye.  It was a familiar face, and old Merlin turned Templar from Northwick.  
     “Some secrets are better left untold,” said Myrridian.  The men were occupied with their ale, and not paying attention to the two of them.  
     Did Grefin brew this ale?  It looks like he’s created a situation in Canturbury.  Has he talked?  Thought Myrridian.
     You are perceptive, sir.  It is indeed his handiwork.  He is in trouble, Myrridian.  They have had him locked in the dungeon, feeding him pig droppings.  Yet he will not reveal the secrets, even after many months.  I don’t know how long he can hold up.
     Grefin was a young Merlin in training Myrridian had first met just after the death of his mentor, Aurelian.  He had been invited to join the Knights Templar then.  Ever since, he had been sort of a double agent.  Now, no one knew who’s side he was on.  The clergy at the Canterbury Cathedral had gotten wise and detained him.  They lacked the mercy to kill him, allowing him to waste away chained to a wall in the dungeon there.
     “I would like us all to raise our steins,” said Myrridian, “to Dweldin and his lovely wife Braelyn.  May they live a hundred more years,” he said.  All the Merlins raised their steins and chanted in unison, “Aye!”  
     “Don’t be shy.  If your cup is empty, please refill it,” said Dweldin.  “It sounds like you all have a valid reason to drink yourselves silly.  What’s this business at Stonehenge all about?”  He asked.  Myrridian’s face turned red.  He had momentarily forgotten about the recent events.  Now reminded, his anger rose in his throat.  He drained his glass, got up, and filled another.  
     “They’re putting the screws to us,” said Myrridian.  Dweldin shrunk back and hid his thumbs.  “No, not the thumb screws,” he said, “they have forced the issue.  It looks as though the Merlindom has finally been overtaken.”
     “They teamed up against you, huh?”  Asked Dweldin.  “Well, you know what Aurelian said about this,” he said.  Myrridian stared at him.  He did not want the man’s name brought up here, even though it was inevitable.  
     “Men, it is time to discuss Stonehenge,” said Myrridian, taking his cue from Dweldin.
“The incident shows us, our time is short.  Those men were agents of the church, many of them Templar Knights.  They were planning to sacrifice every one of us,” he said.
     “I don’t believe that.  I didn’t see anything out of place at all.  A regular old fashioned ritual it was,” said Rinauld.
     “The hell it was,” said Dweldin.  He was sitting forward in his seat.  His face had reddened and scrunched up.  His eyes got large and wild and he hunkered down as if he was telling a ghost story.
     “I saw it with me own two eyes.  If a word of what I tell you is false, let Thor strike me dead where I stand with a thunderbolt,” he said.  “As the men assembled at the Big Stones, there were mounted cavalry surrounding the entire area.  Troops had amassed and were poised to strike as the ceremony began.  If Myrridian had not arrived when he did, you all would have been pig food,” he said.
     “Is that how it was, Myrridian?”  Asked Rinauld.
     “The Merlins have been infiltrated, said Myrridian.  “They caught us off guard.  I was not expecting them to have advanced so quickly,” he said. 
     “They, the Roman Catholic Church, have begun to employ Elemental Spirits, who fight their wars for them.  Without our help, nothing grows, wells dry up, cows stop giving milk, and the land withers,” he said.  “When the famine comes, the agents of the Church are there to pick up the pieces,” he said.  “That’s why every one of you are on their kill list; not one Elemental I know would go against you,” said Dweldin.

