Mining the Alluvial Mine — Day 10

Mining the Alluvial Mine — Day 10 March 18, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey, Mining. add a comment , edit post

Do I enter the mine or do I return to Riversleigh feeling like a quitter? Damascus will be disappointed if I don’t reappear and tell him of my explorations and discoveries. I don’t want him to think poorly of me. Why, my feelings run quite deep for my mule. I want him to be proud of me.

“Okay,” I mutter to myself. “I’ll go through the door and enter the mine.” I swallow hard, pick up my tools and blow out the candle. Taking my first steps into the cavern, its brightness makes me wish for sunglasses. I shade my eyes with my free hand and gaze around me. The ceiling is covered with massive crystallized stalactites; the walls with bits of sparkling jewels in a myriad of colors. Red, green, blue, purple, yellow, orange. I do not know the many different jewels’ names, but I am in awe of their beauty.

I look about the floor, searching for some sort of guide. The ground is covered with crushed jewels, demarcating several paths, each in a different hue. A red path switchbacks down the steep incline into the pit of the room. A green path on my left gradually rises up, hugging close to the eastern wall, and leads into a dark tunnel. A yellow passage creeps away from me, hugging the side of the cave and traveling around the edge of the bottomless hole. It follows the western wall and also disappears into a black passageway. I study the pathways carefully, trying to decipher the mystery of the cavern’s jeweled ground. Which trail shall I follow? I glance back at the doorway considering a quick escape, but the door is closed. Did it close itself? Did Maria close it? I have many unanswered questions.

I startle when I see a swooping shadow cross the vacuous space and dive towards me and duck under my arms. Then I sigh in relief when I see Pigeon settling in front of me. He scratches about in the loose crystals, then looks me in the eye.

“Pigeon, where have you been. Were you exploring? Any suggestions?” I take a few steps on the green passage, but Pigeon blocks my way, flapping his wings and squawking raucously.

“If you are so wise, show me the way.” I pause to see if Pigeon will give me direction. I am eager for any sign, for I cannot fathom which direction is the way. What illumination am I looking for anyway? “Come on, Pigeon. Where shall I go? I wish you could speak!”

Pigeon lands gently on my shoulder and pecks at me affectionately. Then he flies along the descending path. This is the very passage I want to avoid, but I do not want to hesitate and lose the trail of Pigeon. The luminosity of the cavern darkens as I peer over the edge of the pit. I cannot see its bottom.

I search my pack until I find a cylinder containing long, wooden matches. It is fortunate I kept hold of the candlestick and candle. I light the candle and prepare to descend. Am I to come face to face with my demons? I shudder and feel damp and cold. Again I reach into my handy tool pack and grab a heavy sweater and a woolen cap. I am ready, again. I can still see Pigeon’s wings flapping ahead.

My heavy work boots and jeans protect my legs as I carefully pick my way through giant crystal boulders and ledges, following the lead of Pigeon. Halfway down, I catch myself from falling by grabbing a rock, and cut my hand on the razor sharp points. Again I reach into my pack and search for a bandage and canvas gloves. Again I find what I am looking for. I begin to think I possess a magic pack. It provides whatever need.

I continue to watch my bird closely. He has led me before and I followed without question. I do not doubt his ability, although I cannot fathom how he knows the answers.

He continues to lead me down into the deep, and I regain some of my courage as we descend. After several hours, we reach the bottom. Then the going is rough because the jewel stalagmites cover much of the floor. Again the sharp points cut my exposed skin. I keep moving further and further into the depths of the caverns, until Pigeon leads me into a small clearing. With relief I lean my pack against a stalagmite and i sit down, leaning against my pack.

With rest, I become calmer than I have felt since entering this mysterious land. I seem to lose my uncertainty and my weariness as I journey into the depths. My eyes focus: I am infused with a curiosity I have never felt, a thirst for the nectar of creativity, the stirring of an overfull cauldron of knowledge. The struggle I endured in this land has come to fruition.

I pull the tiny wings from le Enchanteur’s bag, let Pigeon perch on my finger, and fly gracefully to the entrance. The door is ajar. I hurry through the corridor and pull away the overgrowth that hides the cave’s opening opening.

Damascus sees me and hee-haws with joy Pigeon and I race to his side. Again I rub my face into his shaggy mane, but this time I am crying with laughter, not fear and sorrow. We rejoice together as I tell Damascus of my discoveries.

“Where do we go now, Damascus?” I look around, anticipating good times to come.

“Just up the road, Dear. Not far away. Only minutes, really.” Damascus sniffs.

“Minutes,” I say. “Where are we going in only minutes?”

“Why, Dear, you have completed this leg of your journey. I now deliver you to the portal which leads to Riversleigh Mansion. Only steps away from tits back door, actually.” Damascus sniffs again.

“And, Damascus, what about you? When will I see you again?” I hold back my tears, rather unsuccessfully.

