the pollen of the asphodel

from “Tales of Demiurges”
“Am I dead?” asked the man.
“You are”, the demiurge Shumbumboocklie nodded examining contents of a thick volume, “Dead. Absolutely”.
The man shifted from one foot to the other. “What comes next?”
The demiurge glanced at the man, and lost himself in reading again: “This way now”. Without looking at the man he pointed to an ordinary door. “Or this way”. His index finger turned to the opposite side, pointing to other similar door.
The man asked: “What is there?”
“Hell”, said Shumbuboocklie, “Or paradise. It depends”.
Hesitating the man shifted his eyes from one door to another. “Where am I to go?”
“Don’t you know, where?” the demiurge said raising an eyebrow.
“Well…” the man stopped short in confusion, “Whatever I knew, I am to go somewhere, according to my deeds”.
“Hum…” Shumbumboocklie marked the pages with his finger and looked at the man. “According to your deeds?”
“Well, yes. How else could it be?”
“All right”, Shumbumboocklie opened the book at its beginning and said: “It’s written here that at the age of 12 you helped an old woman to cross a street. Is it truth?”
“Yes, it is”. The man nodded.
“Is it good deed or bad?”
“Good, of course!”
“Let’s have a look…” Shumbumboocklie turned the page, “In five minutes the old woman was run over by tram. But for you the old woman and the tram would miss each other, and she would live ten years more. Well?”
The man looked blank.
“Now, there…” Shumbumboocklie opened the book at other page, “At the age of 22 you and a group of your friends participated at the cruel beating of other group of friends”.
“They were the first to attack!” The man jerked his head.
“It’s written it was not so”, objected the demiurge. “By the way, your alcohol intoxication is not an excusing factor. In general, you broke three fingers and a nose of a 16-year-old youth with no reason. Is it good or bad?”
Silence.
“After the mutilation the youth could not play violin any more. You ruined his career”.
“I did it by accident”, said the man quietly.
“It goes without saying”, Shumbumboocklie nodded, “Apropos, the boy hated the violin from his childhood. After your meeting he decided to go for boxing to be able to fight, and then he became a champion. Let’s proceed?” Shumbumboocklie turned a few pages more. “Is the rape good or bad?”
“But I…”
“That child became a good doctor and saved hundreds lives. Is it good or bad?”
“Well, I guess…”
“A life of a maniac-serial killer was among the lives. Is it good or bad?”
“But…”
“And the maniac killed the pregnant woman who could become a mother of a great scientist. Good? Bad?”
“But…”
“The great scientist--if he was born--should invent a bomb that would able to burn half the continent. Bad? Good?”
“But I knew nothing of all this!” the man cried out.
“It goes without saying”, agreed the demiurge, “Or this, for example, page 345… You stepped on a butterfly!”
“What did come of it?”
Without saying a word the demiurge turned the book to the man and pointed with his index finger to a text. The man read, and his hair moved on his head. “Horrible!” he whispered.
“But if you didn’t smash the butterfly, then look at what would happen”. Shumbumboocklie pointed to other paragraph.
The man read it and gulped down jerkily. “It turned out I saved the world?”
“Yes. Four times. It was when you smashed the butterfly, when you pushed the old man, when you betrayed your comrade and when you stole the purse of your grandmother. Every time the world was on the brink of catastrophe but it got out thanks to you”.
“Ah… as for the brink of catastrophe, it was because of me too?”
“It’s because of you, make no doubt. Two times. When you fed a stray cat, and when you saved a drowning man”.
The man’s legs gave way under him, and he sat down on the floor. “I can’t understand anything”, he gave a sob, “All I did in my life… all what I was proud of and what I was ashamed of… all is the wrong way round, all is inside out!”
“That’s why it’s wrong to judge you by your deeds--unless by your intentions, but you are your own judge in this”. Shumbumboocklie closed the book with a bang and placed it in the bookcase. “In short, as soon as you decide which door you choose, go there. And I have a pile of work to do”.
The man lifted his tear-stained face. “But I don’t know which of them opens into hell, which into paradise”.
“It depends on your choice”, said Shumbumboocklie.