Frozen In Time

     When the Merlins reached Canturbury castle, Goldach looked up at the imposing fortress, nearly falling backwards as he did.  It was quiet and misty; just a few birds chirped.  As he listened closer, he heard fain sounds coming from within he fortress.  The large drawbridge was up and showed no signs of lowering.  One of the Merlins, Absolon from the Norfolk district, had his falcon with him.  Myrridian removed a small, rolled up scroll from his satchel and handed it to Absolon.  He placed it in the falcon’s talon and tied it loosely.  Then Absolon leaned down towards the falcon and whispered into his ear.  Goldach thought he heard what he said, but it was in some other language.
It was French.  Myrridian noticed this too, and when the drawbridge came down over the stream, he said, “Get back!”  There were men with spears and armor that had come to meet them.
     “What is your business here?”  One of the guards asked.  
     “I’m afraid we have made a mistake, dear sir.  We will be on our way now,” said Myrridian.  He obviously knew something they didn’t, but Absolon would not leave without his falcon.  He was about to speak, but Myrrididan looked at him then looked up.  There was the falcon, circling high in the sky.  Absolon then knew that the situation here was grave at best.  The guard was not warming up to Myrridian very well, either.
     “I think not.  The motley bunch of you will be coming with me to the dungeon!”  Said the head guard.  Myrridian decided quickly that it would be wise to allow themselves to be captured, and spoke to the men.
     “Do not oppose them,” he said.  He quickly pulled Goldach near to him.  “We will go peacefully,” he said.  The men did not hesitate to do as Myriddian had instructed.  The guards began to file back into the castle.
     “Go on now, head on in there,” said one of the guards.  As they entered the castle, there was an entryway lined with replicas of the royal tapestries of the Lady and the unicorn.  Large candles burned in amber glass holders alongside these tapestries.  One of the larger oafs of their party, Rinauld, lingered over the tapestry of the Lady holding a mirror up so the unicorn could see his reflection.  As he hesitated, the guard poked him in the back with his spear.  He knocked the spear out of the guard’s hand.  As it fell to the ground, Myrridian put his hand up, and everything stopped.  
     “Rinauld, I’m sorry.  That should not have happened,” said Myrridian.  Only he, Rinauld, and Goldach were still in motion.  Everything else was in suspended animation.  Myrridian looked at Goldach.
     “Your mother’s been feeding you the Sweet Flag, hasn’t she?”  Asked Myrridian.  Goldach just shrugged his shoulders.  Myrridian ruffled his hair.  He continued.  “What I want you to do, Rinauld, is nothing.”
     “He drew blood, Myrridian!  I cant just...”  Rinauld was quickly silenced by Myrridian.  His mouth was still moving but no sound was exiting.  
     Myriddian said, “Now, Rinauld, we do not have time for this.”  He stopped and smiled at the irony.  “Well, we do, but we won’t in just a second.”  Rinauld was no longer attempting to speak.  “Look, Rinauld, he won’t remember anything.  No one else will either.  We have a task to accomplish here, and we cannot leave a trace!  So, no more altercations.  Keep your eyes straight ahead and follow these pissants into the dungeon.  We will not be there long, but we have to free our compatriot.  This is the most direct way.”
     Goldach noticed this conversation.  His gears were turning.  He thought to himself about the strange logic.  He knew this was a dangerous situation, yet he didn’t tell anyone else.  It was a rescue mission, on a need to know basis.  He had decided that no one but him needed to know.
     Rinauld looked at Goldach, and remarked, “We’re here for his education?  Far be it from me to question you Myrridian, but come on Sir!”  At this, Myrridian’s eyes narrowed.
     “You will not question me or my directives, Rinauld.  Forget about all this, drive on, and do not speak or hesitate again,” he said.  At that moment, time resumed itself.  The guard was on the ground, picking up his spear.
     “Why, you twit!”  The head guard said.  “You dropped your spear.  Can you show some royal decorum for one moment?  I should report this to the Archbishop.”
     “Please don’t Sire; I will straighten myself this moment,” he said.
     “We’ll see about that.  Well, go on.  To the dungeon,” said the head guard.
     Past the entryway, they travelled down a long hall.  When they reached the end, a dimly lit hallway spiraled down to the subterranean dungeon.  Two guards went down first, then the Merlins were lined up and sent down.  
     “Put him in there as well,” said the head guard.  The guard who had dropped his spear protested and the head guard slapped him with the back of his hand.  The guard fell to the ground, as the head guard was wearing heavy metal lined gloves.  They picked him up and carried him down the steps behind the Merlins.  

     The dungeon smelled terrible, as the floor was wet and soft with excrement and urine.  There were so many rats that their sound was rather deafening.  They were placed in one large cell.  The unconscious guard was thrown to the ground after them and the cast-iron gate was shut loudly.  Sitting in the corner was Grefin of Northwick, whom only Myrridian knew well.  He was in a dishevelled state, covered in the ancient waste that lined the floors and walls of this dank prison.  He was thin and emaciated; not much remained of him.  Myrridian became extremely angry at this.
     “Gentlemen, this is the man we came to see.  Meet Grefin of Northwick,” said Myrrididan.  Goldoc recognized this man, but not acutely.  He had been a close associate of Aurelian’s when he was alive, helping him to form the secret branch of the Knight’s Templar that was their reason for this journey.
     Grefin was weak and barely able to speak, but his spirits were renewed when the party of Merlins arrived.  He raised his head with tremendous effort.  It otherwise was hung down from a lack of spirit and energy.  He mustered out the words,
     “Young Myrridian, a fine mess you’ve gotten yourself into here.  I suppose these are your like minded compatriots, excepting the sleepy one over there?”  He asked.  Myrridian nodded.
    “And what have we over here?  He’s a might young, isn’t he, to be locked in Canturbury’s holy dungeon?”  Grefin turned his head to look at him and Goldach remembered.  “Yes, my boy, you’re no stranger to me,” said Grefin.  Goldoc said nothing.  He felt faint from the fumes, which overpowered each one’s senses.
     “Who is this man?”  Asked Absolon.  
     “He is our important contact at Canturbury castle these days, I presume,” he said with a laugh.  Grefin laughed also, but with difficulty.
     “If I were you, dear Sir, I would ask the more pertinent question: How in the bloody hell are we going to get out of here?”  Said Grefin.  The unconscious guard began to lift his head.  Rinauld saw this, walked over to him, and knocked him out cold again.  His head fell into the pile of feces on the ground.