“Why, Dear,” replies Damascus carefully. “You will see me in your dreams, in your thirst for knowledge, in your quest to create what you see in your heart. You will see me often.”

“But, Damascus…”

“Look. Here we are. Now off you go, you and Pigeon. Through the passage, and then you’ll be safe without me. No good-byes, now. We’ll see each other again.”

I peek through the portal, and I can see the back of the Mansion. At the last moment, I turn towards Damascus. I must say good-bye.

I scan the surroundings, but I cannot see him.

He is gone.

Sloughing — Day 9

Sloughing — Day 9 March 17, 2007
Posted by Barbara in Lemurian Grand Tour, Barbara’s Journey. add a comment , edit post

Damascus stops under the willow trees near the cave entrance. He shakes himself so violently that the bag of tools slides from his back. My pack is also dumped onto the hard, crackled ground. The heat is becoming unbearable as I shoulder the tools, reach instinctively to touch le Enchanteur’s bag hanging around my neck and take deep breathes. My palms are sweaty and I feel the beginnings of a migraine banging around inside my head. Stress always gives me a headache.

Damascus noses me away from him and towards the entrance. “Go. I will wait for your return. Remember the secret door to Riversleigh behind the Mine Keeper’s chair. You may choose the other way and escape from this mysterious mountain in Lemuria. It is not a choice I would make, but it is always available.” His voice wanders off into nothingness as he gazes towards the mountain peak. Eventually his attention returns to me.

“You may take Pigeon. If for some reason you cannot continue, send Pigeon with a message to let me know. There are always other travelers coming who require a companion.” He turns his back to me and takes a couple of steps. Then he turns his head slightly. “Please return, Dear. I know you can complete the journey. Have faith and take one step, then another. I will be awaiting your return.”

I rush to Damascus’ side and throw my arms around his neck. Burying my face into his shaggy mane, I cry until I have no more tears. My head is exploding with pain. I do not want to leave Damascus and the comforts of the Valley.

“Dear, it is time. You must go in the mine now. Your assistant, Maggie, is awaiting your appearance.”

I know I have delayed too long. I again shoulder the pack of tools and stumble my way to the cave, my eyes still blurred by tears. Pigeon flies ahead, then waits for my approach. As I pull the overgrowth from the entrance, he alights on my shoulder and pecks my cheek. I swallow hard and step into the darkness. It is cool, a relief from the heat, but the smell is dank.

“Hello, Dear. Hello, Pigeon” The slightly lilting voice of a figure in the shadows greets me. “I have been waiting for you. Follow me, but first don’t forget your candle.”

I go to the table by the Keeper’s chair and find candles, just as I did on my first visit. One of the candles catches my attention. It is glowing slightly, it’s wick flickering ever so faintly. I take that candle and remove the candlestick holder from my bag. Once the candle is in the holder, it begins to burn brightly and casts a warm glow about the cave. I look to Maggie and she briefly smiles, a thin wavering smile. “Well done. Now follow me, please.”

She quickly sweeps down the long hall. I follow her, pain banging harder against my skull with each step. Midway down the hall, I can no longer walk unaided. I close my eyes in pain and drop my pack of tools, but when I lean against the damp roughness of the cave I feel a slight pulsing. Under the pressure of my hand, the power increases with each surge.

I open my eyes, wincing. The pulsing of the wall matches the pulsing of the pain in my head. I continue to touch the wall and feel its pulse grow stronger as the pulsing in my head disappears. The wall heaves violently and a dull redness creeps into its crevasses. A darkness hovers against the wall. It is the shadow I have owned since my earliest years. With all my concentration, I slough the shadow in its entirety from my soul. The darkness leaves me and it is sucked into the glowing rock. There is a sudden lightness in my body. Shaking with new energy, I run deeper into the cave to search for Maggie. She has continued down the corridor, unaware that I was lagging behind.

As I catch up to her, she suddenly stops. I trip over her feet and am thrown against a heavy wooden door. In the light from my candle, I see red ochre sketches on the wall — symbols — some of which I recognize. A bull, a ring, a serpent. A fish, a spear and many others figures that resonate with me, even though I cannot place their meaning. I feel a sudden fullness that I cannot explain.

Maggie pulls a piece of red chalk, darkened with age, from one of her many pockets. “Here. This is for your use.” Then she simply waits. Save for a slight dripping of water, the cave is silent. I know I must make my mark upon the wall of many marks, yet what should I draw? I do not know what is expected of me.

Slowly the hint of an idea creeps into my mind. I do not have to draw what I think is expected. I need simply draw that which is a part of me. Only I can know that my symbol is right. Hesitating no longer, I find an open area and render a simple drawing of a flame.