*the driftage*
The wind plays waves. It’s in the order of things. Order, the keen, individual Design. The world measures, it is limited, there is order in everything, even in the seeming disorder: in the wet varicoloured pebbles, scattered on the plage, and in a stroke of a child’s fluffy eyelashes while the morning ray slides over the peach-coloured cheek--do you remember, Nabokov’s Humbert nurses the thought of possessing Lolita at the moment as she sleeps. What the knowledge of the inevitable end for a human? Nature is immortal, and universe is helix-shaped. A night flower is blooming for only one night but the flower doesn’t know of that, therefore it is immortal. The sea stands still casing a grain of sand, the prime cause of a black pearl in the shell, and afterwards the pearl will recall its parent listening to the pulse of the salt sea in my veins. Realizable death exists only to a human. Humans began to die, after they learnt they were mortal. A baby in a cradle knows nothing of death therefore he is immortal. In insistent attempts to avoid the inevitable end, to break the great Design and to fool, Man tries to get esoteric knowledge, might and power, to become a part of something extraordinary, to be initiated in mysteries. The multiple fussy attempts to make the elixir of immortality bring Man nearer to the ultimate full stop with lightning speed. This act is taxing and sorrowful. Others, in their attempts to brush human nature aside, cannot love. A loss is inevitable at this game. Except realization of death the Almighty gives Man an ounce of his strength to add balance so that Man could go--to where?--to a chasm?--to non-existence?--no!--to the bewitched place where waves cover the plage with myriads salt tears of sunken ships.