Pratipanna, The Trickster

“You know them personally, Pratipanna.  It is time to summon them,” she said.  For a split moment, a crack in time, Pratipanna thought to himself.  I work to get paid, woman.  Matangi heard this thought, as did the sages who ignored it.  Her eyes narrowed and Pratipanna collapsed to the ground, writhing in pain.  Fine, I’ll do it!  Matangi loosened her grip on his nether regions and he somewhat regained his composure.
     “They are already outside, Dearest Goddess,” said Pratipanna.  Abhiseleka released her leg and walked over to the flap.  Before anyone could stop him, he had raised it.  Outside the door was a group of sages with torches.  Their spokesman stepped forward.
     “We are her in the service of the Kingdom of Delhi, and her rightful ruler, Sultan Shaams-Al-Iltmush. Victory! Truth!,” he said.  The last part was chanted by the entire crowd, which consisted of about one-hundred individuals.  Abhiseleka allowed the flap to drop back down, and ran to Matangi, hiding behind her leg and again holding it tightly.
     “How can they be trusted?”  Asked Shaams.  He looked straight at Matangi.  She looked at the Sages, who looked at Pratipanna.
     Pratipanna said,”They care nothing for money.  The reason they are here, and they can be trusted, is Her.”  He looked at Matangi, and Shaams sighed audibly.  Matangi was the only factor in his life that he had ever risked trusting.  Beyond that was always his own cunning and brute force.  They all worship her.  They all know her.  Matangi had visited each one of the crowd in their meditations and had pre arranged this entire episode.  Even Pratipanna, upon seeing her, had the recollection.  She reached for young Abhiseleka’s hand and went out to the crowd.  As she opened the flap, their torches burned brightly.  They stood in organized rows, as if soldiers awaiting command.  This was how Matangi had been envisioning it.
     “For the children!” She said, and paused, pulling Abhiseleka to stand in front of her.  He was terrified.  “For the children’s sake, for the next generation.  It is not for ourselves that we now undertake this battle.  It is for the people here in this kingdom, who have no voice of their own,” she said.  “How can they beat us?  Only if we let them,” she said.  Shaams listened to this speech and wondered.  He was implicitly guilty for allowing the Ulaamas to do his dirty work.  He was not the ruler Matangi said he was.  She was that ruler, and that was what the Ulaamas could not tolerate.  The time she had forseen was now transpiring.  They would all have to be exiled, and a new type of army created.  From the sounds of the crowd of sages outside, it was well on it’s way.
     Shaams stepped out in front of the tent with Matangi.  The crowd roared with affirmation, and yet Shaams knew, their approval was not because of his actions.  It was  for Matangi.  Shaams was merely a man caught in between two political ideologies, two religions, belonging to neither one.  Yet this was his moment to make a stand.  he had absorbed Matangi’s teachings.  However foreign they were to him, she made sense.  The only prospect that would come to fruition with the Ulaamas in power would be more chaos and treachery.  It was not that he trusted these people, it was that he had to.  He believed in Matangi.  He spoke.
     “My friends, by fortune or fate, I am the Sultan of this land.  I understand the atrocities that occur daily here.  Until now, I have opposed them to no avail,” he said.
The crowd groaned and grumbled.  Matangi raised her hand and they all fell silent again.  “We are brothers here.  I have taken the Sufi vows.  I believe in the oneness of God and his creatures,” he said.  “Now, seeing you assembled here today, I have faith that the Orthodoxy can be defeated.  They will not be defeated by brute force, but by freedom of the mind.  That is where the war is waged; you must see that!  Together, and behind Matangi, we can unify the various factions that are now divided.  The division is our greatest weakness, and it is not your invention.  It is the invention of those who have come before us.”
     Shaams had learned as a young boy in Turkestan the forbidden doctrine of the great Persian emperor, Cyrus.  Through private instruction, it was none other than the Sage Moinuddin, who was still meditating in the tent, who had lit the fire of liberty in the young Shaams.  He was told stories of how conquered countries would cheer and applaud Cyrus’ entrance into the city.  In his mind, he had finally realized a boyhood dream as he spoke to the gifted and boisterous crowd.
     There was a scroll surfing over the people, being handed upwards towards Shaams.  As it moved towards them, there was a low murmur echoing.  Shaams’ moment was interrupted as he wondered what he could do about the inevitable traitors that dwelled within the ranks of the sages.  Matangi pinched his side, leaned into his ear, and whispered.
     “Shaams, let it go,” she said.
     When the scroll reached him, he opened the cylinder, removed the document, broke the wax seal and unrolled it.  The writing on the note was in a language he did not know, Sanskrit.  He handed it to Matangi, who held it in her hands for a moment.  A smile came over her face.  She, as many had already experienced, could feel the message on the scroll.  It was most fortuitous.  She whispered in Shaams’ ear.
     “Let’s peruse this message within the tent,” she said.
They went inside.
     “What does it say?”  Asked Shaams.
     “What does it say, Mata?” Asked Abhiseleka.  She ignored them, but they all watched her face for any subtle hints that would give away it’s contents.  She read over it carefully, once, then began to translate it for Shaams.
     “To the Sultan Shams-ud-din Iltutmish, may he rule Delhi for a thousand years.  This note is to inform you of the going’s on at your palace.  The rebellion has been quashed, and the traitors have been captured, bloodlessly.  The prisoners are now in the dungeon, and I, your Lieutenant General, Pratipanna, await further instructions,” she said.
     “Lieutenant General Pratipanna?”  He asked.  For the first time, they noticed he was no longer present in the tent.  “Matangi, is this authentic?”  He asked.
     She looked at him, took his right hand and placed it on his heart.
     “You listen to your self and answer your own question,” she said.  He closed his eyes and began to see his answer for himself.  Pratipanna had appeared back at the palace in the midst of the Ulaama who had paid him to orchestrate Iltmush’s assassination.  They were convened in his interior court, already quarreling amongst themselves regarding the division of power in the new Sultanate.  When the doors opened and Pratipanna entered the court, the discussion abruptly halted.
     “Pratipanna requests permission to address the kind ministers,” he said.
     The Ulaama with the biggest hat, Shayk Mohasim, responded, “Yes, go on,” he said.
     “Shaams Al-Iltmush has been captured and is being held for ransom by the Chishti Sufis,” he said.  There was an outrage amongst the Ulaama.  Some thought that Pratipanna ought to be beheaded for his failure.  Iltmush was supposed to be dead.  “They have assured me, however, they have no loyalty to him.  They only want a certain measure of gold and jewels, and he will be yours,” he said.
     “Bring the jewels,” said Mohasim.  He clapped his hands twice and two eunuchs were sent to retrieve the trunks loaded with jewels plundered from the treasury, previously plundered from places like Assam and others.  When the eunuchs had brought the trunks, Pratipanna clapped his hands twice, mocking Mohasim.  They all gasped when they saw the two men who brought in another trunk.  They were both Pratipannas.  He had replicated himself!
     They set the trunk down in front of Mohasim and opened it.
     “The finest hashish from Khorasan,” said Pratipanna; “Let us celebrate!”
     Some of the Ulaama hesitated, thinking it was an inauspicious time to celebrate and knowing it was inappropriate to become intoxicated.  When Mohasim was handed the large hookah and began to smoke the hashish, however, everyone else followed suit.  Pratipanna and his two doubles also smoked, not to rouse suspicion.  He remained unaffected, while the Ulaama, every one of them, were fast asleep in a short amount of time.  He then walked to the exterior door of the court and brought in the sages, who relocated the jewels to a safe place, and systematically carried the Ulaama to the dungeon.
     Iltmush opened his eyes and did not believe his vision.
     Matangi said, “That’s exactly how it happened, Shaams.”
     “If that’s the case, let us make haste back to the palace,” he said.

