Everything happens for a reason. God is Good. An excerpt from the Journey Home –
It was pouring. I would have stayed inside, except that earlier in the night, I had gone to the Bali Flow Temple for the birthday of the elvish King, Forest. I was disappointed in my own attainments of vitality, recognizing that I did not feel strong enough to climb Mt. Agung as I had been invited. Only days earlier, the Quest had led me into confluence with Marquie Moo Moo, one of the pixies from the realms of the northern elves, in what is called ‘Canada’ on the surface plane.
I had met her while going to the steamy healing of the Dragonfly village, upon invitation by Kundra Rose. We immediately hit it off, finding easy resonance in the sacred art of Story that is our shared privilege to bring to the Worlds. And, as is the nature of the Atlas of Stories, she revealed association with one of the other faerie lords, my kin-brother Hjeron O’Sidhe. Such is the nature of our Quest, we will always encounter other beings with whom we share frequency on our journey across the Worlds, finding each other in synchronicity and kismet, part of the great unfoldment of Divine choreography.
An ardent adventurer, Marquie invites me to climb a local mountain with her and Kundra. I agree, and offer to charge up the battery on one of her cameras, bringing it from Forest’s Flow Temple back to my villa.
As I arrive, an intuition strikes. I want to join them, yet something holds me back. A scan within my form reveals that while I could do it, it would cost me, my body still healing from the distortions and weakness of my journey across the Shadowlands. Such brings up frustration, anger at my Self, annoyance at my own errant discipline with the necessary cultivations of the Earth plane. I share this in communique with my fellow apprentice-turned-adept from my time at the Academy, Lady Ash. Of all the beings I have met on the Quest, it is Lady Ash that understands me best, having spent years studying the magick together before we went on to our individual destinies and delight. It is she that knows that of the sacred elements, it is Earth I have had the most issue with, both my challenge and likely my redemption on the Quest to build a rainbow bridge for the People of the Worlds.
Though clear that I was not to climb the mountain this day, I had given my Word to bring Marquie her battery, and my Word is a thing of iron. It was pouring when I left, yet my promise is a stalwart thing, and I made my way on Caliburn back to the temple, to give her the battery, charged with sparks and lighting, to power her cameras and devices.
There was a sadness in me. An inner judgment. That for all of my attainments, I had not felt the full essence of victory, especially in the Earth plane. Such darkened my mood, yet I rallied, breathing deeply, invoking compassion and Love for my human Self. Reminding myself that I had come so very, very far, on the rainbow road, across shadow and sin to the Brightlands once more … the clarity and opening that is our true birthright as human beings. Resolved that I must apply ever-more discipline to prove the road to Heaven on Earth, I start to leave.
I pause for some food. A waft of earthen energy flows towards me, and I look up, into the eyes of another Fae. The resonance is immediate. Obvious. Human language falls away, replaced by the High Speech, the words beneath the words. I watch as the colours of her emotions, flush, vibrant things, speak themselves off of my tongue. Her eyes flutter, rolling backwards, as I witness the shivers of elemental energy rise through her form. My Heart opens. This is the true communication, not the awkwardness of declarations, but the softness of our shared palette manifest. Intuitively and with her permission, I am led to bring awareness to places of dim light I see resolving within her form. Such is part and parcel of my sacred privilege, to aid and be aided by the avatars I meet on the Quest, and it is my high honour. As we trace and move, she removes the ornaments placed on her by the elf-king, Forest, revealing her feral majesty. I watch, as her wings unfurl, a dragonesque essence blended with an oaken foliage. She calls herself Hana Ruth Abel, and to my eyes, she is a Queen of Faerie.
We head outside, into the night air. Past the portal at the edge of Forest’s temple that leads to the jungle beyond. The stone steps are slick with rain, yet we venture on, making our way to the mini-pagoda that lay on the next level. There, we leap on the wall overlooking a drop into the darkened Green, watching the flickering lights of the fireflies dancing in the air.
Words come to us then. Our tongues loose and golden, trading rhymes and lyrics of divination and shared honourific. It is the bright-speech, the High Speech, of royalty and ancient timbre, so long unheard on the Quest save for my communique with my kin-brother McLain. Truly said, I barely recall the last time I was met in such manner face-to-face. It is here, in this space, that she reveals affiliation with yet another Lord of the Faerie realms, Alexander “Curly” Perrelet, another ally of both myself and of the Mythmaker, from the sacred lands of what is called Cornwall, in the territories of Albion-Europe. Such is proof yet again of the Atlas of Stories
Her stomach is troubled, and I am led once more to work the healing magicks, opening the space within as best I can. Lord Forest appears, inviting us to a sound healing, being performed in the Hall of Flow, above. We head upstairs, taking time to listen to the bright magicks of both Paulo and Lua, working their sonic excellence in service to the assembled crowd.
We venture inside, going deeper into each other’s majesty. Words are exchanged, healing is performed. The realms of Faerie open in common association. The rhythmic tongue, the blessings of the bardic which draw me hither, emerge. We decide to leave, riding our motorbikes back to the main towne. Yet before we do, we make our way upwards, to receive a sound healing being performed in the vast dance space that is Forest’s Temple of Flow.
It is fine, yet brief (Hana sits at the center of this photo). Leaving the temple, we mount our scooters, all the while speaking in fine rhyme and faerie-talk. The magick is FLUSH.
As we ride, I mention to her, as I have said many times, that it is only the surface forms of things that change, that our scooters may well be horses, I a faerie King and her a Queen, wrought in the currency of the modern Age.
It begins to rain. Nay, to pour. Rivers of cascading water, crashing against us. As we make it back to the main area of the towne, Hana’s scooter runs out of gas. As any knight would, I offer her transport back to her home, the very artists homestay I engaged with Katie Rose during my first visit to this Island of the Gods in 2012.
And it is POURING. Truly pouring, so much that the rain, at speed, feels like tiny bullets on my face. Hana, soaked to the core, huddles in closer to me, I focus what I can into my breath, as to generate even more body-heat to provide her comfort. Along the way, my Voice OPENS, and more lyrical, more Storysong emerges, weaving us into the modern recognition of this epic tale. I drop her at her chateau, and make my way back to my own villa, In the quiet village of Penestanan.
The perfection of God’s unfoldment is imminent. We live the Stories of the ancient fables, clad in their modern form. A journey, to the temple of the elvish King, bringing a charge of lightning to a Storysought pixie, there to meet yet another royal of the rarified vibration of faerie, and to be pulled out of my reverie of Self-immolation, back into the Green, back into the sweet … reminded again of the resonance that, however rare, can exist for me in this plane. Such was not a thing I knew beforehand, but part of the unfoldment. A reminder, that though it may seem awry, Divinity is always there, watching our Stories unveil in benevolent support.
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