The Hill
by Rupert Brooke
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
--"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
--And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
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*a tassel*
Let me preface this note by saying I read the book when I was a teenager. It is collected novelettes by Estonian writer Oskar Luts (1887-1953):
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0527489/
At present I have no this book to reread it, because I’ve lost it years back. The book is a most interesting read for those who love actuality in literature. Entitled The Backyard the book has three novelettes. The first is The Backyard (Tagahoovis); this novelette is about inhabitants of cheap rooms of a big lucrative house, whose windows look into the backyard, about those who have taken a back seat in life. The second novelette’s title is It’s Written; it is about a life of villagers in the marshland of Estonia, about a village girl nicknamed Wild Cat and about a murder of a man, committed with the aid of an old kerchief, in the marsh, late at night. Most interesting. I can’t recall the third novelette’s title, I just remember that it is about a middle class family, and it is very interesting too. I read the book long ago, and I’ve forgotten much of its contents, but I still remember the good impression.
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*Grand Designs*
The priest wearing a long dark array from top to toe was reading aloud the solemn incantations. The mysterious signs ornament over his ritual array was carefully elaborated. The vaults of the cave had not former pomposity, but they still trilled impressible minds: the frescos of scenes of the initiation to a weird cult, a rose-crowned matron sitting in a chariot drawn by lions in the central fresco, the filigree of capitals of the pilasters. A small saline lake there was in the middle of the cave. Bubbles appeared on the surface of the lake from time to time. The air smelled of sulphur. The priest took no notice of the ancient decoration’s beauty, he chanted the sacral texts, and acolytes or hired bodyguards heeded him, silently standing at the entrance. Now the text came to an end, and nothing happened for several seconds. A doubt rose in the priest’s mind: whether he read the texts correctly? whether he did all right? And now water of the lake rippled; the flame of the oil-lamps flashed up; somebody gave a screech. “Belarriss!” exclaimed the priest. “Magna Mater! Goddess! We resuscitate you to worship you, to rebuild your temples so that the cult of the goddess Belarriss again…” The water seethed, the air sparked, and a pillar of a luminescent substance rose rapidly taking shape of a human form.
“Is there a woman here?” a loud imperious voice was heard.
“Excuse me, my lady?” The priest threw back the hood of his array, and now one could see he was a very handsome young man about twenty-five, six-foot tall, with a dark fringe a la Paul McCartney over his forehead and with young Paul McCartney’s radiant, happy and a little bit silly smile.
“I can see only men here”, explained the voice toning down. “What do the present-day women wear?”
“Oh my lady, you are beautiful… The flaming-heart is the divine aura that one feels shining from your beautiful face, the star and emblem of female beauty, which is the heart of your grace and the emanation of your power…”
“How do you know beauty, you slave?!” She gestured to one of the bodyguards. “You! What do you want to say?”
“My humble… I…” began the bodyguard taking something out of the pocket of his black leather jacket. “I have a photo. May be it is of use…” He approached, held the photo out to the reborn goddess, and bowing he retired.
The goddess examined the image of a young woman wearing blue jeans and a white blouse, and then she asked: “Is she reckoned beautiful?”
“Yes” the bodyguard nodded, and he quickly added: “Yes, Goddess”.
Belarriss dropped the photo, losing interest to it, and before everyone’s eyes she began changing: her hair got shorter and blonder, modern clothes began delineating over her form, her skin got a golden suntan. Her features were not like the girl’s in the photo, but the similar maquillage covered her face. Finishing the conversion the goddess turned to the priest: “What have you resuscitated me for?”
“Oh Miss Belarriss!” the priest came to himself after astonishment. “My intention is pure. Longing for transcendence I’ve decided to make you free to restore justice, nothing more. But if Goddess would like to have a faithful servant and trustworthy adviser…”
“Do you know of my story?” she asked.
“Yes, Goddess. I know what I’ve found out in the forgotten sources. The goddess Belarriss ruled the country for five generations. She conceived conquering the world. During one of the campaigns the citizens of the country revolted, and some bigots contrived to overthrown Goddess, and they imprisoned her essence in the bewitched cave”.
“Don’t you think it served me right?”
“Nobody dares check Goddess”.
“I expect, you’ve drawn any conclusions?”
“Oh yes, Goddess. Astonishing conclusions”. The priest’s smile was subtle now.
A bat slid noisily across the ceiling and disappeared in the dark passage.
“Not a word more!” said the goddess. “You’ll get your deserts and your desideratum… And now leave me alone”.
Taking long views the priest did not object, although plans of conquering the world flashed across his mind one by one. He believed that there was no need to hurry, that the main thing had been done, that all the rest was a matter of his cunning and legerdemain. Undoubtedly, it was an unreliable business to deal with the petticoats; on other hand he had no choice. He said bowing: “I’ll come tomorrow by night, if Goddess would like”.
The goddess said nothing. The priest walked to the doorway, nodded to his acolytes, and they left the chamber.
“Ad calendas graecas… There’s no denying that he is a clever rouge, but even a wise man stumbles, Homer sometimes nods”, the woman waited till the footsteps died away, then she slid lightly down on the floor, and at the moment her foot in the shoe with stiletto heel turned awkwardly, and the goddess nearly lost her balance. The walls of the cave resounded several ancient curses, yet Belarriss braced herself up and attempted making one more step. “How do they walk in these shoes?” she muttered. “What has happened to the world, if inconvenience has become attractive?..” Presently Belarriss was at home in the situation, being able to walk around the cave more or less easily.
Time and marauders did not spare her tomb. The goddess hardly could recognize the luxurious burial chamber, and she tried to guess where there were her favorite throne, the jeweled gold goblet, and all her jewellery now… However, all the things remained in the dim and distant past. Vexed, she uttered several phrases, and if the priest were here, he would heard: “Dunces! When on earth the idiots, the megalomaniacs will finish? They know what happened to me. Are they about to go the same way? But I know where it leads to”, Belarriss sighed deeply, glanced round the cave for the final time and walked to the doorway.
The trace of treads was visible on the ground. The woman walked along the trace, and in two hours she saw an asphalt road. In an hour more she saw the service station where there were a small café and shops. She came in the café.
A man was standing at the counter; he paid off for his meal that was on the tray. Belarriss put his hand in the pocket of her jeans and felt several banknotes materialized in her hand.
“The same for me, please”, she asked the waitress.
The waitress nodded and took the money. “Here is your change. Go to the table. I’ll bring the tray to you”.
Belarriss went to a table and sat down on a chair, squinting at the man who ate with the help of his fork.
Her meal proved to be substantial and even tasty--just the potion, called “coffee” was disgustingly bitter. “No, it’s not pharmacon nepenthes, far from it”, but Belarriss drained her cup dry not to look particular. In general, the morning had begun fairly well. It was late summer; the air smelled of autumn, but the grass was still fresh and leaves were green. “It’s midi-August”, thought the goddess. Coming out of the café Belarriss stood still at the road, thinking where she was to go now. Her reflection did not last for long: a heavy van stopped before her, the door of the car opened, and the driver asked friendly: “May I give you a lift?”
“What?”
“I can take you home. Where is you home?”
“My home… Nowhere, I think. I’m about to see the world”.
“It often happens”, the driver nodded. “I'm going to Ancile. If you want, I can give you a lift. No molestation, I assure you”.
“That’s not what I worry about. It seems to me that you are either married or engaged”.
“You’ve guessed right”. The driver helped the woman to get into the car.
“What is you bride’s name?” she asked.
“Lily-Rada”.
“What a coincidence… I am called Lily-Rada too”.
“What are you?” the driver turned the ignition.
“Goddess”, said Belarriss wearily, thinking nobody could believe her.
“Such things happen from time to time”, the driver smiled without opening his lips. He got used to hearing somebody else’s secrets, and he was not importunate. “You look sleepy. Lean back and doze off. Nothing interesting you will see for some time”.
The bright summer landscape rolled past the window. Belarriss followed his advice, and in a minute her breathing got deep and calm.
A sleeping goddess was a usual sight in this part of the world--just nobody took it seriously.

Author’s Epilogue
My Grand Designs may be the opening of a new novel. The priest, the good-looking young man with the charming smile will search for the goddess in hiding, for sure. However, the charming smile appears on his face only as he thinks of his progress of an adept-esoteric or his other achievements or his future power over the world--in other respects he may be a wicked man. Most likely he is a talented scholar and researcher. As for the goddess--as every female personage in my writings, she is I to a great extent; like she I hate spike or stiletto heels. The ancient goddess adventures novel could be a good script for a movie--In Search of Belarriss--all rights reserved, as it were.
regards,
Lara
P.S. Part 1 and Part 2 of my novel La Lune Blanche have been recently published at Turner Maxwell Books. Be sure to get your copy here:
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB2.htm

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