Atlantean Mermaids and Telepathic Frogs

     It was a short distance away from Myriddian’s stone house, down a path that was invisible.  It was not that it was overgrown, though the ground path itself was only about a foot and a half across, but that it was not meant for anyone’s eyes but Myrridian.  He was holding Goldach against his chest, with Goldach looking backwards over his left shoulder at the forest they left behind them.  When they arrived at the clearing, Myrridian set him down and let him walk the area.

     There was a hot spring pool in the circumferential clearing, and though the entire space was surrounded by the dense oak forest, there were specifically thirteen oaks that demarcated it as a holy and hidden place.  In the center of the pool was a green copper statue of a mermaid laying leisurely on a clam shell, and playing a harp that looked exactly like Myrridian’s.

     Being here with Goldach, Myriddian began to have the experience he was hoping for.  The memory had been lost to him, almost as if it were covered over by layers of dust.  There was a flood of remembrance now that washed all that dust away.

     Myriddian was young, but a little older than Goldach was now.  His master Aurelian had brought him here, he realized now as a sanctifying ritual.  This was his most powerful ritual space, and even then, the mermaid at the center of the pool glowed and seemed alive and yet timelessly ancient, as if beckoning with a call older than time itself.  It had brought little Myriddian comfort to see her, the comfort of remembrance and familiarity.

     Aurelian had spoken to him then, in a voice so open, tenderhearted, and out of character that Myriddian would have been frightened to hear it in years to come.

     “You know, dear Myrridian my boy, we have been here before,” he said.  Myriddian replied then, 

     “Yes, Master, I remember building this place, and putting her here to guard it,” Myriddian replied, smiling and pointed at the mermaid.  “Her name is Atargis,” he said further.  His master Aurelian’s countenance changed when Myriddian said that he constructed this sanctum; for all these years Aurelian had the distinct feeling that he had been the one.  The innocence of a child however, could not be debated with, especially when he remembered the mermaid’s name.  

     Aurelian had spent many long hours having conversation with the spirit of the statue, prior to this day, and she had indeed asked him to refer to her as Atargis.  When the child Myrridian spoke these words, he had a flood of visions.  There were ancient civilizations with untold knowledge, sunk forever under the waves.  The immortality of the soul and the relativity of the human reckoning of time became more distinct and concrete.  Aurelian wanted to ask Myrridian more questions, but was almost embarrassed to.  This caused a rift between them that was never really healed.  

     Myrridian realized today, standing here with this child, that the rift he had been raised with was not new and had not been for an infinitude.  There was an opportunity here for forgiveness, but the depth of the loathing he felt for Goldach rose to the surface in an undeniable way.  He pushed it back down, and saw the boy as a boy again.

     Goldach was playing, walking around and touching all the trees on the periphery and talking to them in nonsense.  It sounded like babbling to Myrridian, but it felt like something more.  As he turned his ear toward the interaction, he could hear the birds in the trees, the frogs, and all of nature responding to Goldach.  The oak trees themselves seemed to be welcoming him back, as if he had only been gone for a day.  With their infinite forgiveness they wanted to inspire Myrridian.  He would think about it.

     It was humorous to Myrridian that Goldach avoided Atargis, the centerpiece of this sanctified ritual place.  It was as if he remembered that he did not want to remember, focusing on what he knew best, mother Nature Herself.  As Myrridian thought this thought, a toad about the size of the child’s fist hopped from a cooler side pool of the main one and began to croak, calling to him.  Goldach ran from the tree he was talking to, smiling and laughing, got on the ground, eye to eye with this toad, and began to carry on a private and silent conversation with it, nodding every once in a while.  After a two minute span of this passed, Goldach carefully picked up the toad, rose from his position, belly down on the ground, and placed the toad in the front pocket of his burlap tunic.

     He then saw the statue of Atargis and began to cry.  He sat down on the ground and wept silently to himself, looking at the copper statue, with the steam rising up from the hot pool around her.  He cried silently to himself for five minutes, then took the frog out of his pocket and held him eye-level.  He looked into the frog’s eyes then set him down on the ground in front of him.  

     When Goldach had looked at the mermaid statue, a flood of communication came through to him, in the form of pictures.  There were layers upon layers of lifetimes, and the spirit of Atargis had represented the very beginning, of all of this.  It was the fall of humanity eulogized in the Jewish bible, the moment of Earth’s history when humans began to know what it meant to be enslaved.  Goldach saw himself, standing over an unconscious person, laying supine on a table.  He was not a he, but a she, waving a crystal instrument over the person.  There were people of authority looking on, supervising the event; her partner was a stoic man in the corner, standing silently and directing energy.  The patient writhed and moaned as the session continued.  This was the genesis of the first disease on Earth, a successful attempt by one group to enslave another.  This was Atlantis, the beginning of the end; incomprehensible emotions flooded his body, and Goldach turned away from what he saw.  It was too much for his young mind to handle, and he begged Atargis to stop.  