Before I can return the chalk to Maggie, she has disappeared. As I hesitate with uncertainly, a draft of heat draws my attention towards the door. Carved upon its surface is a hand print. I place my hand upon the print; they fit together perfectly. A slight tremble shakes the entire cave and the door swings open slowly. Pigeon, the daring bird he is, darts through the opening. I peek into the interior and I am awe-stricken. Before me is a intricately carved cavern that I can barely believe exists. Do I enter or do I return to the portal to Riversleigh?

le Enchanteur’s Bag — Day 6

Damascus lay by the fireplace for hours, sleeping fitfully at first, then more peacefully. He wakes with a start and he seems more like his normal self. But he looks around at the inside of the cottage, heaves a great sigh, and shakes his head in disgust.

“Just why are you molly-coddling me,” he asks, staring particularly at me. “Because of a slight injury, we have lost nearly an entire day of travel, and you are even more behind the others. Can you not think if I am not nudging you in the right direction? Think, Barbara, think.”

I startle when he calls me by my proper name. He never calls me anything but Dear, and I have grown attached to the sound of it. “Damascus, what have I done wrong? You are hurt. Surely we cannot travel with your leg injured. Tell me where I am at fault.”

I look around for Rosa or Tom Tubby to support me, but they both have conveniently disappeared into the garden and are hoeing and weeding vigorously. Pigeon perches on the wood box, preening himself and turned away from me. Certainly he is listening, but he is not very helpful. Why should Pigeon be out of sorts?

“Perhaps if we talk to each other like decent human beings, we can solve this problem,” I say. Donkey hee-haws at this and now I know he is laughing at me. Pigeon jumps up and down. “Now what have I done to amuse you?” I am a little testy.

“Humans?” guffaws Damascus as Pigeon flies to settle on the donkey’s back. “You called us humans. I think you do us a disservice and perhaps you should watch what you say in the future. Pigeon and I forgive you this once, but now you must use your brain. I can no longer solve all of your problems. It is not my journey. Remember? You’re the one with grand ideas of adventure. I’m only along for the long haul. Tell us, what should we do?”

I am at a loss. Damascus seemed in charge of the trip so far. I had grown to trust his wisdom. But he’s right, as usual. It IS my journey. I sit down in the rocking chair, and move back and forth, racking my brain for the solution, according to Damascus, I should know.

I am no further in solving our problem when Pigeon flies to me, and lands on my shoulder. He digs into my neck with his beak which happens to be sharp.

“Pigeon, what are you doing? You’ve drawn blood.” I try to push him away, but he has the cord to le Enchanteur’s bag between his beak. He pulls it a few times, and then lets the cord drop. He returns to Damascus. I think I see a conspiratorial look pass between Damascus and Pigeon. Or do I imagine this?

I reach for the cord of my bag. Pigeon gave me a hint, God bless his soul.

My hosts are now working in the barn, so I take out my silken bag, and spread the contents on my lap. “Hmm. Think hard, Barbara,” I whisper. Of course Damascus can hear me, no matter how quietly I speak. (Sometimes I think he can read my mind.) He pulls himself to stand, and takes a painful step to me and noses about in my treasures. I lift each object, but the answer eludes me.

I lift each item. “The candlestick? I can’t possibly think what I can do with this. Doesn’t even have a candle. Then my tiny scissors? There is nothing that needs cutting. I hook the spectacles over my ears, but I see nothing unusual. The wings? The dream seeds? Why can’t I figure this out?”

I pick up the last object. It is the well-worn medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn barely visible. Obviously it is very old and well-used. Again, I am clueless. I stare at the features of the mystical creature. An idea blossoms and I wonder outloud.

“Damascus, let me hang this medallion around your neck. Maybe the Unicorn will work his magic.” The donkey leans his head forward so I can reach him. I touch the medallion to his neck, and a blinding light surrounds him. Damascus does a sort of jig, of all things, and shakes off the brightness.

I stare in amazement.

At just that moment Rosa and Tom Tubby come in, hauling a pail of fresh vegetables. “Thought I’d make the invalid a nice pot of vegetable soup,” says Rosa. But then they both look at Damascus. Tom Tubby’s eyes google and Rosa opens her mouth in wonder.

Damascus’ injury is healed. Now my donkey starts braying — braying loudly – and continues to dance around the cottage, knocking over the pail of vegetables. Distracted by the food, he noses about and eats a red pulpy bulb similar to Riversleigh’s radishes and a parsnip-shaped tuber or two. He looks me in the eye and I see a twinkle of mischief.

“I’m full. Let’s go,” he demands. “Rosa, would you be bothered to pack a cold meal or two for Dear? We have far to go and if we don’t have to search for food we will make better time.”

Rosa moved closer to Damascus and ran her fingers through his mane: she gingerly touched his injured leg.. “Oh, my, Damascus. There’s not even a scratch. If this isn’t something. I’ll have your food packed in the time it takes you all to be ready.”

I run upstairs for my gear and stuff everything back into my pack.

