Black Light
My family always denied that I had mental problems. My favourite pastimes were watching the river and watching the fire. And laughing a lot. They said that I was one of life’s happy people – too happy maybe – but it wasn’t a crime. But then there was a crime. I had my heart set on Shanti. She was flattered at first, then humoured me, then ignored me, then rejected me, then called the cops. I was told to stay away from her forever – or else. I don’t know why I took it so badly, but it hurt me hard. My world was destroyed – or felt as if it should be.
I lit candles all around my bedroom. Then I lined the floor with plastic, and pulled in a pipe. I switched on the water. This Fiery Flood would cleanse my world and allow fresh beginnings. But the water only rose to my knees, and extinguished the candles, and then the floor collapsed. All my possessions, and myself, smashed through the joists, onto the old man below. I was scarred and broken, and he was dead. Grumpy old fucker, I never liked him anyway. So what if he fought in a war. Who’ll miss him?
After the inquest I was put into a secure hospital for four years. It could have been less, but I never showed remorse. Eventually I was released and told to take a parade of daily drugs. I was told to keep away from water and fire. The drugs worked well, they kept me stable, but dampened my imagination. My mind was no longer a river, but a pond. Not flowing. Stagnant.
When I mentioned this to the people, they said that I should be thankful, and think of my mind as still. I had very few friends left. I had become an embarrassment. But there were some souls who still cared about my welfare. They recalled the times my wildness had made them laugh, or were thankful for their blessings, or took to heart the great words of MLK Jr. He said that the ultimate measure of a man is where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
One guy was going to the New City, and asked if I wanted to come along for the ride. Since my release, I wasn’t allowed to travel without medical permission. But the Immigration Officer didn’t know that. After asking me a few easy questions, I was welcomed in.
What a glorious time is spring! Sunshine, hummingbirds, rosebuds, and snow geese celebrated my arrival. Leaves, shoots, and swallows. Trumpeter Swans.
After a week it was time to go home. But I didn’t want to go. My friend insisted, so I gave him the slip. I hitched a ride north to Strattus, the local money-machine. But it was busy and pricey, so I hitched onward to Lucerne. It was a cute town, set beneath a dramatic white mountain. It’s peak was a “V”.
I got to know some local artists. They liked me. A photographer said that I could stay at her place if I cut the grass, fed her horses, and cleaned the pool. She was mostly away on assignments. This worked out well. I spent time walking through forests and working on farms. I stayed out of town generally. Too many eyes and ears and tongues. People new in town were the worst critics and gossips. They felt they had something to prove. A guy called Steve stopped his car whenever he saw me. I thought he was being friendly. But now I can tell it’s not so. He was seeking my weakness.
Sometimes I went to the New City to score prescription drugs. I needed my daily dose of Lithium. It was a friendly city, but with too many homeless people. Most of them were chemically dependent or mentally ill. I never had much money, but gave them whatever I had. I knew that, there but for the grace of God, go I.
I am overcreative. People always said so. My stories of food grown in worm juice put other kids off eating – especially when I put worms in their plates to “bring things to life”. At school, teachers just stopped asking me questions – they didn’t want disruptive answers about God’s mind being full or endless compasses and invisible slide rules. They were ignorant of sacred geometry.
I was fired from my first job for using mannequins, foam pellets, and fans to turn the backroom into a snow disco. I was thrown out of an apartment for letting mounds of tropical fruit rot to create a Hawaiian ecosystem (the methane-fuelled fire was quickly doused, though not before many fartyfruitbursts – even the firemen were impressed!). I loved art and artists, and never learnt any practical skills. They seemed unimportant. Besides, you could always find somebody to do things. But rarely could you trust people to think things.
In my new home I had plenty of time for thinking.
There’s mountains at both ends of the Valley. Alba Mountain near town, and Negra Mountain at the glacier end. The photographer’s place is towards the glacier end – where people have thinned out. It’s a small community called Kalash. The top of the valley is wilder, more powerful and beautiful. She says it is like Tibet.
But for six months a year, the darkness descends. The toe of Negra Mountain blocks out the sun. Some folk can handle that, and busy themselves with social and spiritual activity. Some folk can’t, and sleep or flee. I like it and stay.
But neighbouring houses are dark. Noone awake or no one there. Old Charlie is moving out, now alone with too much memory. Gordo has taken a job in the New City, and made refugees of his family. The Chevaliers are on their island. Gavin is asleep, probably with company. The baker and her kids sleep also, but alone.
During the dark months, I have a recurring dream. That there is a light in the blackness – a black light, hidden in the void. It is a magical thing, both present and absent. Its immanence gives me hope in the darkness – of illumination one day – of a sunrise everywhere to come.
I awake one night to the sound of tiny bells. They make the air sing. Like goats bleating in near hills. I dress quickly and step into the road.
Through low mist, I see bald men. Hundreds of them, creeping through the dark. Close-cropped holy beings rolling in single file – in both directions as far as the eye can see. Only ten metres from me is the nearest monk. Cedar and sandalwood, I smell his faint perfume. His soft footsteps like rain. He is the most unexpected – and strangely, the most expected – thing that I could see. But his ghostly colour seems odd. His dark robes create Tibetan or Himalyan expectations – that he’ll be yellow or brown. But he is moonlit.
The monks are coming from the Upper Valley and flowing down the Valley Road. Hiking shades in dirty robes. I begin to count them. Every twelfth person carries an oil lantern. He is illuminated golden in this tarnished silver chain. They take modest steps – no one rushing – but ensuring the steady flow of this great chain of beings.
