Читать книгу Forbidden Graces, Book One: Beginnings - Carol Inc. Bridges - Страница 3

In the end, they began to recognize each other. Long had they wearied under the weight of the mask, each his own making from the broken shards of Paradise. There was Yaro, quite handsome with a lean, limber showing, eyes that wondered and a voice set sure. There was Reuban, wrapped in a dancing whirl, red-haired and bearded, balanced on the edge of ecstasy. Flutes laughed and sang when he touched them.

There was Roan, princely by stature, rosy-cheeked and kind. There was Wren, finely-tuned and purposeful. Each one worthy of kisses and nearly worship. Except, of course, they had come to take on a plague, to taste a poison, and to dissolve it in their heart chalice where it would have to be mixed with an elixir of woman's love.

They had been given few instructions, for they were bold and sure of their talents or knew they could learn. They set off with the sketchiest of maps, comfortable shoes and some songs. It took a long time for them to meet, and still upon meeting, they were uncertain but behaved with dignity and carelessness, as if the meetings were ordinary and happened all the time.

Each allowed themselves certain passageways back to their land of origin, at least some glimpse of it, and they often found each other on these paths. Sometimes, it was a sound that took them there, sometimes a potion, occasionally an outburst of philosophy always followed by a hearty laugh.

Women were drawn to them, to their mystery. It was as if inside the woman, there was a gong, a large brass plate, engraved with secret symbols, hanging from its holder, the striker resting below. If the woman was not quiet inside, and few were in that time, the gong remained silent and unnoticed. But, if she was a listener, when a man such as these came into her presence, some mystical force picked up the striker and struck the gong with one, hard, resounding whack, and she was instantly tuned to the deeper harmonics of the man.

With some, it would start out as a close breath, a light touch, no meaning to it, only a magnetism that called a greater force into play. Nothing interferes with such a force. Entire life plans have been known to fall away, jobs abandoned, furniture moved aside, clothing hastily removed, all that could have been termed “once was” left behind.

The heart chalice begged to be filled. It was not a kind of begging like that of an impoverished soul, someone in rags and torn shoes. No, it was a fierce, open call, like a curious flutter in the dark night, inviting, frightening, compelling. The sound of the gong floated away and deep into this opening, seeking and knowing its way in the dark.

The heart chalice could feel the sound gliding closer, closer, the tongue ready to taste, the eyes closing to savor, the body ready for whatever nourishment might come. Neither man nor woman thought exactly in this way; in fact, each gave themselves many other reasons, excuses and persuasions for what was to come. Minds always try to fill the silence, to tame the intensity and keep the body, the form, contained. The mind loves boxes and limits and organizational labels like “right,” “wrong,” “not yet,” “too soon” and, when given the go-ahead, will elaborate endlessly on its “whys’ and “why nots.”

The poisons, the mind would explain, are terrible, causing all manner of illness, creating obstacles to success in every endeavor and capable of eliciting vile emotions of all kinds. Beware. But, somehow, the men knew they were to endure the poisons, to at least accept a smattering of poison in their lives, to stand fast and hold their places in calmness while the poison tried to overtake them. Only then would they become worthy of the wondrous.

There were many poisons. A cruel relative. A physical beating. An unfortunate crisis. The bad start. The intoxicating substance which fails to continue its pleasures. An accident. A betrayal. The list is exceedingly long. Each man had to taste at least one of these. It served to purify the heart chalice, like a sterilization to remove the contamination of dirty fingerprints on the gold. The chalice had to be washed in the blood of pain. Only then could it radiate its otherworldly excellence.