“Put your pack on my back, Dear. Just because there’s a bit of magic around, I’m still your old Damascus. And I’m stronger than I’ve ever been.” He nearly skips, if a donkey can skip, as he goes outside. “Just a bit of hay and I’m ready, so pack me up.” I fasten our gear onto his back and Rosa tucks a package into my pack. Damascus, Pigeon and I are ready to go.

“Wave your good-byes and move on out,” says Damascus. “We’re on the road again. Next stop, a visit to the hoo-doos and a good friend of mine.”

“Hoo-doos?” I say, unsure if I hear correctly. “Just what is a hoo-doo?”

“Why, you’ve become most curious, Dear. But I’ll not ruin the surprise. Towards mid-afternoon, you’ll find out for yourself.” Damascus hee-haws and hee-haws until he’s nearly choking. This time I’m not fooled. He is laughing at me. I’m 100% certain.

Pigeon and I laugh along with him, and when all quiet down, we begin our journey in earnest. Or more truthfully, perhaps, I begin my journey again and my friends honor me with their company.

.

Safety and Danger — Day 5

 

Damascus plods along the Owl Creek Road with Pigeon on his back. I walk along side of him, sometimes skipping a bit, sometimes singing a few lines of a ditty. Although Damascus warns me my gallivanting will use energy I will be wanting later, I cannot not help but show my excitement traveling on Owl Creek Road. On my way to where, I cannot imagine, but I know there is a mine ahead and I’m sure it will provide adventure. Well, I’ve never been one to shirk from a little sport, and I am in the most pleasant of companies, so I am happy. But after we walk hour after hour, with no end in sight, I begin to question my donkey’s wisdom..

 

 

 

“Damascus, where is this creek? After all, this road is Owl Creek Road. Surely there’s a creek. My canteen is empty and I’m getting quite thirsty. Hungry, too.” After an afternoon of walking, I am uncomfortable and a little whiny. The road covers me with a heavy layer of dust, and I also swallow my share. My mouth is so dry, I can hardly force my words out.“Be patient, Dear. I was warned you travelers are an impatient bunch, and that’s truly true. The creek is several miles yet. A sharp curve towards the mountains and then we will travel along the cooling water. Then you can drink until your body and spirit are quenched and I shall greedily join you. Do you not think beasts of burden thirst and become uncomfortable, yet I try not to complain? And have you noticed that Pigeon has been gone quite awhile? It would be wise for you to pay attention to your surroundings instead of dancing about. As for Pigeon, I daresay he has already partaken of his share of liquid refreshment.”

I become quiet. Damascus is right, of course. He is right most of the time, I discover. It is good that I try to pay more attention to his words. Words from Donkeys are surely of a magical nature.

“I am sorry, Damascus. I suppose my human-ness is showing.”

“Why, Dear, do not fret. Do you not yet know a Donkey’s patience is seldom tested? Now look up ahead and celebrate a bit if you must. Here is the curve in the road. See the stream; it is ahead.”

I must admit I half-run to the flowing waters. It races clear and cool, passing over small rocks and sandy flats. I pull off my shoes without further thought and wade into the sand. Scooping water with my hands, I assuage my thirst and splash my face and arms. Damascus joins me, stepping into a rocky portion of the creek, slurping water and spraying it upon my clothing.

“Stop. Stop. You are acting like a wild animal.” I laugh at his antics. I think he is laughing, too, but remember it is hard to read a donkey’s facial expressions. He is braying though, and that seems to indicate he is pleased. I spot Pigeon bathing in a shallow pool.

“Pigeon, where have you been? I have hardly seen you this entire day. You must stay with us for it is now dusk and our dinner can’t be far away.” I try not to let my worry show.

“Do you not know my job in this foreign land?” he cooed. “I am the look-out, watching the road for the least sign of danger. Do you think I am flying about on a lark?” Pigeon sounds indignant, as he may very well be. He is right. I do not notice what I should.

For the second time in as many hours, I find myself apologizing to one of my companions. I hang my head down; I want to cover my face and cry. “Sorry,” I say. Of course you are doing me a great service.”

“You better believe it, Dear. Now look ahead. Lights twinkling from a window. We have come to our place of rest. You rely on Damascus and me, we will care for you as if you were a helpless babe, crying in your cradle.”

Now chagrined at my lecture from Pigeon, I refuse to speak until we arrive at the house. Before I open the rose covered gate, the door to the cottage opens and an enormous man stands in its interior’s illumination. He steps forward, and I see an sparkling grin on his whiskered face. His frame fills the entire entrance.

“Welcome. Welcome. Damascus said we would have company tonight.” He waves a hand and belly-laughs.

I slip Damascus a surprised look. This donkey is worth more than I first figured. Here I thought I would be caring for him, and it is I who am being cared for. Just then Pigeon lands on my shoulder. I stroke his feathers and he ruffles himself. I am lucky to be in the company of my two friends.

I turn my attention to my host. “Why, thank you. I do admit we are tired and hungry. Damascus said we should stop at your home. I hope we are not causing trouble.”