I notice women mixed into the procession. At first their shearing caused them to blend. But their smaller stature and finer features disclose their gender. But only after squinted concentration.
I can’t take my eyes off their gleaming heads and dirty feet. Marching from where to where. I am drawn towards their unknown purpose. They seem to have a knowledge higher than mine. A twelfth monk looks up and smiles. He has bad teeth, but they don’t look ugly, just real. Cold eyes. With a sway of his golden lantern, he indicates that I may join them. He adjusts his pacing to create a me-sized gap.
I take four smart steps.
I am in.
It is cold and I am wearing bathroom slippers, but I am called to truth.
Translucence.
Before me is a tallish woman, with a bulging cyst on the back of her head. Her moonlit skull seems more a meteor than planet. A busted lump, not a ball. In front of her is a man, short, limping with a rolling gait. His life has absorbed severe injury. And the golden monk behind me has frozen eyeballs – not from cold meditation – because he is blind.
I realize that I’ve been drawn into a procession of the walking wounded. Lost desperate souls. Yes, I am happy to give to the homeless, but only to highlight the barrier between us. All the while thankful that I’m not in their shoes. Now I have joined these accursed. It is a backward step. I have a feeling of disgust. I grimace and my jaw shakes. I am overwhelmed suddenly by their deformities and stink, I must leave this behind.
My feet stop moving. I turn around and stand in the road. I expect the golden monk to walk straight into me. But he doesn’t. He is standing before me, seeing-unseeing with glowing eyes. There’s a long curve in the road behind him. Countless gold points are strewn across the base of the valley, with silver gleams between. If each golden lantern has eleven silver heads between itself and the next one, there must be hundreds of monks in this chain. Thousands.
And I have caused it to stop.
Instinctively I jump off the road. As soon as I do so, the procession continues. There is no commotion, no fuss. I am now on the other side of the road from my suite, and can’t jump back. I’ve been in this valley for nine months now. Kept my head down, and out of trouble. No worms on plates – no endless compasses or invisible slide rules – no snow discos – no tropical incubators – no Fiery Floods. I’ve settled in quietly. I’ve settled in well. I don’t want to deal with these golden lanterns and moonlit monks. I don’t want this to be happening. What can I do?
I was sucked into the illusion, but quickly jumped out. So maybe I’ll make it through.
But is it an illusion? It feels so real. Goddam it, it is real!
This is why I was called here. To witness this miracle.
I feel my calm cracking. A hole in my soul.
I must get help from someone. Someone nearby. But there’s no one around.
My eye is drawn to a bunch of tin sheds with fallen fences. Beyond them is an old cabin. I wonder if old Charlie is in.
I guess he saw my chimney smoking. Last burn before I’m gone. The truck and trailer are packed, my final load. I’ve left plenty of junk – stuff going back as long as I remember. But I’ve taken what I need there. The rest can stay here. The bank can have it all.
Why he doesn’t just walk in like everyone else, I’ll never know. He bangs on the door shouting “Charlie!”
“Ya!” I say.
He pushes it open slowly, sees me, then rushes in. I’m piecing together this jigsaw of a solar eclipse. I’m halfway through the thousand pieces. And I got a little potion brewing. Good job I’ve packed away the ingredients. What would he have made of those! I nod for him to speak.
“Charlie! The monks! Have you seen them!”
“Ya,” I say. “They’ve been going all night.”
“But who are they? Where are they going?”
I lie to him. “Oh, I don’t know. Some Dalai Lamas passing through.”
He is astounded by my nonchalance, at a loss for words.
Hee hee! I continue with the jigsaw. A black piece from outer space. And I turn down the potion, it should be done now. Transmuted.
“I wonder if they’re coming from Mt. Negra?” he says.
Good guess, little man! If I was trying to make sense of it, I’d say the same. That they’re coming from the local firepit, whose ancient eruptions once created this valley. It’s only a few kilometres away, and deep down, still smoking. But wrong, I’m afraid. It would have charred their feet!
“Aren’t you shocked by this?” he says.
“Sure am. I was setting off for Bella Coola this morning, but looks like the road’s gonna be blocked.” I feel a bit mean, but I’m enjoying it. He’s so eager to know. But you can’t know these things just like that. You have to learn them patiently, over lifetimes.
I select a white piece and add it to the edge of the sun. My sausage-like fingers amuse myself. The hands of a wizard-farmer – anointed by both gold and gas. And my face is funny, I’ve always thought. Small eyes, and whiskers like a beaver. Just right for a collector of timeless treasures. He’s waiting for me to say something more.
“I thought something was up yesterday, when Beks’ cows were bunching. They stuck together all day. The calves were crying in the middle. They knew something was coming.”
We can’t see the monks from my basement. But their lanterns’ golden glow creeps in through other windows. The cream walls brighten and fade rhythmically. And there’s the woodstove’s flicker. It reminds me of an old shrine near Delphi.
“What should we do Charlie?”
“Oh, nothing. When they’re finished, I’ll set off.” Well, I wasn’t lying.
About time they came. A hundred years here – it’s time to move on. Not that there’s anyone living here to know it. But I know it. Made final preparations, like always. I felt the hour was near. Should have been yesterday though. The Chaosophical Calendar. Maybe they’re using the Draconian. Anyway, the Great Chain came, and then the Arouser. Right on time! Always asking so many questions, that one. You’d think he’d know by now. Not everyone recalls their past lives fully. Just hints and hunches. I don’t know which I prefer – wizard-farmer or peasant-shaman. They must know I do secret things in my shop. You don’t get flashes like that from arc-welding! Ok, I’m nearly done. One little test, and I’m gone. Once he leaves, I’ll check the mailbox, in case of a late message. Maybe the Mindjewel. It could be She. Shakra. He’s still talking.
