Found and Lost

We were somewhere around Dinbych on the edge of the Crest Mawr when the drugs really began to take hold.  I remember saying something like “I feel a little bit lightheaded, and this car is on the wrong side of things, maybe we should let Creighton drive…”  Suddenly there was a terrible roar around us, and the sky was full of what appeared at first to be bats, but upon closer inspection were Wyverns straight from an illuminated manuscript, swooping and screeching and spilling gold filament ink and diving around the car, which was going about 160 km/h towards Castell Gwrych.  And a voice was screaming, “All glory to the eye of the lotus what the fuuuuuck?!”

Then it was quiet again.  The Butcher had busied himself alternating between picking bits of glass out of his knuckles and sipping on a road beer.  “Th’ fuck ya talkin’ ‘bout?” he asked, his eyes miles away from the sky.  “Never mind,” I said.  “Let’s have the goon drive.”  I hit the brakes and aimed the leaf green Vauxhall Mokka to the shoulder of the road.  No point in talking about those dragons that were live from the mind of the Benedictines, I thought.  Either they were real and we were all fucked anyway, or the mushrooms on this side of the pond were of a pedigree that I hadn’t anticipated.

It was almost noon, and we still had over 40 kilometers to go.  They would probably be tough kilometers, because pretty soon I knew I was going to be a bit twisted.  You can catch your heart beating at the base of your skull and you know already that you’ve taken too much–and the clock is telling you that you haven't even hit a peak yet.  I would have to ride it out–we had a castle to return to, but I wanted to see a very, very old tree.

“Langer-you!” the voice said.  Creighton, who had the blubbering fear and weak chin and whose eye was gradually swelling and blackening like a daguerreotype developing affixed me with eyes of confusion.  Was he smiling?  Was he gritting his teeth?  “Langer-you you!”, the words expelled from me like sputum, because this isn't a language you speak so much as expectorate with the thick tongue of a county drunkard.

“Thaggar-new?”

“Can ya fuckin’ speak English?  Goddamn, my buddy just wants to see th’ old tree!”  The Butcher’s vibrations were oscillating into a more readily violent place, and the goon understood that, because Creighton had been on the receiving end of his particular blessings.  He knew what they meant.  He clammed fast, throwing the car in drive and going buckety-buckety down the lane.  I remember looking to the sky and seeing sunshine break through the blanket of monsters from antiquity, the great beasts and cats with human faces recoiling in something akin to terror.  Eyes lean then wide then lean again.

Steer it wisely, Creighton.  Right into the savage heart and glamor of this place, past the veil where the umbra is king and through to a land of spiritual gold and healing.

Shit.

Was I talking out loud just now?

—

“Why are we here?”

Sage’s voice was groggier and creakier than normal.  They couldn’t have been on the road for more than an hour, and he already took a nap and now wasn’t in the thrall of the psilocybin.  Call it a miracle, or call it a batch that had one hell of an impact but not much long-lasting effects.  In the front seat was Creighton, the goon he and Paxton had outright kidnapped–was he that fucked in half that they actually kidnapped a guy?  And he’s tied by a scarf to the steering wheel?  The Bodhisattva clambers from the backseat, scratching his growing beard with concern.  Mercifully, he’s not in this predicament alone–standing in front of the massive Llangernyw Yew Tree is all six and a half feet of the guy who’s become his best pal.  And he’s in a bit of a huff.

“Ya tell me, man.  Ya were adamant ‘bout seein’ this fuckin’ tree, said somethin’ about ‘th’ knowledge of the ages guidin’ me’.  This thing ain’t guided me for shit.”

“…was someone listening to ‘One Toke Over The Line’ at some point?  I have these crazed half-memories, vibrations chaotic.  Fuck, man.”  Paxton extends a hand, offering Sage a crispy beer.  He takes it and cracks it open, sipping slowly, shaking away the cottonmouth.  “How long have we been here?”