“Trouble? Heavens no. We have dinner and a soft bed prepared for you and accommodations for Damascus and your bird friend. Rosa has a tub of steaming water for you to bathe in and dinner is nearly ready. I shall feed and bed down Damascus and I believe I have seed here for your bird. Go on in.”

“But I don’t even know who you are,” I say, hesitating at his invitation.

Damascus rolls his eyes and hummfs at me. Under his breathe he mumbles. “I never got a proper introduction from Dear until Pigeon stepped in, and now she questions my good friend! What manners do these travelers have?”

I hear Damascus and blush with embarassment. “I am Barbara, although my new friends call me Dear. I am pleased to stop at your home.”

“And I’m Tom Tubby. Pleased to meet you, Dear. Now up and in over the threshold. Rosa is most eager to have some woman-talk.”

Damascus whispers to Tom Tubby and Pigeon hovers over the two of them. I slow my walk so I can hear too. “Any trouble lately? You both doing okay?”

“No. It’s been quiet and I hope it stays that way while we have a guest. Our dogs are out and about. Jess and Jobie will set up a ruckus if they come anywhere near.” Pigeon looks over at me, hesitating on the stoop. “Big ears,” he says, so they break up their meeting and get to the evening chores.

I wash up and change into fresh clothes while Rosa takes my dusty shirt and pants and soaks them in a pan in the sink. I bring my sketchpad and pencils into the kitchen. “Can I help you do anything or would you mind if I sketch a bit and write a few words? I want to remember everything.” As if I would forget, I think to myself.

“Go right ahead, Dear. I gather we’ll hear your stories over supper, and a treat that will be. All these days passing, with only a man to talk to. Gets a frightful bit lonesome, though don’t take that as complaining. I love my Tom Tubby.”

She scrubs my clothing with lye in a pan of water. “I usually use the creek for washing, but it’s not always safest outside. The dark brings out all manner of creatures. You never mind though. Our home is cozy and safe. Now go ahead and do a bit of writing. Your clothes will be fresh in the morning.”

Quite awhile later, Tom Tubby squeezes himself through the door. “Let’s dish that stew up and pile that cornbread on the platter. Why, Rosa, it all smells so grand.” He rubbed his belly and turned to me with a big grin.

“My Rosa is the best cook along side the whole of Owl Creek,” he boasted. “And Rosa, Damascus says our traveler has had herself an exciting time since entering Lemuria. We’re sure to hear a good tale tonight.”

The couple and I exchange pleasantries over the hearty food, and then the real conversation begins. I tell them of the day’s happenings. They cluck and tsk over my story of the anchor and I feel embarrassed for a second. Then they say how fortunate I was to have the tiny anchor, and they think that everyone from the Old Place would be well to have one while in Lemuria. They do not know of le Enchanteur’s parting gifts.

After the hearty supper, Rosa scoots me off to bed. I lie awake in the comfort of the feather bed, piles of quilts covering me, and think over the day’s events. I am drifting into my dreams when I am yanked fully awake by a spooky howl. The howling is not in the distance; it is too nearby to feel comfortable. The dogs begin barking, and I hear shouts downstairs and a door slam.

“Rosa,” I call as I clatter down the steps. “What is happening?”

She is looking out the only window in the cottage which faces the barn, dressed in her nightgown with a quilt thrown over her shoulders. “Why not go up and climb back into bed, Dear? Tom Tubby can handle everything.” She turns away from me and peers closely out the glass. Again I hear the piercing howls. Again it is nearby. I find myself unable to leave Rosa; I look out the window, too.

“Ah-ooo! Ah-ooo!” I see dark shadows nearing the fence which surrounds the yard. It is only a picket fence and provides decoration, not safety. “Hee-haw! Hee-haw!” Now Damascus is braying from inside the barn. I see Pigeon no where in sight, but surely he is safe from whatever travels on the ground. His wings carry him far from danger.

“Not to worry, Dear. Tom Tubby has a gun. He protects us when the wolves attack.” My heart does a double beat as I hear a gun fire. Then several more shots ring through the air. Tom Tubby is yelling, but I can’t make out the words. Minutes seem like hours, but finally the door latch turns and Tom Tubby lumbers through the door.

“They’re gone, Rosa and Dear. Gone for now. I’m afraid they were after Damascus, but we fought them together. Your donkey is safe enough.”

“You both fought them? How is that possible?”

“Why, Damascus does a sort of kick-boxing. Didn’t you know? All the companions of travelers are trained in the arts of protection. You couldn’t ask for a braver donkey. Afraid he’s got a bit of a wound on his leg, though.”

“Damascus is hurt?” I start for the door, but he holds me back.

“Now worry does one no good, so let’s not think the worst,” Tom Tubby gently reprimanded. “Rosa, I’d like to bring Damascus into the cottage to care for him. He’s a gentle animal and will cause you no trouble. He’ll be safer in here if the wolves attack again. He can’t protect himself as he is.”