“Charlie, I’m shocked!”
“Ya? About?”
“That you’re treating this as normal.”
“Well, how should I?”
“It’s not normal! It’s not an unusual occurrence, like early frost or late flooding. It’s hundreds, thousands of monks, walking out of nowhere. Right past your house!”
“Well, whatever it is.” I’ll see if my quiet is effective. Enjoy the Silence. I’ll say no more.
But he is too fazed. He’s burning for answers. Well there is only one way to really know anything. I’ll lead him to it, but he’ll have to do the learning himself.
“Where are they going, Charlie?”
“Looks like they’re heading into town. But after that, who knows?”
“Maybe they’ll go onto Strattus?”
“Who would go to that hole!”
“Well maybe the other way, to Lilly?”
“If you want to know, why don’t you join them? You already got the haircut!”
He’s been watching my method. I stare at the area needing completion, but in an unfocussed way. Peripheral vision sees possibilities. Then something clicks as a potential solution. I reach for the piece slowly, continuing the perception process. Then either raise it up in recognition, or withdraw immediately. If it’s the right piece – I turn it with a steady motion – feel it’s substance – haul it in – press into place.
All the time my eyes remain unfocussed. Staring at the Void.
We haven’t spent any time together, really – but I know him well enough. It’s always been his problem – too many thoughts and not enough action. Or the wrong action. These educated people think so much. They think it concentrates their thoughts. But it shrivels their brains. They know it, call it “paralysis by analysis”. But they never stop. The proper way is to know and to do. Not to think and to try.
Samurais say “No fear, no surprise, no hesitation, no doubt”.
I’ve watched him. He likes Helene. A fine girl that one. He thinks of all the things he’ll say to her. Then when they meet, he shuffles by. She would love to hear those things.
He thinks of all the things he’ll write, paint, and film. Then in the evenings, what I see is the glow of his TV. Shows made by people who actually produce things.
He thinks of all the action sports you can do in this valley – hiking and biking, skiing and skidooing, horseriding and paragliding. Then at weekends, he hangs around coffee shops. Reads magazines about people who are out having adventures.
When else does he expect to come across a procession of monks at midnight, marching along his road? Walking out of the mountains, heading into town? Bringing nature back to culture? If he doesn’t recognize this as the opportunity of his lifetime…”
Something clicks for him. I don’t need to say it. The voiceless voice speaks to him at last. He picks up a black piece of jigsaw. He presses it into the centre of the sun. He’s got it!
“Thank you Charlie,” he says and leaves.
I step back into the road. A golden lantern bearer adjusts his step, so I can easily slip in. How does he know? He is also blind.
My eyes are unfocussed on the figure ahead. I see a silver gleam, but no details of their physical form. This is not a person for me, but a being. It is the being before me in the chain of life. The one pulling me along with an invisible thread. I do not resist. It seems natural to follow this path.
My feet make loud noises. I wonder why. It is because of my slippers. They crunch small gravel, and slap the road. Others are barefoot.
I kick off the slippers, one each side.
I drift down the road.
Moving away from the realm of fire, we follow the line of water. I see ghosts of things – hairy black ditches, old posts and dead barns, rotting. Sagged live wires, and slanted steel wheels. Ribbed pipes, bare trees, fat busted haybales, and cold cars. Watchful llamas. The pates of round bluffs. Sudden long drops. And a line of people braving this nightland, ungrounded by fog at the knees.
Knots of bright tape mark parcels of land. Black mountains rise sharp, both sides. Their faces catch moonlight, but hollows remain invisible. Forests tumble down hard slopes to meet the silent valley. The River Lilly snakes along the bottom, gently stalking the road. The River flows to our left initially, but then swaps, slips under the road. It guards both sides, wherever the greater danger. Slippery leaves everywhere, slick and dark.
Along the flashing roadway, moonlight beams forward forever. A powder of stars is patted across the skyface, as foundation for the moonjewel. And set within these natural adornments is a silver chain of golden beings. They are the blind ones that see.
There is no sense of time. It is only as the sky begins to brighten that I realize it’s morning. I have walked for six hours. And I realize that my neck is wet, my cheeks, my eyes. I have been weeping for the old man I killed. May he forgive me, the old soldier. Fighting the good fight. This is the funeral procession he deserved.
Beyond daylight is another light. Something unnatural. A stuttering mix of red and blue. Its neon shocks the nerves. It sends eyeballs racing.
Have my drugs failed me completely? These seem multiple delusions.
There are a dozen police cars, and bigger vans, and some sort of barricade. A big log house has been commandeered as road base. With all of its lights are on, it seems a small cruise ship in the dark.
I realize that I could be in trouble. I’ve been nine months now in this blessed valley, minding my own business. Helping people out here and there. But legally and medically, I shouldn’t be here at all. So should I back off – quietly slip off the road?
I wonder how the chain kept going? We’ve kept moving all night, there’s been no delays. The pace has been steady. How did it get through the blockade?
The river goes on. The road goes on. So does the chain.
This chain does not enslave, I realize. It empowers. It is not a work of bondage, but of connection. It is as strong as the strongest link, which has the power of all other links combined. The weakest link is no more.