     “Ask your friend to help you, Goldoc,” said Atargis.  He saw the frog in his mind’s eye.  Removing it from his pocket, he spoke to him telepathically.  

     “Can you make it stop?”  He asked the frog, looking deeply into his eyes.  The frog did not speak in coherent thought, but Goldach suddenly knew her name was Ceres, and the feelings he was experiencing began to subside.  He then knew to put the frog down, as she had all that she could take.  

Fariduddin's Last Stand

     Matangi nodded her head again.  “I’m not surprised, Fariduddin.  He had quite a frown on his face when he left,” she said.  She again was laughing.  She found herself, as many did, constantly amused to the point of laughter in the presence of Fariduddin.  It was not that one was laughing at him, or that he himself was laughing.  It was as if the humor of his existence just bubbled up out of him uncontrollably, infecting all of those around him.  Abhiseleka wanted to learn, and so was usually very close to him when he came to visit Matangi.  This was his fifth visit in the month she had been in the palace.

     “So, you didn’t speak at all at this meeting?”  She asked.  

     “Well, I mostly just listened to them rant and rave.  Whore this, insane that, infidel here, law-breaker there, it was all the same stuff, very monotonous and boring.  I sat at the table with them, silently, and they noticed that I didn’t join in to all their talk.  They finally, after expelling much hot air, asked me my opinion.  I didn’t agree with them, but I had to stand up for you, for their own sake.  So I told them the Jewish Meschiach story,” he said.

     “The Jewish Meschiach story?”  She asked.

     “Yes.  I heard it from a Kabbalist in Yemen, a painter.  He had a bigger beard than me, almost.  It was the same trip that I made my Haj to Mecca.  They all respect the power and insight of the Kabbalists, even if they don’t like them.” He said.  

     “There were five dervishes, who lived deep in the Dragon’ Blood forest, on the island of Socotra just off the coast of Yemen.  Each was more crochety than the next, for all five were widowers, and had loved their wives very much.  They had met at a coffee shop in Sanaa, while playing a chess tournament.  During the next few months after that tournament, they all had discussed together how meaningless their lives had become since their beloveds had expired.  

     These were old men who had lived full lives, had made and lost fortunes in their respective careers.  They had seen enough to understand that all worldly things were ultimately meaningless.  As they talked and talked, their common and secret wish was revealed.  Each one had secretly desired to one day retreat to the woods and live as though there was absolutely no reality but God.  Each one had thought to himself, in his darkest hours, ‘I wish I could just retreat into nature and contemplate this big Universe for the rest of my days.’  

     After having discussed this periodically and secretly over the course of the next few months after their meeting, they decided to pool their resources and do just that.  The five of them scouted out the location in the forest of Socotra, then together built a stone hermitage by a river there.  Each one had his own cell, in the tradition of the Christian monastics of the Egyptian desert, the ‘Desert Fathers’.  They lived completely communally from what they could cultivate from the land or gather from the surrounding forest.  They had an extensive library as well, books from all around the world were housed there, the Jewish Tanakh, the Qu’ran, the Christian Bible, the Vedas from India, the Book of the Way from China, and others, all translated into their common language.  They spent all their time reading these books and meditating on them, and playing chess while they discussed their new understandings.  

     It was quite stimulating to their minds and rather idyllic, though after about five years, the same feeling they started with, boredom and restlessness, set in.  They started bickering, slowly, about who would cook dinner, who was lazy, who was more dedicated to God, and even which book had the best version of God in it.  It got to the point where they became more disillusioned than when they started, all in the midst of this tropical paradise.  ‘Now,’ each one thought, ‘I am really bad off.’

     Over a particularly heated chess tournament, they all decided to see a prominent holy man they had heard of, who lived at the foot of the mountains just inland from the port town of Aden, the site of the original Garden of Eden, also said to be where Cain and Abel are buried.  His name was Avraham ben Loenthal, well-known as a keeper of the secrets of Quaballism.  He would have an answer for them, the kind that could not be found in any book, they all agreed.

     The trip was planned, and before one week was up, they had chartered a boat that would transport them to Aden.  They bickered all the way there, blaming each other for wasting their communal resources on such a pointless trip, and for being so inflexible that they had to resort to such extreme measures.  Underneath it all, each one being honest with himself, was the guilt of feeling that there would never be enough of anything in this world to satisfy the void of humanity, even God.

     When they arrived in town, they stopped at the first inn they found and asked to be directed to Avraham Loenthal, the great Kabbalist.  The inn keeper ran them out of his inn and told them to never come back.  Perplexed, they started on the road, by foot, towards the mountains.  The bickering had stopped, as they had a common goal again, to realize their communal solution, one that would work for everyone.  They followed their intuitive vision and their gut instinct, and after three days, arrived at the hermitage of Avraham Loenthal.  He opened the door.

     ‘I’ve been expecting your group!  Please come in and have some tea.  What took you so long?’  Avraham asked.  They discussed their hermitage in the dragon’s blood forest, and their plight.  They told their story to Avraham, and he was enthralled with every last detail.  When the story finally arrived at the reason for their journey, Avraham was dismayed.  His face wrinkled up.

     ‘That won’t do, my friends!  You have a destiny to achieve.  There is no time for such arguments when there is so much work to be done.  I have been studying each one of you, and have arrived at a conclusion.  I do, in fact, have the solution you have sought and travelled so long for.  I will, however, need to conference with each of you privately.’