I held my breath, waiting for her reply. Would Rosa let a donkey inside their home?

“Of course Damascus is welcome. Let me get the spare blankets so he can lie down comfortably. Dear, help me move the table and chairs against the wall so there’ll be room.”

Tom Tubby and I went out and half-carried Damascus into the warm room. Damascus could barely put weight on his foreleg. We gently placed him on the pallet. My heart sank when I saw his injuries, but perhaps when the wound was cleaned, it would look better. My friend, Damascus, was hurt and I no longer had my donkey to accompany me on my journey. I burst into tears. Not only was I heart-broken, I was also terribly afraid.

 

« The First of Many Lessons — Day 4 Packing for the Grand Tour »

Actions

• Comments rss
• Trackback
• Edit

The First of Many Lessons — Day 4

 

 

The moment my feet touched the ground, I heard the most terrifying screech I could imagine. Although I looked about me, to the left and to the right and behind me, I could see no person or thing. But hear them I did. Horrid name calling that I had heard throughout my entire life was being replayed in my mind. Words that I thought I had erased from my memory, numbed from my consciousness, were being re-broadcast on my own personal tape recorder. Over and over, the caustic words echoed.

Panic gripped me as I listened to my past’s ghostly voices and then I felt my feet disappear into the mucky sand. Suddenly I remembered my companions and their pact. Were they really going to help me or were they going to ignore me in my predicament?

I turned about, searching for Damascus and Pigeon, as the sandy ground continued to suck fiercely, now engulfing my ankles. Damascus stood placidly at my side, yawning and swinging his tail. He was nonplussed by my situation; in fact, he was totally unaware of it. If anything, the donkey looked quite relaxed, almost asleep standing upright.

“Damascus, aren’t you going to help? You did say you’d help me, you and Pigeon.”

“Hmm. What’s up, Dear? You look a little troubled.”

“Troubled? Troubled? Of course I’m troubled. Those voices. Can’t you hear those devilish voices tormenting me? Screaming insults at me. And aren’t you worried about the quicksand? I’m sinking deeper and deeper. Can’t you see?”

Damascus took his time, but eventually he swiveled his eyes downward and examined the sand which was gripping me more tightly. He looked a bit irritated. Then he blew a warm swoosh of air into my face.

“Of course I can hear and see. What kind of donkey do you think I am?” I think he gave me a nasty look, but I couldn’t be sure. Damascus shook his head, pawed the ground. I noticed he was standing on solid ground. “I’ve heard of these sorts of problems, but I’ve never come face to face with such things. Voices, you say? Nasty ones?”

“Yes, nasty. Very nasty. Calling me all sorts of names. Stupid. Liar. Traitor. Crazy. Bad. Scaredy-brat. Even worse names and screaming in voices I recognize. Mother. Father. Friend. Teacher. Are you listening to me, Damascus?”

“Perhaps you need to clean house before those voices will disappear. It’s been said that one can’t carry old baggage in Lemuria, because there’s too much new baggage to carry. See those mining tools next to the brush. There’s our new baggage.” Damascus turned his head away, reached for a bit of grass and chewed it.

“But I don’t understand. Damascus, you aren’t making sense.”

“Dear, give up those voices. Throw off those names. Too much baggage, understand?”

I closed my eyes and underneath my voice I began to chant. I am good. I am smart. I am brave. I chanted over and over until I started to believe what I was saying. “I understand now, Damascus, about the voices. I can make them be still and disappear. I am in charge of what I hear, of who I am. Is that what you were trying to teach me?”

“Yes, Dear. A good lesson learned.”

“But the quicksand? I still can’t move.”

Damascus shook his head and snorted. He looked me straight in the eye. “Are you sure that old baggage is gone? Its weight can take fast hold of you, make you unable to go forward. You won’t be able to make progress until you forgive the past, focus on the present and plan for the future.”

“Those are pretty philosophical words from a donkey’s mouth,” I couldn’t help saying that, but he didn’t seem to hear me. Or did he?

“Yes, indeed. I’m a pretty philosophical fellow. If only you keep listening, we’ll get along fine. By the way, how are your feet?”

I lifted my right foot, then my left. “They’re free. Oh, Damascus, you know the answers. You’re wonderful.”

“Aw, Dear. Not wonderful. But perhaps old donkeys become wise, forever traveling strangers through this mysterious land. Now to be certain you’ve shrugged off those voices for good, open your bag from le Enchanteur and take out the little anchor.”

“And just why do I need an anchor in the middle of this country. I see no water anywhere.”

“And you’ll need no water for this anchor to do its job,” sighed Damascus just a bit. “Throw this net, yes it’s invisible but it will do, over the remains of the voice-makers. Now fasten it to the earth with the anchor.”

I lifted the anchor, but I could only move it a fraction. Damascus helped nudge it with his nose and together we pushed the anchor into place.