However the first links of the chain are halted at the barricade. They stand peacefully, glinting. The cops have diverted the rest of the chain onto a side road, and then into a potato field. The monks are walking in furrows, avoiding the hills where crops are sown. Their muddy feet wade through slim canals. But the field is full, and the chain has continued into the next field, and then the one after that. It seems a decision was taken to keep the procession moving, rather than create a hard blockade. This modern crowd-control tactic averts the build-up of crowds and tension, while ensuring that “situational dynamics are contained”.
Near the Point of Diversion, I see a crowd of confused public, local volunteers, and some officials. All seems orderly. The monks are following police directions. It is tricky footing for them, but they don’t complain. Then the lantern bearer behind me is struck and falls.
I hear a familiar voice shouting “Weird bastards! Creeping around at night, like an army. Who the hell are they? We don’t want them here. Send them back to where they come from!”
Other voices express agreement, “That’s right!” and, “Good on ya, Steve!”, whilst others are shocked and cry out, “Vicious bastard!” and, “Shame!”
The cops don’t see – or choose to ignore – this incident, as does much of the crowd.
Someone rushes forward to help the fallen monk. Someone tiny but stocky, with very long dark hair. Helene! I’ve always wanted to, but never had the balls to speak to her. She seems too beautiful, and too self-contained. She’s a champion kickboxer. I saw her in SNAP putting on a demo. She organized an event for human rights in China. I don’t know why, but I feel that she’s been hurt a lot in her life. It’s those wounded seriously that help others to recover. They need to bolster their own hope.
But I can see she is strong. She pushes past Steve and kneels in the mud. I kneel beside her, before her. Together we help the blind monk to his feet. With one of us under each shoulder, we walk him to an old wooden shelter. We lay him on haystacks, beside an old tractor. Then I return to pick up his lantern. It is glowing weakly. As I return, the tractor’s lights seem to shine.
“Thank you for helping us,” I say to Helene, and immediately wonder when the monks and I had become “us”. Till last night I had been a seasonal resident of Lucerne. Now suddenly I am one of these dirty, deformed, night fools.
“We help each other,” she says, without smiling.
The crowd, cops, and officials are agitated. There are only two hundred of them, yet thousands of monks with no end to their flow. They will soon be overwhelmed by these strangers, pouring as mist.
The red-blue police lights whirl across rocky drops. They create kaleidoscopic elephant skin. Soft feet patting pavement, and being sucked by mud. Iron bars clanging in the crowd. Shouts and thuds. Reverberation. The great chain stops moving. A low hum rises from the monks. Guns being loaded, actions snapping back. Bursts of sirens. Then hush.
Way up the valley, something’s moving beyond Mt. Negra. A white sun seems to rise. But this is the West. And at the other end of the Valley – above Mt. Alba – a dark ball appears instead of the sun. There is a white sun above a black mountain, and black moon above a white mountain. And filling the valley between them, bright mist. The crowd is fearful. Hypnotized.
There is a subtle glimmer. A ripple of black light. It shocks the mist as it moves. We are baptized by this otherworldly illumination. All waterfalls glitter. A refractive geometry, looking through rainbows. Unfocussable energetic patterns. All still. A trance crowd. Knowing the Sea to Sky is our spiritual journey – from fish to gods.
Water dispels into tiny drops. Measureless blessings.
I feel a flash like those that sometimes came from Charlie’s workshop. I remember how they tore through my room at night. Negating the curtains. Shining through. Who is he, really? His features send my mind racing somewhere, everywhere, seeking the key. I find it quickly. Those small eyes and little whiskers – they resemble those of the first monk, who stepped aside to let me slip into the chain. Also the monk who was felled – his aspect was similar.
Are these his people, from somewhere?
Coming to join him at last?
Is he hiding his purpose?
Why doesn’t he say?
I unfocus my mind, and look for the answer. I realize why he remains silent and alone. His powerful presence needs concentration. He is a warrior, protecting our valley. A sorcerer, passing through. Always ready to engage in battle with darker forces. His soul must be alert. His spirit honed.
A brilliant dark form emerges. Cops, crowd, officials, all move aside. The log house windows are crowded with heads. Monks drop on their bellies, face down in the dirt. Eyeing worms. Nuzzling spuds.
Charlie’s black truck roars up, lights blazing. It seems to be the centre of the force. He pulls up nearby, rolls down his window. “What’s happening here?” he says with a smirk. He speaks as if we’ve met in the line at the grocery store.
This world is otherworldly, yet his calm creates mine. I respond easily.
“Some trouble,” I say. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
“Glad to hear. I finished the jigsaw.”
“What was it?”
“You know what it was.”
“I had a dream about this, Charlie.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that a huge light illuminated the world.”
“Well, then, your dream came true.”
“Is that what you were waiting for? A sign to move on to your next watch?”
He doesn’t say.
“Charlie, what was it exactly?”
“Well, that’d be telling.”
“But you were up to something. Those sparks at night weren’t just from arc-welding.”
“Just some little experiments of mine. Gotta test the machinery every few years.”
“Won’t you tell me what happened?”
“All you need to know, boy, is that you’ve played your part. Without your actions, this wouldn’t have occurred.”
I am confused. He takes pity on me. He tells me what I really need to know.
“You killing that man, and feeling remorse at last. Your giving money to beggars. Your helping the fallen monk. Each of us, every day, saves the world. You came as a messenger that this Valley is in good hands now. That there is hope in this world.”
I become stiff with tears. Helene comes and holds me.
“I’d better get moving. Got work to do in the Interior. You want a ride?”