“‘Bout a’ hour, give or take.  Been waitin’ for alla that knowledge to come tumblin’ out some damn tree like a’ asshole.  Then that fuckface over there got mouthy, so I had t’ tune him up a bit and make sure he ain’t run off.”  At this, Sage glances back to the car, back to the dour face of the man named Creighton, who has become a hostage, wheelman, and a representation of sins committed toward his best friend.  The man’s eyes are pleading.  The Bodhisattva takes in the tree, a massive split thing that spreads out across the sky.  Less vertically impressive than the Redwoods Pontiff is familiar with, but it extends outward and into the sky like two hands of a great boreal giant pushed through the earth.

“Remember when I was talking about generational knowledge?”

“Yeah.”  Paxton’s voice has a sad note at this reminder.

“You’re looking at something that’s old enough to not have that.  We’re the end of the line in a way, because we’re walking adult beings at this exact moment.  But that…that’s a mother, that’s a father.  Every forest we’ve been to probably carries a small echo of what we’re staring at right now.”  He takes another sip.  “I kind of always found comfort in old things, man.  Like, next to it, I’m not that significant.  So any of my screw ups or misdeeds can’t be that large.”

Paxton looks up to the tree. “Damn. That’s a way t’look at it, all right. An’ t’think I was whinin’ ‘bout some girl kissin’ me a few hours ago.” He looks back at Creighton and nods. “That situation is still a bit’a big deal, though.”

Sage shrugs.  “Spilled milk at this point.  You can’t live with regret.”  Considering things for a moment, he chimes back in. “But it does pose a good question.  We can’t exactly take him to the castle.  Too many questions.  I’m not so hot at problem solving, Paxton–I usually just take some drugs about it, or fight about it, or fuck about it.  What’s the play?”

Paxton stares at the tree for another moment before walking over to Creighton. “We can’t keep ya forever. But you’re gonna give me your contact info, an’ any time I got questions ‘bout MESSIAH, I want ya t’answer ‘em.” The young man starts to shake his head, but Paxton reaches out and grabs his face. “An’ if ya don’t? Well, I can go to Julian Bathory an’ let him know who tol’ me about the complex in Wales. How’s that sound?” Creighton meekly nods, and Paxton helps him out of the car, taking back the scarf. “Now get outta here. We’ll talk soon.”

Paxton walks back over to the tree. “Well, smart fuckin’ tree. Was that the right decision?”

The tree doesn’t answer, but a breeze makes its leaves rustle.  It's as close to an affirmative as one could have, if Paxton were a man who believed in the delight and magic of the world.  Most people would say he sure as shit isn’t that, but Sage affixes him a wry smile.  He thinks somewhere in Paxton there’s a man who did at one time, until the world made him who he was forced to be to survive.  He steps up to where Paxton is, hands on his hips.

“I know you probably don’t believe in any of this, but I think you just got your answer from something that’s almost older than all the recorded history of man.  That’s pretty special.”  Pontiff chuckles softly, the sort of nonplussed merriment common to those who have just recently gone on a trip.  “What a hell of a great omen, dude.”

“Ain’t omens bad?”

“That’s the Western paradigm speaking.  The European understanding of spiritualism was corrupted to the point where things have to be good or be bad.  For whatever reason, we can’t take any solace in something just being, free of a value assignation.  You asked if it was the smart thing to do, the breeze makes the tree move.  Was that a yes or a no?”

Paxton watches the branches continue to wave, a small smile beginning to form. “I want it t’be a yes.” Paxton looks over to Sage and shakes his head. “So when am I gonna be able t’help ya? Ya get my mind right on Julie, on Petra, on this new fuckin’ wrinkle in the never-endin’ Nora situation. How can I return every goddamn favor you’ve done?”  Sage smiles, clapping his buddy on the shoulder.

“Dude, listen. I make money doing one of the only things I’ve got any acumen doing, I travel the world, I have the love of a good man, and I want for nothing.  Look at us–we’re specks of dust standing in front of something that has survived wars, governments, movements, the fuckin’ march of time.  I made it from the desert to here.  And as for you and me…if this were transactional, then I wouldn't be who I am.”

He smiles, looking at the branches as they sway.

“But I tell you what, Paxton.  Soon as I think of something, I’ll let you know.”

—

There’s sticking out like a sore thumb, and then there’s sticking out like a sore thumb.