“You needed a mighty heavy anchor to hold down those memories, Dear,” said Damascus, ” but this part of your journey is done. Now if you would please load that pack of tools on my back, we have many stops yet to make. Let’s be off.” Damascus smiled, though I didn’t notice. It’s hard to tell when a donkey smiles.

“Wait. Let me signal for Pigeon.” I whistled through my fingers and there was Pigeon, perched on Damascus’ back.

Damascus brayed and Pigeon hopped from foot to foot. “Now we shall follow Owl Road while it is still light enough to see. I’m starving and I know just the place to find a home-cooked meal. Let’s take the welcomes while we can, for soon enough we’ll be eating many a meal from a cold tin, and looking over our shoulders at every sound.”

« An Introduction to Damascus, the Donkey Day 3 Safety and Danger — Day 5 »

Actions

• Comments rss
• Trackback
• Edit

Informations

Author : bfahrenbac–>
• Date : 6 March 2007
• Categories : Barbara’s Journey, Grand Tourists

An Introduction to Damascus, The Donkey — Day 3

 

Again I hear a deafening racket in my ears. I squint at a large form hovering over me, then gasp. I see a large, a very large, donkey perched precariously on the rocky ledge of the mountain with me and braying into my ears. I tentatively look down — we are at least 1,000 feet above the ground.

 

“Shant we get going?” The donkey speaks. I am surprised. The donkey speaks the King’s English. “The others have left months ago, perhaps even years ago. And I was sternly commanded to wait for any latecomers. That would be you, yes?”

“Why… yes. I have just started, and I am very behind. I’m so sorry you had to wait,” I said , chagrined at what appears to be a poor first meeting.

The donkey humphfed. “Well, you are who you are, aren’t you.” He looked me up and down, scowling. “And yet I do not know. Perhaps we shall have introductions, as one does in civilized countries. I have already met your Pigeon, and we have had a long discussion about your travels. In fact, we have made a pact.”

“And just why a pact? What are you up to?” I was wary as this trip was proving to be most surprising.

“Simple, my dear. You are a lone traveller, a woman at that, and you will need us if you run into, uh, unfortunate circumstances.”

“I am perfectly capable as a woman traveler. In fact, I dare say women are better travelers than men.” I was perfectly incensed. “Since I gather you are to be my companion, perhaps you will be surprised by my capabilities in the wild.”

“Yes. Yes. But we are wasting time, perched on this rock. Your country must be full of rude people. Here we are having a rather proper conversation, and we have yet to be introduced.

Pigeon swooped down between them. “Sorry, sorry! My fault! Donkey, this is Dear, although she will answer to Barbara most pleasantly. And Dear, this is Donkey. His proper name is Damascus and he prefers you call him his proper name. There. Now let’s get you two down from this precipice. I myself will have no problem. I shall meet you at the bottom.” And pigeon swooped into the air, riding the currents, until he could no longer be seen.

“Now, to see us down.” Damascus brayed with pleasure. “Lucky for you, I am very sure-footed. Fasten up!”

I tied my pack to the side of Damascus, using several of the bandanas that softened the straps of the pack on my shoulders. Already my things were handy! Then I clumberred upon his back, unsure of Damascus’s abilities, or truthfully, unsure of mine too. I need not have worried, for my travel downward was very smooth. I was not one bit fearful.

Until, that is, we took our first steps upon solid ground!

Barbara Farhenbac

« A Portal Passage — Day 2 The First of Many Lessons — Day 4 »

Actions

• Comments rss
• Trackback
• Edit

Informations

Author : bfahrenbac–>
• Date : 5 March 2007
• Categories : Barbara’s Journey

Meeting our guide – an old friend!