     The five hermits were extremely exited at this.  The first one, chosen randomly, Avraham was sure to stress, was taken out into the path that ran up and around the edge of the forest.  The others were left in his home, sipping tea and waiting for their turn.  When Avraham returned with one, he brought the next and took a short, fifteen-minute walk with him as well, telling him exactly what he needed to know to solve the problem at their hermitage.  By the time he took the fifth hermit to the mountain path, the other four were left, beaming, exited at the prospects of returning home.

     This is how the walk with the fifth hermit, and all the others went:

     Avraham began to speak.

     ‘I heard your story, and your destiny as a group is an extremely uncommon one.  One of your party, and it is not you, let me say straightaway, is the bona-fide Messiah.  The force of this one’s devotion has attracted the favor of God and brought the five of you together.  Return to your Hermitage, and act thusly, for I will not inform you of which one is in fact the Messiah.  And the one who knows, who is marked with holiness, will surely not tell, no matter what.  It must remain a mystery until God ordains it.’

     After this short statement, the rest of the fifth hermit’s walk was in silence.  Each one was given the same story, told exactly the same thing.  Not one of them were allowed to discuss it, however, so each began to think to himself, 

     ‘I wonder which of these men is the Messiah?’  They began to think about each others’ ideals, devotion, wit, and charm.  On the journey back, they were relatively silent, contemplating this new and great truth they had heard, and the austere and unassuming presence of the Rabbi, Avraham Loenthal.  When they arrived back at their hermitage, the problem of their discontentedness was indeed solved.  They each treated the other as if he were the most holy person who existed, seeing the best qualities, those of their own ideal in the other.  Before long, a traveller came through their hermitage, and asked to be housed there.  They housed him, fed him, entertained him, and sent him on his way.

     The traveller had such an enlightening experience that he spread the word, and before six months were up, the hermitage and it’s inhabitants had developed a reputation of being a place where enlightenment could be sought and found.  Their contentedness spread throughout the island of Socotra and abroad, each one finally realizing the truth Avraham has passed on to them, the one they read about in some of the better texts.  God lives in every man as his own Spirit, and takes many forms and names,” he said.

     “I like the story,” Matangi said,”but I’ll bet they didn’t buy it.”

     “They did not.  I believe I am now on their list.  As soon as I was done, three of them stood up and drew their swords.  Mohasim stood up with them and said, ‘Alright Sufi, it’s time for you to exit the meeting,’ ” he said.

     Fariduddin came directly from that failed attempt to Matangi’s apartment.  There was now no one else to help him.  A revolt was brewing, and even the Sulatan was not safe, all over this woman, Matangi.  She did have a magnetically radiant presence, as if she knew something, something that no one else could touch.  And the stories about her were astounding.  Just being in her presence, he thought, was beyond all the praying he had done in a lifetime.  She was absolutely dangerous.  The boy, Abhiseleka, was the same way.  He seemed to wordlessly pick out your worst trait and pluck it’s string until it played right again.  Mohasin had dropped the last of his bigotry against the native Indians in his short visits with these two; that was now the problem.  

     “Well, if it comforts you at all, these men will not gain the opportunity to stifle the Sultan, you, or Abhiseleka and I in any way,” she said.

     When Fariduddin saw the look in her eye, her words didn’t matter.  There was no way the Ulama would triumph in contradiction to Matangi’s goals.  She subtly said, ‘Every one of them will drop dead before they can harm us.’  Matangi heard this thought, and responded to it,

     “I didn’t say that!  I’m just telling you, they are no threat.  Allah wants the Islamists and the Hindus to get along, that’s all,” she said.

     Until Matangi’s arrival, he would have never dreamed of the possibility.  How could the conquered coexist peacefully with their conquerers?  The idea that Sufis could successfully convert Orthodox Hindus into Muslims was one that had been going out of style, thankfully.  A movement was now in process that was unprecedented in any Islamic society he knew of, one of peaceful coexistence and blending of cultures.  There could, however, be no Sharia Law under such a situation.

     “From what I know of God, I believe it; from what they know of God, it is impossible,” he said.

     “There’s nothing impossible but impossibility, Fariduddin,” she said.  They sat there in silence after that.  Matangi began to play her tanpura again.  This is what he waited for.  He had never heard such music.  Every time he came to visit Matangi, she would end the visit with this strange Indian music, and he would go home and compose the most beautiful poetry he had ever heard.  The last time he wrote inspired by Matangi’s music, he read and re-read his poem, with difficulty because of the tears streaming down his face.  He sat in silence, his body moving unbidden, swaying back and forth slowly to the droning music.  She began to sing an extremely familiar song along with the sound, one she sang every time.  It was composed entirely of single syllables, like an alphabet.

     “Ah, Aah, Ee, Eee, Oo, Ooo...,” and so on it went.  Then she stopped playing.  He rose from his seat; there was a deafening silence in his ears as he bent to kiss her hands.  He then bent down to Abhiseleka and kissed him on either cheek.  Abhiseleka smiled and said,

     “Bye, bye, Baba Fareed.  We’ll see you next time.”

     With that, the visit was over.  He went to his shack, just on the outskirts of the Sultan’s garrison, lit a candle, prayed, then began to write:

     

     “The sun can only be seen by the light of the sun. 

The more a man or woman knows,
the greater the bewilderment, the closer
to the sun the more dazzled, 

until a point
is reached where one no longer is.

     A mystic knows without knowledge, 

without intuition or information, 

without contemplation or description or revelation. 

Mystics are not themselves. 

They do not exist in selves. 

     They move as they are moved,
talk as words come, see with sight
that enters their eyes. 