The combined 460 pounds of lanky walking attempted murder are the latter, so long as the latter is considered the more vibrant offense.  Crunch and Punch ( AKA Southern Fried, BKA Yin Yang Twinz, CKA Mistik Krewe of Vanyan Sòlda, DKA Paxtiff, EKA Bayouddhism ) aren’t the sort that you normally would see at a place like Gwrych Castle.  Then again, they’re in good company when it comes to sticking out, what with their team containing such folks as “neck-obsessed Sleestak”, “possibly-immortal Muse of The Endless”, and “Irishman”.  Sage finds his mind drawn to this in these quiet moments, thankful that Paxton leans more strong-silent than chatterbox.  He’d be hard-pressed to call them all friends–frankly speaking he only has really become friends with Ray, and Daniels taps into something far out that The Bodhisattva can only feel a kinship with.

The rest, he’s pretty sure, see him as a nuisance at best.  One of the reasons he’s remained so solitary is that he simply has no interest in being where he isn't wanted.  He never put down roots, never staked a claim, never really attempted to know the people in his company beyond finding tiny aspects of their existence that he could meditate on and then destroy.

There’s comfort in the destruction, in the Shivavism.

If you can break it, it can’t break you.

But in the efforts to grow as a person, as a spiritual leader, as a competitor, he’s made the attempt.  And he’s feeling the better for it.

He asked how he could return the favor.  The Bodhisattva doesn’t see what he’s doing as favors.

But he could use an ear.

“Before we get back with the others…” he trails off, waiting for Paxton to slow down.  The taller of the two turns, facing The Bodhisattva with a confused furrowing of his eyebrows.  “Look, I’m no good at this.  I haven't had someone I could call a friend since high school–a real friend, not just someone I meditate or do drugs with.  And, seeing as how there’s a decent chance that I’m going to dose so heavily that you all are gonna have to like, peel me off the ceiling with a rake, I’d rather say this now when I’m feeling pretty clear.”

“Say it.”  Paxton’s words are plain and to the point, like they always are.  But he’s doing his level best to not come off as confrontational.  Pontiff exhales like he’s building to something.

“Thank you.  That’s what I want to say, is thank you.  I don’t think either of us are the easiest people to be friends with–maybe that’s why it works.  But I’m not here to analyze what the vibrational force of the universe has placed in my path.  I’m just thankful.”  At this, he extends his arm, hand held out.

Paxton looks down at Sage, at his long arm, at his grateful countenance, and raises his arm to move Sage’s out of the way, wrapping up Pontiff in a tight hug. When he releases the embrace, the Bayou Butcher smiles in a way that Sage had never seen from him. “I dunno what we’re gonna find inside. Teamwork is tricky for everyone. An’ there’s a lot of stuff in there that makes me doubt. Doubt my place, my skill. But ever since ya and I started talkin’, I ain’t got doubt here. An’ I think you an’ I can take on any’a those Wargames teams by ourselves if we hafta.” Paxton looks at the castle and shrugs. “Hopefully we don’t, though.”

Sage grins, cracking his knuckles.  “The other teams haven’t embraced the truth of this.  They’ve gone hard into the games side.  But me and you?  We understand that this means war.”.

“Games can be war and war can be games, depending on the mindset.” The voice behind the gruesome twosome pauses for a moment, munching on a chocolate coin before plopping a scarf around Sage's neck. “That's for you. Okay, Bucky, let's get in this bitch.”

A black furry blur speeds past as Anna opens the doors to their home base for the moment.  The Bodhisattva looks at the scarf, then at Them, a smile forming on his face.  Muse always knows how to spin a quick verbal riposte into greater truth, if one has a mind open enough to hear it.  Luckily, Sage opened his for business with some strategic applications of God’s chosen fungus and the funky smoke that makes the man provoke.

Moments later, FLAMBERGE steps through the open doors as well. He’s a little sweaty, and his eyes are as wide or wider than the famous Gwrych Castle dinner platters and they seem incapable of blinking.  He may have been less sweaty if he wasn’t currently mummy-wrapped in the scarf Anna gifted him, but he’s not complaining.  Instead, he makes a very slow and deliberate beeline to Sage.