My companion and I were up bright and early for the trip to the Lemurian mainland. According to our instructions, we were to meet our guide in Lemuria and spend a few days with a host at Owl Creek before setting off the Alluvial Mines.
My companion raised a delicate eyebrow. “Mines?” she said. “I may be incorrectly dressed.”
Our transport to the mainland was a charming little boat rowed by a deceptively small ferrywoman. As soon as we pushed off, she proved herself to be a powerful rower, her strong arms pulling the boat quickly away from the marble steps of Hotel Atlantis. We watched the hotel recede with real regret. Our stay there had been extremely comfortable, but adventure lay ahead, and we soon turned to watch the approaching mainland.
Our ferrywoman’s name was Imeena. She was descended from those Atlanteans that had sought refuge in Lemuria when the sea swallowed the great island.
“The waters of this bay are very clear,” she pointed out. “If you look over the side you can see some of the remains of the great city.”
Edith and I peered eagerly over the side of the boat. The water was a translucent jade and far below we could see broken white marble columns and the faint outlines of mosaic floors. Edith gasped as the boat passed over the form of a great golden bull, its head upraised, its eyes of inlaid turquoise seeming to follow us.
“That was the site of the great bullring,” Imeena said sadly. “The centre was laid out as a labyrinth, and the athletes had to journey through it to meet the Minotaur.”
“But the minotaur is a Cretan legend.” My companion demurred.
“It was an Atlantean truth long before it was a legend of Crete,” Imeena smiled. “The Minotaur was a great athlete who once a year challenged contenders to meet him in the centre of the labyrinth. But they had to prove themselves worthy to meet him – throughout the labyrinth there were young bulls and the athletes leapt over them to get to the centre.”
Our minds filled with the lost glory of the city below, we were hardly aware that the boat had docked until strong hands reached down to help us ashore. We watched Imeena row away again, her strong brown arms plying the oars, her long black hair held back with a single gold band. One of the last living links with Old Atlantis – we felt awed and privileged to have met her.
But we still had to meet our guide, who would take us to Owl Creek. Standing on the jetty with our baggage, we watched the sun sparkle on the ocean and the secrets that it held. Then a long-eared shadow fell across the jetty.
“Good morning, ladies.” Said a cultured Scottish voice.
“Hamish!” I cried in delight – for it was he, Hamish, the dear old donkey I had met before in Lemuria. He still wore his raffish tam o’shanter, and a look of impending doom on his lugubrious face.
“This is our guide,” I said to Edith. “We are old friends.”
Edith bowed politely. I could see she was a bit startled to meet a talking donkey, but she was quickly adapting to life in Lemuria. They chatted like old friends as we made our way along the jetty to the town.
Hamish manfully – or should I say donkeyfully – shouldered our luggage and we set out on the road to Owl Creek.

Gail Kavanagh

Rebirth as a Star Child —– Soul Sister

 

A vision unfolded before my inner eye as I sat in deep meditation– an image of who I really am underneath the layers of false identities. And then the vision grew and expanded until it included all who walk upon the face of the earth.

guides

And as I walked along cradling my talisman bag and smiling to myself I heard faint music, wafting towards me on the breeze. Intruiged I left the path to follow the gentle notes, lulling me with their seductive melody.

Down near the river bank sat a tall cloaked male figure, plucking the strings of an instrument I had not seen before and looking at me with intensity, humour and interest. Looking back steadily I sat to await was to happen next. I knew that in this land it would not be the expected. I had expected to find a mule who would be my guide and companion, but so far there was neither sight nor sound of him. Hearing a rustle in the leaves behind me I turned to see, not a mule, but a milky white shiny shy eyed horse- no not a horse, there was a ray of light coming from its forehead. Could it be – it must be, but thats impossible! I was learning quickly that nothing was impossible in this land so I had to believe my eyes and admit that yes, this was a unicorn. Hardly daring to breathe I waited silently as it approached me. The tall cloaked figure spoke quietly, ‘Yes we are to be your guides, the unicorn and I.’ With a shiver of excitement and expectation I put out my hand to touch the unicorns soft coat.

peacebird

Day Two – Meeting Dunbeg

I met my mule the day before my birthday in September 2006. We had flown to Ireland for the wedding of friends, but also to explore the Green Isle for its own sake. On a cold, rainy Thursday, our last day on the Dingle peninsula, we were determined to explore the hills and ruins before our return trip north.

 

At Dunbeg Promontory Fort, we sloshed out to the ticket booth. Across the path, these three mules huddled together. The piebald one in front winked at me.

 

Although the ancient Iron Age ruin, slowly falling off the cliff into the ocean, filled me with awe, my strongest memory of that location was the determined, resigned mules, soaking wet, clouding the air with their hot breath, waiting patiently for the situation to change.

 

Over two months later, I find myself not in Ireland, but in another strange, new land: Lemuria. After stepping through a portal disguised as a froglet-covered door, I stood astounded for several moments in a near-empty room. Rushing outside, I tried to take control of my fear. I collared kind strangers, begging answers for my frantic questions.

 

Where am I?

What should I be doing?

Why am I here?

 

The answers were always “yes.”

 

I retreated back to the empty meditation room and slept deeply, hoping that my awakening would bring me more knowledge.

 

Awakenings always do.

 

This morning, instead of asking questions, I find myself listening as others sing and talk to themselves. People move slowly, but they smile shyly at me and I feel a welcome tug in my chest. Apparently we’ve arrived for a journey together. People are packing bags, selecting mules, getting ready to travel to some sort of dangerous town with haunted mines.

 

As I walk up to where the remaining mules are hanging out, I immediately spot my piebald friend from the ruin. He is drier now and chewing hay contentedly. He doesn’t look surprised to see me.

 

“It’s you!” I say, pleased to see a familiar (if elongated) face.

 

He nods placidly.

 

“Do you have a name?”

 

He stops chewing and gazes at me expectantly. Right. Here we answer our own questions.

 

“I see. Dunbeg it is.” I swat his rump affectionately and he tries to look offended, but I can see from the gleam in his eye that we are officially off on the right hoof. Or is it the left?