     I met a woman once and asked her where love had led her.
‘Fool, there's no destination to arrive at.
Loved one and lover and love are infinite.’ “

     Fariduddin fell asleep at his table with his pen in hand, and the sound of Matangi’s tanpura and voice singing in his ears.  His poem, with the ink still wet, was an homage to he.  He had become rather obsessed with her in the few months since they had met, regarding her as the premier saint he had met in his long lifetime and extensive travels.  

Being well advanced in years, he had finally realized the freedom he had craved from within himself his entire lifetime.  The candle was lit on his desk, though the ink had spilled, and his long white beard and eyebrows hung down over his face.  A strong gust of wind blew his rickety front door open, and the bell attached to it tinkled.  

     The candle blew out, and all of a sudden, there was a thin but tremendously strong wire around his neck.  He was old and feeble of body, and he did not last long.  The man who snuffed out his flame, after Fariduddin was dead, stood over his body.  He had no malice toward the old man.  The assassin had been chosen by Shayk Mohasim because of his love for Fariduddin.  He looked down at his lifeless body.  The moonlight reflected off of his face revealed a beatific smile that caused the assassin to weep and fall at Fariduddin’s body, begging for his forgiveness.

Matangi's First Parable

 “It is never the world which threatens us and the well-being of our people, it can only be our perspective that guides us into danger.  Let me illustrate with a story,” she said.

     

     “There once was a man who was gifted in the art of war, plundering the countryside and bringing back the spoils to his master.  He conquered village after village, always justifying his conquests on the basis that one has to work with what one is given.  One day, he entered a village, the next one marked for conquest, dressed as a wandering mendicant, begging for alms.  This village was poor, but operated on the principle that their Goddess would always provide for them, as long as they recognized Her in everyone they chanced to meet.  It was their only law: if you wish to receive something, if you wish to own something, you must be willing at all times to surrender it.  

     So the man who had come to covertly scout out his next conquest was wandering the streets of this holy village, the inhabitants of which lived on faith alone, the faith of this understanding.  The man was dressed in rags and his beard was unshaven.  He smelled as if he had not bathed in ten years.  The sun was setting, and as he passed by a fruit merchant’s booth in the market, the purveyor of that booth upon seeing him and smelling him, recognized an opportunity when he saw it.

     ‘Sir, he said, I see that you are in an extremely dishevelled state, most likely bereft of the benefits that befit a child of the Goddess.  If you will excuse my forwardness, it would be my and my families honor to host you for the night, seeing to it that you’re fed well, and perhaps replenished in spirits if it pleases you.’

     The man was taken aback with the merchant’s offer, and filled with suspicion, began to decline.

     ‘I will hear none of it sir!  Please, in this country there is no greater sin than refusing the kindness of another, other than refusing to see the Goddess in those you chance to meet.  Please, don’t make me beg; the Goddess doles out opportunities, and it is ours to seize them when they are presented,’ he said.

     Well, this man did not believe either in the Goddess or his fellow humans, but he felt as though he could not continue to refuse the merchant’s offer.  So, he felt for his dagger at his side, and comforted by it’s presence, he agreed to go to the merchant’s house and sup with him and his family.  

     When he arrived at the merchant’s house, being a pious Muslim, he was disgusted at the large wooden idol of a naked Indian Goddess that was the centerpiece of their home.  The merchant’s wife noticed how he was looking at the statue, and commented,

     ‘You must not be familiar with Kamakhya;  she is the Goddess of all blessings.  Ask her for anything you want, since you our guest here, and before the night is over, as our guest, it will be yours.’

     Well, the man had heard of the magic of the Indians, though this was his first real encounter with it.  He was dead-set on owning this village, it’s inhabitants, and all it’s secrets as well, and he wished for these three things only.  He was pleased with the meal the merchant’s wife served, and interested in seeing his wishes granted, so he accepted the mat on the floor and bedded down for the night when the merchant and his wife did.  His belly was full and he slept well.  In the morning, the kindly merchant walked him back to his booth and bid him farewell.  

     On the way back to his master’s palace he was quite pleased with himself, considering the generosity of the merchant and his wife, not to mention the wishes he had made according to the woman’s suggestion.

     When he arrived at his master’s palace, he was not able to find him, but was met by his servants who shackled him and threw him into the dungeon.  He cursed the merchant, his wife, and the wooden idol of Kamakhya, blaming them for this injustice.

The first night there, he was visited by an apparition of Kamakhya.  She spoke to him thusly:

     ‘Oh, you who desired the village, it’s inhabitants, and it’s secrets.  Did you not listen to the secret of the Goddess?  If you are to own anything, you must first give it away.  Now look, your ownership is expressed, and you are displeased.  Please remember this in your next incarnation:  when the opportunity presents itself, you would do well to request knowledge and knowledge alone.  It is the only possession in this universe that cannot be diminished and expands when given.  Remember it well.  There is much time for contemplation here.  With that, the Goddess Kamakhya left his presence, and the man died in that dungeon years later, chained to the wall, never fully understanding his folly.  He missed the point, Shaams; if you desire to won something, you must be willing to give it away, and what you give away you will surely earn.”

One flew over the Village

 As she began her journey in silence back to the cottage with Doleen she began to think about her mother.  She had died delivering Doleen, when Myrya was only twelve years old.  It was a dark time in her life, and she was thankful that she had learned everything she could regarding herbs and the old religion from her.  

     “Sweet Flag and silence, keeps a woman alive in times like these,” she would say.  There was no tolerance for any woman to express herself, then or now, lest she be marked a witch.  And so she was, unnoticed because of her silence.  It was Miryabeit’s uncontrollable tongue and combative nature which brought her to the attention of Myrridian as well, she thought.  Doleen was practically dumb; she didn’t have to learn silence.  She was just fragile, and yet her own three children loved her more than anything.  The youngest children spent most of their days at the nearby cathedral, being indoctrinated per the relatively new custom.  Only one of her own daughters showed any interest or affinity in the old ways, and she was still too young to learn.  Now all her attention would be on Miryabeit’s child.  She would hide her resentment as well as she could.  