Charlie revs to create passage. Myself and Helene help the fallen monk into the cab of the truck. We jump into the box as it creeps through the crowd.
Our dirty hearts are filled with hope. We follow the Black Light.
I lit candles all around my bedroom. Then I lined the floor with plastic, and pulled in a pipe. I switched on the water. This Fiery Flood would cleanse my world and allow fresh beginnings. But the water only rose to my knees, and extinguished the candles, and then the floor collapsed. All my possessions, and myself, smashed through the joists, onto the old man below. I was scarred and broken, and he was dead. Grumpy old fucker, I never liked him anyway. So what if he fought in a war. Who’ll miss him?
After the inquest I was put into a secure hospital for four years. It could have been less, but I never showed remorse. Eventually I was released and told to take a parade of daily drugs. I was told to keep away from water and fire. The drugs worked well, they kept me stable, but dampened my imagination. My mind was no longer a river, but a pond. Not flowing. Stagnant.
When I mentioned this to the people, they said that I should be thankful, and think of my mind as still. I had very few friends left. I had become an embarrassment. But there were some souls who still cared about my welfare. They recalled the times my wildness had made them laugh, or were thankful for their blessings, or took to heart the great words of MLK Jr. He said that the ultimate measure of a man is where he stands at times of challenge and controversy.
One guy was going to the New City, and asked if I wanted to come along for the ride. Since my release, I wasn’t allowed to travel without medical permission. But the Immigration Officer didn’t know that. After asking me a few easy questions, I was welcomed in.
What a glorious time is spring! Sunshine, hummingbirds, rosebuds, and snow geese celebrated my arrival. Leaves, shoots, and swallows. Trumpeter Swans.
After a week it was time to go home. But I didn’t want to go. My friend insisted, so I gave him the slip. I hitched a ride north to Strattus, the local money-machine. But it was busy and pricey, so I hitched onward to Lucerne. It was a cute town, set beneath a dramatic white mountain. It’s peak was a “V”.
I got to know some local artists. They liked me. A photographer said that I could stay at her place if I cut the grass, fed her horses, and cleaned the pool. She was mostly away on assignments. This worked out well. I spent time walking through forests and working on farms. I stayed out of town generally. Too many eyes and ears and tongues. People new in town were the worst critics and gossips. They felt they had something to prove. A guy called Steve stopped his car whenever he saw me. I thought he was being friendly. But now I can tell it’s not so. He was seeking my weakness.
Sometimes I went to the New City to score prescription drugs. I needed my daily dose of Lithium. It was a friendly city, but with too many homeless people. Most of them were chemically dependent or mentally ill. I never had much money, but gave them whatever I had. I knew that, there but for the grace of God, go I.
I am overcreative. People always said so. My stories of food grown in worm juice put other kids off eating – especially when I put worms in their plates to “bring things to life”. At school, teachers just stopped asking me questions – they didn’t want disruptive answers about God’s mind being full or endless compasses and invisible slide rules. They were ignorant of sacred geometry.
I was fired from my first job for using mannequins, foam pellets, and fans to turn the backroom into a snow disco. I was thrown out of an apartment for letting mounds of tropical fruit rot to create a Hawaiian ecosystem (the methane-fuelled fire was quickly doused, though not before many fartyfruitbursts – even the firemen were impressed!). I loved art and artists, and never learnt any practical skills. They seemed unimportant. Besides, you could always find somebody to do things. But rarely could you trust people to think things.
In my new home I had plenty of time for thinking.
There’s mountains at both ends of the Valley. Alba Mountain near town, and Negra Mountain at the glacier end. The photographer’s place is towards the glacier end – where people have thinned out. It’s a small community called Kalash. The top of the valley is wilder, more powerful and beautiful. She says it is like Tibet.
But for six months a year, the darkness descends. The toe of Negra Mountain blocks out the sun. Some folk can handle that, and busy themselves with social and spiritual activity. Some folk can’t, and sleep or flee. I like it and stay.
But neighbouring houses are dark. Noone awake or no one there. Old Charlie is moving out, now alone with too much memory. Gordo has taken a job in the New City, and made refugees of his family. The Chevaliers are on their island. Gavin is asleep, probably with company. The baker and her kids sleep also, but alone.
During the dark months, I have a recurring dream. That there is a light in the blackness – a black light, hidden in the void. It is a magical thing, both present and absent. Its immanence gives me hope in the darkness – of illumination one day – of a sunrise everywhere to come.
I awake one night to the sound of tiny bells. They make the air sing. Like goats bleating in near hills. I dress quickly and step into the road.
Through low mist, I see bald men. Hundreds of them, creeping through the dark. Close-cropped holy beings rolling in single file – in both directions as far as the eye can see. Only ten metres from me is the nearest monk. Cedar and sandalwood, I smell his faint perfume. His soft footsteps like rain. He is the most unexpected – and strangely, the most expected – thing that I could see. But his ghostly colour seems odd. His dark robes create Tibetan or Himalyan expectations – that he’ll be yellow or brown. But he is moonlit.
The monks are coming from the Upper Valley and flowing down the Valley Road. Hiking shades in dirty robes. I begin to count them. Every twelfth person carries an oil lantern. He is illuminated golden in this tarnished silver chain. They take modest steps – no one rushing – but ensuring the steady flow of this great chain of beings.
I notice women mixed into the procession. At first their shearing caused them to blend. But their smaller stature and finer features disclose their gender. But only after squinted concentration.