“Is this what it feels like to be you all of the time?”, he asks softly.

“How much you on?”

FLAMBERGE holds a hand out and starts counting fingers.  “One, two…thirty-five.  Laps.  I saw things.”  Pontiff’s eyes narrow in confusion–then realization hits him.

“Fellow cosmonaut, nothing you can ingest, smoke, snort or inject will ever compare to what this engine…” For emphasis, he taps FLAMBO in the chest and then the temple. “...can achieve.  That being said, if you’d like to try…”

“OUI” blurts the reptilian, probably too quickly, but he’s in no place to track social cues.  “Shower, then oui.”  He saunters off down a hallway that may or may not actually lead to showers, restrooms, or anywhere with running water - but that’s fine.  He’s fine.  Sage watches him go, his eyes scanning the castle–it’s walls, the green of the grounds, the crumbling edifices that are no longer safe to reside in, the cool wind from the Irish sea.  Reaching into his pack, he retrieves his bag, eyeballing the contents–just enough for a group of people to feel like one under the blanket of the universe.

He smiles in genuine, gobsmacked joy.

Sage Pontiff isn't sure why he’s so blessed, he’s not sure why the current of fate has brought him to this place at this moment with these people that he’s actually grown fond of.

But he’s not here to question it, either.

—

You’re teams, but are you together?  I found myself asking this into the air.  It’s really beautiful country here, and thanks to some strategic largesse, I’ve been immersing myself in places ancient and mysterious.  I had this vision, right, of how this was all going to go.  I’d dose up, get lost.  I’d find what I needed and get lost again.  And they got dashed–ruined.  Like thoroughly ruined. And I’m happier than I could have imagined.  Because of togetherness, right? I look at the field of this entire company and I know so, so many of you are in a sort of spiritual turmoil.  You’re sick, and like most people with chronic conditions, you’ve figured out how to live with it.  Manage it.  Take comfort in it.  Convince yourself that how you exist is the normal way of things.  I’m not gonna bother asking you if you’ve considered another way–you know there’s another way.  But that other way is new and scary.  Trust me, I know.  I was suffering too, and I looked at the other ways, and I knew they’d chafe me and frighten me and that I would be, for the first time in my life, truly rudderless.  Exploring new country, new territory, both physical and meta.  But like most things in my life, I dove into the new ways head first and…see this?  See this smile?  See these eyes that look on all of you not with hatred, but with empathy and pity?  So many of you have chalked these groupings up to random chance.  Happenstance is anything.  Like you can see the lines of the vibrational forces at work.  Like you know.  Things occur, they’re placed in front of you…right when they’re supposed to be.  There was a moment, not too far in my rearview, when I wondered if this was worth it.  All this hard work.  It’s so much easier to just take drugs and fuck everything, right?  That’s an existence that feels rewarding.  And it’s comfortable, too.  But that was my turmoil.  And it wasn't easy.  And I felt like a fool.  And there were times I asked myself if I really had the steel in me, y’know?  And then shining light, like a beam from the heavens through a stormcloud.  Togetherness.  Unity.  How can a man preach these things and not yet experience them?  How can you yearn for the whole of humanity to join together for the health of our world and our souls and not desire that for yourself?  See, you may be on better terms.  But we are a more unified front.  That’s what I mean when I ask you if you’re together.  And it’s clear to anyone as plain as day–you aren't.  There’s a sadness that fills me at that, there really is.  But I’m going to–we’re going to bring you together.  One by one, fists and elbows and knees and feet.  One after the other.  Broken at our feet.  One after the other.  Begging for mercy that you haven’t yet earned.  One by one.  Pursuing enlightenment and understanding when it’s far, far too late.  Until finally you’re all laid out.  You all understand.  You’re all finally together, at last.  Make no mistake, there are ways to make you understand my point than showing you the face of Shiva in my own, there are nicer ways than the sacrifice of your flesh.  But we don’t have that much time together. And it will all be over too soon. And I will miss this team that has welcomed me like home.  No better parting gift than winning it all.  Namaste.