The sparrow fluttered rapidly and rose, then swooped, fluttered and swooped, winging its lonely way across the blue sky. The canopy of the trees below, the mounded green variation, textured by the different type of leaf.
As the sun rose and fell, the bird flew on, the forest tips now a dark green sea of pine, the undulation of the land breaking out as an exposed cliff edge, the veins of rivers and streams passing below. Alert to shifting shadows, the danger of a bird of prey from above, so the little sparrow fluttered and swooped, its heart racing.
Finally, ahead, a grey stick rising from the green sea of pine, soon a column of stone rising from the forest, over a lacuna shadow cast from an escarpment, swooping into the valley, then rising towards the column of stone, clean, grey, immense.
Alighting on it top, the sparrow hopped once, grew double in size, twice doubling again, the barbs of its feathers merging, another hop, doubled, legs thickening beak rescinding. By its sixth hop, it had fazed into a grown man, robed in grey a staff in his hands, bald with a self-seal on the back of his head, breathing hard. He felt dizy and bowed, placing his hands on his knees, felt his stomach churn. He was far away, in truth, but the transition felt gut-real.
He breathed deeply and looked about him, over the edge at the forest below, the trees thick with shadow, a black shadow hugging the rim of cliffs all the way around the valley not just below the low hanging sun in the east. He felt his chest tighten. He stood above the Valley of the Dead, a place filled with dread. To the south, a notch cut into the cliff, the Unseen Caves. Once the sun set, all manner of fearful things would spew forth from that hole, and this valley would overbrim. He would not survive up here, high on Angel’s Pier. Survival was not his objective. But still he had to work quickly.
He scouted around the surface, uneaven and rivened, only the most hardy of mosses growing in the cracks. He found two pockets in the stone, the third he had to scrape away moss and grains of stone. From his pouch he took three garsu gems, placing one in each pit. It was acting proxy to the crystals he had many miles to the east. Coach House was as close as he could manage, any further and he would be risking further encounters with more powerful rax. Soon, it would be overrun. The darkness was rising, it would soon fill the entire Hope Valley.
He acknowledged the effect on his mind, and he took a moment to push the dark thoughts aside. He stood in the centre of the triangle of garsu crystals and lifted his staff, the garsu embedded in it. He judged the distance between the crystals to be about equal, and then held a fifth crystal at his sternum. He closed his eyes and concentrated his mind.
His mind’s eye observed the pure form of the tetrahedron he was forming with the three crystals in the rock and the fourth crystal in his staff held above his head. He brought the staff lower until the distances were perfect. Detaching a second attention, he focussed on the crystal he held at his sternum, lifting it until it was within the centre of the tertrahedron. He held both in his mind, the centre, the four corners of the tetrahedron. While keeping his primary attention in this state of duality, he performed the required spiritual formula and slowly his secondary attention softened, grew, became aware of his position on the surface of Angel’s Pier, the sky around him, softly permeating the rock below, and careful not to lose his mental balance, he detected it within the rock. Placed there by an unseen hand, hundreds if not thousands of years ago, before history began, a garsu crystal the size of an egg. He performed another formula, repeatedly, incanting with his inner voice, and like an overtone inducted a secondary calculation. The two harmonised.
It was no longer an image in his mind, the crystals reflected his psychic shape, the triangulation simultaneously expanded and shrunk, and attuned his consciousness to an intense spiritual frequency. The centre, the corners, as one. We conscious intent, he inverted it, the corners the centre, and he entered into the eye.
Within the mental reflection of words, thoughts range to deep unwordable belief. Between thought and belief, the turmoil of personality through time. Once stabilised, higher harmonics of spirit were enabled, continuously, momenting. And what he had performed upon himself, was his own annihilation. Despite the proxy of rax garsu, the power of his mind amplified by the garsu crystals were sufficient to activate the garsu crystal embedded in the rock.
The beacon that was known as Angel’s Pier, or Gordia’s Gateway or other names, was lit.
Here, in the deepening darkness of the Valley of the Dead, the light of hope. A beacon for consciousness.
Far away, in another world, deep in the blood and bone which gave rise to boiling thought, a thought for what could be. Triangulation was required, to bring to attention that which can not be put to word, and yet can be acted upon. The thought, right here and now, of a stable shape of psycho-social dynamic: where the thought-form is stable enough to act upon, and in the collective of these actions, a stable social-form emerges, concurrently. The fractal seed of which is tetrahedral, composed not of crystals, nor molecules of water, but psychic and social complementarity. One gives rise to each other.
The beacon is lit. The servant who gave themselves to this task, is spent. They no longer exist. They pass unknown. As rax atop Angel’s Pier, there are no remains, for they were not there. Their presence was borrowed. Carried there by the lightness of feathered words, the weave and warp of barbed letters, the algebra of meaning.