I can’t take my eyes off their gleaming heads and dirty feet. Marching from where to where. I am drawn towards their unknown purpose. They seem to have a knowledge higher than mine. A twelfth monk looks up and smiles. He has bad teeth, but they don’t look ugly, just real. Cold eyes. With a sway of his golden lantern, he indicates that I may join them. He adjusts his pacing to create a me-sized gap.
I take four smart steps.
I am in.
It is cold and I am wearing bathroom slippers, but I am called to truth.
Translucence.
Before me is a tallish woman, with a bulging cyst on the back of her head. Her moonlit skull seems more a meteor than planet. A busted lump, not a ball. In front of her is a man, short, limping with a rolling gait. His life has absorbed severe injury. And the golden monk behind me has frozen eyeballs – not from cold meditation – because he is blind.
I realize that I’ve been drawn into a procession of the walking wounded. Lost desperate souls. Yes, I am happy to give to the homeless, but only to highlight the barrier between us. All the while thankful that I’m not in their shoes. Now I have joined these accursed. It is a backward step. I have a feeling of disgust. I grimace and my jaw shakes. I am overwhelmed suddenly by their deformities and stink, I must leave this behind.
My feet stop moving. I turn around and stand in the road. I expect the golden monk to walk straight into me. But he doesn’t. He is standing before me, seeing-unseeing with glowing eyes. There’s a long curve in the road behind him. Countless gold points are strewn across the base of the valley, with silver gleams between. If each golden lantern has eleven silver heads between itself and the next one, there must be hundreds of monks in this chain. Thousands.
And I have caused it to stop.
Instinctively I jump off the road. As soon as I do so, the procession continues. There is no commotion, no fuss. I am now on the other side of the road from my suite, and can’t jump back. I’ve been in this valley for nine months now. Kept my head down, and out of trouble. No worms on plates – no endless compasses or invisible slide rules – no snow discos – no tropical incubators – no Fiery Floods. I’ve settled in quietly. I’ve settled in well. I don’t want to deal with these golden lanterns and moonlit monks. I don’t want this to be happening. What can I do?
I was sucked into the illusion, but quickly jumped out. So maybe I’ll make it through.
But is it an illusion? It feels so real. Goddam it, it is real!
This is why I was called here. To witness this miracle.
I feel my calm cracking. A hole in my soul.
I must get help from someone. Someone nearby. But there’s no one around.
My eye is drawn to a bunch of tin sheds with fallen fences. Beyond them is an old cabin. I wonder if old Charlie is in.
I guess he saw my chimney smoking. Last burn before I’m gone. The truck and trailer are packed, my final load. I’ve left plenty of junk – stuff going back as long as I remember. But I’ve taken what I need there. The rest can stay here. The bank can have it all.
Why he doesn’t just walk in like everyone else, I’ll never know. He bangs on the door shouting “Charlie!”
“Ya!” I say.
He pushes it open slowly, sees me, then rushes in. I’m piecing together this jigsaw of a solar eclipse. I’m halfway through the thousand pieces. And I got a little potion brewing. Good job I’ve packed away the ingredients. What would he have made of those! I nod for him to speak.
“Charlie! The monks! Have you seen them!”
“Ya,” I say. “They’ve been going all night.”
“But who are they? Where are they going?”
I lie to him. “Oh, I don’t know. Some Dalai Lamas passing through.”
He is astounded by my nonchalance, at a loss for words.
Hee hee! I continue with the jigsaw. A black piece from outer space. And I turn down the potion, it should be done now. Transmuted.
“I wonder if they’re coming from Mt. Negra?” he says.
Good guess, little man! If I was trying to make sense of it, I’d say the same. That they’re coming from the local firepit, whose ancient eruptions once created this valley. It’s only a few kilometres away, and deep down, still smoking. But wrong, I’m afraid. It would have charred their feet!
“Aren’t you shocked by this?” he says.
“Sure am. I was setting off for Bella Coola this morning, but looks like the road’s gonna be blocked.” I feel a bit mean, but I’m enjoying it. He’s so eager to know. But you can’t know these things just like that. You have to learn them patiently, over lifetimes.
I select a white piece and add it to the edge of the sun. My sausage-like fingers amuse myself. The hands of a wizard-farmer – anointed by both gold and gas. And my face is funny, I’ve always thought. Small eyes, and whiskers like a beaver. Just right for a collector of timeless treasures. He’s waiting for me to say something more.
“I thought something was up yesterday, when Beks’ cows were bunching. They stuck together all day. The calves were crying in the middle. They knew something was coming.”
We can’t see the monks from my basement. But their lanterns’ golden glow creeps in through other windows. The cream walls brighten and fade rhythmically. And there’s the woodstove’s flicker. It reminds me of an old shrine near Delphi.
“What should we do Charlie?”
“Oh, nothing. When they’re finished, I’ll set off.” Well, I wasn’t lying.
About time they came. A hundred years here – it’s time to move on. Not that there’s anyone living here to know it. But I know it. Made final preparations, like always. I felt the hour was near. Should have been yesterday though. The Chaosophical Calendar. Maybe they’re using the Draconian. Anyway, the Great Chain came, and then the Arouser. Right on time! Always asking so many questions, that one. You’d think he’d know by now. Not everyone recalls their past lives fully. Just hints and hunches. I don’t know which I prefer – wizard-farmer or peasant-shaman. They must know I do secret things in my shop. You don’t get flashes like that from arc-welding! Ok, I’m nearly done. One little test, and I’m gone. Once he leaves, I’ll check the mailbox, in case of a late message. Maybe the Mindjewel. It could be She. Shakra. He’s still talking.