     They finally arrived at their cottage.  The wagon was parked and she could smell the stew cooking.  It was the same thing, day after day.  She never passed on it.  Though the smell of the pig stew had once made her salivate, she now loathed it and even wretched when she thought of it.  She had Myrridian and Goldoc to thank for that.  In the time she had learned to bleed the animals, she had grown fond of them and had nightmares of their revenge.  She had been well-trained on how to calm the animal and delicately slice the neck with a razor, filling flask after flask for the bloodthirsty infant she carried around.

     She learned of their sorrows, their empathic nature, and their society.  When they went to the dormitory to eat, she sat down at the stone table with Doleen, the children, and the others and just stared in the bowl.  She felt horrible.  So many people would kill to be fed as well as they were, and all she could think of was the pig, staring at her with an eye that seemed so human, with concerns and emotions like a any other person.  She was full of shame, eating around the flesh that was interspersed with the potatoes, carrots, and kale.  Yet no one suspected, no one except Goldach.  He always cried in the dormitory when they ate.  The children sat, extremely and disturbingly well-behaved, not saying a word.  Doleen sat, looking as if she would weep any moment.  The two men and women, whom she refused to learn their names, sat beady-eyed and cruel, discussing church gossip.  There was a witch here, and the pagans there, and God help them all.  Goldach stayed strapped to her back the entire time, and whimpered as he responded to Marta’s emotional state.  

     Knowing how sensitive he was, it was not enough to just mask her feelings.  She had tried to convince herself, but to no avail.  Her life was worse and more controlled externally than ever before.  The Sweet Flag allowed her to think on levels.  On one level, she was extremely pleased to be away from the British masters, who were cruel and demanding.  She loved the cottage she shared with Doleen and their children, however cramped it was.  She actually enjoyed working out in the fields;  that was the time she used to think, finding elusive answers to things she was pondering.  That was also when Goldoc was at his best; his communication with her opened up when she opened up to the plants.  The plants seemed to focus her mind.  She made sure to apologize and thank every one of them before she harvested them.

     She longed to be back at the infirmary, where she could practice her medicine.  The only problem was Myrridian.  He would be there, standing over her shoulder, making sure that everything was collected and done according to his will.  That surely took all the fun out of it.  She had to hide the Calamus she had collected; it would’ve given away her secret.  And now she was nearly out.  When she had put in her order for a peck of dried and powdered Calamus root, the man’s eyebrows went up and then down, as he squinted and scrutinized her.  Why she may be a bit of a witch, after all; she heard him thinking it.  When the ignorant oaf thought this, she hit him where it hurts, 

     “I know it is rather strange, sir, to ask for such an exotic item.  But I only want it to ease my menstrual cramps and to sooth my swollen breasts.  Goldoc is voracious,” she said.  “I once overheard one of the peasant women from the village discussing it once; I asked her for some, and it did help.”  Little Goldac looked at the man, who’s face had turned beet red, and smiled at his embarrassment.  Marta took the cue.  “It’s quite embarrassing to discuss such issues with a man; please forgive me,” she said.  His face got redder still, and his voice clogged.

     “Well, it’s there for sale at the spice and granary you say?  Dear Mum, I will resort to nothing to procure it for you.  He does indeed appear voracious,” he said.  She hoped she would not have to speak about it again.  It was unnerving for the man to know about it.  Marta had learned from Myrridian’s feeble attempts at controlling her memory how simple-minded people could be made to forget, and this man, Yohanan, fit the bill.  Her first order of business, upon reception of the powder, would be to strongly suggest it never happened and she knew nothing of herbal medicine whatsoever.  Such were the times that legitimate medicine was kept out of the hands of those who needed it most.

     Tomorrow was Saturday, with a shortened schedule; the field work would be done not long after the noon hour.  Some would go into town to trade, drink, and galavant.  She would do none of these, but would perhaps sing songs with the children; she and her sister might bake honey biscuits for them in the evening.  Doleen needed attention as well as a break.  More and more, Marta worried that she was cracking up.  Miryabeit’s death and all the other fast changes that Goldoc had brought into their lives recently had been drastic indeed.  She was not adjusting well.  

     The church, which they all would be attending on Sunday, had brought Doleen and other shell-shocked people like her, pretty much everyone these days, much comfort.  Marta was cognizant that she had to get over her bigoted predisposition against all things Christian, lest she be branded a witch.  Goldoc also needed her to be level-headed.  He did not soak up his environment; he soaked up her perception of his environment.  On the church and it’s associated activities, Myrridian, she, and Miryabeit had agreed:  it was all malignant.  Only now was she starting to find some redeeming qualities in the whole business.  It was like an addictive drug, however.  Take away the ability to connect with nature, outlaw it even, and then offer a substitute that medicates the pain of her absence.  That was how she viewed the Cathedrals and the Priests and the bleeding Savior tormented behind the altar.  She thought to herself, is that a warning?  Is that what they do to people who disagree with them?  She would never make her thoughts known on the subject.  Didn’t it seem to obvious to ignore, though?  

     All that was true, but it was more true due to it’s pertinence: there was no turning back.  The old ways and the old religion was quickly becoming a thing of the past and it would not return.  She wished her mother was here.  She wished Myrridian were not so domineering.  There was no subject that enthralled her more than medicine.  She missed it greatly.  She longed to learn more from Myrridian, to gain more confidence from him.  She had to convince him even further of her loyalty.  Where was he?