“Charlie, I’m shocked!”
“Ya? About?”
“That you’re treating this as normal.”
“Well, how should I?”
“It’s not normal! It’s not an unusual occurrence, like early frost or late flooding. It’s hundreds, thousands of monks, walking out of nowhere. Right past your house!”
“Well, whatever it is.” I’ll see if my quiet is effective. Enjoy the Silence. I’ll say no more.
But he is too fazed. He’s burning for answers. Well there is only one way to really know anything. I’ll lead him to it, but he’ll have to do the learning himself.
“Where are they going, Charlie?”
“Looks like they’re heading into town. But after that, who knows?”
“Maybe they’ll go onto Strattus?”
“Who would go to that hole!”
“Well maybe the other way, to Lilly?”
“If you want to know, why don’t you join them? You already got the haircut!”
He’s been watching my method. I stare at the area needing completion, but in an unfocussed way. Peripheral vision sees possibilities. Then something clicks as a potential solution. I reach for the piece slowly, continuing the perception process. Then either raise it up in recognition, or withdraw immediately. If it’s the right piece – I turn it with a steady motion – feel it’s substance – haul it in – press into place.
All the time my eyes remain unfocussed. Staring at the Void.
We haven’t spent any time together, really – but I know him well enough. It’s always been his problem – too many thoughts and not enough action. Or the wrong action. These educated people think so much. They think it concentrates their thoughts. But it shrivels their brains. They know it, call it “paralysis by analysis”. But they never stop. The proper way is to know and to do. Not to think and to try.
Samurais say “No fear, no surprise, no hesitation, no doubt”.
I’ve watched him. He likes Helene. A fine girl that one. He thinks of all the things he’ll say to her. Then when they meet, he shuffles by. She would love to hear those things.
He thinks of all the things he’ll write, paint, and film. Then in the evenings, what I see is the glow of his TV. Shows made by people who actually produce things.
He thinks of all the action sports you can do in this valley – hiking and biking, skiing and skidooing, horseriding and paragliding. Then at weekends, he hangs around coffee shops. Reads magazines about people who are out having adventures.
When else does he expect to come across a procession of monks at midnight, marching along his road? Walking out of the mountains, heading into town? Bringing nature back to culture? If he doesn’t recognize this as the opportunity of his lifetime…”
Something clicks for him. I don’t need to say it. The voiceless voice speaks to him at last. He picks up a black piece of jigsaw. He presses it into the centre of the sun. He’s got it!
“Thank you Charlie,” he says and leaves.
I step back into the road. A golden lantern bearer adjusts his step, so I can easily slip in. How does he know? He is also blind.
My eyes are unfocussed on the figure ahead. I see a silver gleam, but no details of their physical form. This is not a person for me, but a being. It is the being before me in the chain of life. The one pulling me along with an invisible thread. I do not resist. It seems natural to follow this path.
My feet make loud noises. I wonder why. It is because of my slippers. They crunch small gravel, and slap the road. Others are barefoot.
I kick off the slippers, one each side.
I drift down the road.
Moving away from the realm of fire, we follow the line of water. I see ghosts of things – hairy black ditches, old posts and dead barns, rotting. Sagged live wires, and slanted steel wheels. Ribbed pipes, bare trees, fat busted haybales, and cold cars. Watchful llamas. The pates of round bluffs. Sudden long drops. And a line of people braving this nightland, ungrounded by fog at the knees.
Knots of bright tape mark parcels of land. Black mountains rise sharp, both sides. Their faces catch moonlight, but hollows remain invisible. Forests tumble down hard slopes to meet the silent valley. The River Lilly snakes along the bottom, gently stalking the road. The River flows to our left initially, but then swaps, slips under the road. It guards both sides, wherever the greater danger. Slippery leaves everywhere, slick and dark.
Along the flashing roadway, moonlight beams forward forever. A powder of stars is patted across the skyface, as foundation for the moonjewel. And set within these natural adornments is a silver chain of golden beings. They are the blind ones that see.
There is no sense of time. It is only as the sky begins to brighten that I realize it’s morning. I have walked for six hours. And I realize that my neck is wet, my cheeks, my eyes. I have been weeping for the old man I killed. May he forgive me, the old soldier. Fighting the good fight. This is the funeral procession he deserved.
Beyond daylight is another light. Something unnatural. A stuttering mix of red and blue. Its neon shocks the nerves. It sends eyeballs racing.
Have my drugs failed me completely? These seem multiple delusions.
There are a dozen police cars, and bigger vans, and some sort of barricade. A big log house has been commandeered as road base. With all of its lights are on, it seems a small cruise ship in the dark.
I realize that I could be in trouble. I’ve been nine months now in this blessed valley, minding my own business. Helping people out here and there. But legally and medically, I shouldn’t be here at all. So should I back off – quietly slip off the road?
I wonder how the chain kept going? We’ve kept moving all night, there’s been no delays. The pace has been steady. How did it get through the blockade?
The river goes on. The road goes on. So does the chain.
This chain does not enslave, I realize. It empowers. It is not a work of bondage, but of connection. It is as strong as the strongest link, which has the power of all other links combined. The weakest link is no more.
However the first links of the chain are halted at the barricade. They stand peacefully, glinting. The cops have diverted the rest of the chain onto a side road, and then into a potato field. The monks are walking in furrows, avoiding the hills where crops are sown. Their muddy feet wade through slim canals. But the field is full, and the chain has continued into the next field, and then the one after that. It seems a decision was taken to keep the procession moving, rather than create a hard blockade. This modern crowd-control tactic averts the build-up of crowds and tension, while ensuring that “situational dynamics are contained”.
Near the Point of Diversion, I see a crowd of confused public, local volunteers, and some officials. All seems orderly. The monks are following police directions. It is tricky footing for them, but they don’t complain. Then the lantern bearer behind me is struck and falls.
I hear a familiar voice shouting “Weird bastards! Creeping around at night, like an army. Who the hell are they? We don’t want them here. Send them back to where they come from!”
Other voices express agreement, “That’s right!” and, “Good on ya, Steve!”, whilst others are shocked and cry out, “Vicious bastard!” and, “Shame!”
The cops don’t see – or choose to ignore – this incident, as does much of the crowd.
Someone rushes forward to help the fallen monk. Someone tiny but stocky, with very long dark hair. Helene! I’ve always wanted to, but never had the balls to speak to her. She seems too beautiful, and too self-contained. She’s a champion kickboxer. I saw her in SNAP putting on a demo. She organized an event for human rights in China. I don’t know why, but I feel that she’s been hurt a lot in her life. It’s those wounded seriously that help others to recover. They need to bolster their own hope.
But I can see she is strong. She pushes past Steve and kneels in the mud. I kneel beside her, before her. Together we help the blind monk to his feet. With one of us under each shoulder, we walk him to an old wooden shelter. We lay him on haystacks, beside an old tractor. Then I return to pick up his lantern. It is glowing weakly. As I return, the tractor’s lights seem to shine.
“Thank you for helping us,” I say to Helene, and immediately wonder when the monks and I had become “us”. Till last night I had been a seasonal resident of Lucerne. Now suddenly I am one of these dirty, deformed, night fools.
“We help each other,” she says, without smiling.
The crowd, cops, and officials are agitated. There are only two hundred of them, yet thousands of monks with no end to their flow. They will soon be overwhelmed by these strangers, pouring as mist.
The red-blue police lights whirl across rocky drops. They create kaleidoscopic elephant skin. Soft feet patting pavement, and being sucked by mud. Iron bars clanging in the crowd. Shouts and thuds. Reverberation. The great chain stops moving. A low hum rises from the monks. Guns being loaded, actions snapping back. Bursts of sirens. Then hush.
Way up the valley, something’s moving beyond Mt. Negra. A white sun seems to rise. But this is the West. And at the other end of the Valley – above Mt. Alba – a dark ball appears instead of the sun. There is a white sun above a black mountain, and black moon above a white mountain. And filling the valley between them, bright mist. The crowd is fearful. Hypnotized.
There is a subtle glimmer. A ripple of black light. It shocks the mist as it moves. We are baptized by this otherworldly illumination. All waterfalls glitter. A refractive geometry, looking through rainbows. Unfocussable energetic patterns. All still. A trance crowd. Knowing the Sea to Sky is our spiritual journey – from fish to gods.
Water dispels into tiny drops. Measureless blessings.
I feel a flash like those that sometimes came from Charlie’s workshop. I remember how they tore through my room at night. Negating the curtains. Shining through. Who is he, really? His features send my mind racing somewhere, everywhere, seeking the key. I find it quickly. Those small eyes and little whiskers – they resemble those of the first monk, who stepped aside to let me slip into the chain. Also the monk who was felled – his aspect was similar.
Are these his people, from somewhere?
Coming to join him at last?
Is he hiding his purpose?
Why doesn’t he say?
I unfocus my mind, and look for the answer. I realize why he remains silent and alone. His powerful presence needs concentration. He is a warrior, protecting our valley. A sorcerer, passing through. Always ready to engage in battle with darker forces. His soul must be alert. His spirit honed.
A brilliant dark form emerges. Cops, crowd, officials, all move aside. The log house windows are crowded with heads. Monks drop on their bellies, face down in the dirt. Eyeing worms. Nuzzling spuds.
Charlie’s black truck roars up, lights blazing. It seems to be the centre of the force. He pulls up nearby, rolls down his window. “What’s happening here?” he says with a smirk. He speaks as if we’ve met in the line at the grocery store.
This world is otherworldly, yet his calm creates mine. I respond easily.
“Some trouble,” I say. “But nothing I can’t handle.”
“Glad to hear. I finished the jigsaw.”
“What was it?”
“You know what it was.”
“I had a dream about this, Charlie.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes, that a huge light illuminated the world.”
“Well, then, your dream came true.”
“Is that what you were waiting for? A sign to move on to your next watch?”
He doesn’t say.
“Charlie, what was it exactly?”
“Well, that’d be telling.”
“But you were up to something. Those sparks at night weren’t just from arc-welding.”
“Just some little experiments of mine. Gotta test the machinery every few years.”
“Won’t you tell me what happened?”
“All you need to know, boy, is that you’ve played your part. Without your actions, this wouldn’t have occurred.”
I am confused. He takes pity on me. He tells me what I really need to know.
“You killing that man, and feeling remorse at last. Your giving money to beggars. Your helping the fallen monk. Each of us, every day, saves the world. You came as a messenger that this Valley is in good hands now. That there is hope in this world.”
I become stiff with tears. Helene comes and holds me.
“I’d better get moving. Got work to do in the Interior. You want a ride?”
Charlie revs to create passage. Myself and Helene help the fallen monk into the cab of the truck. We jump into the box as it creeps through the crowd.
Our dirty hearts are filled with hope. We follow the Black Light.
