It was difficult to determine the nature of the writing,
The signs were obscure.
In the back,
At the darkest point, the symbols were evident only by torchlight.
No, it wasn't real.
It could not have been.
My name,
The name of my family, my friends, colleagues, and associates,
A recording of all I know and know me.
A life-receipt, scriptorium.
They say that Robert the Bruce hid in this cave in 1306, pursued by the English.
Here he met the spider that became his legend.
It is hard to be certain, although the nature of the place is clear.
It stands far enough inland to have avoided the storms, yet adequately prominent for locals to know of its existence.
The Gaels, the Celts, Picts, and those thereafter.
Druids, occultists, and potion makers,
Those with an eye for the impure.
A dark place for dark times.
In the cave, the temperature never varies.
It is its own darkened microclimate, constant humidity, away from the wind; the midges don't go here.
Moisture percolates the walls, a shift of water that is a hundred years old, salted with chalk, flavoured with peat.
Sound is dampened, from the moment those passing through the high-arched door, wonder why.
The carvings might be ancient, they may be the handiwork of a modern trickster, either way the message is clear.
Your past, present and future are here. Go no further.
Magic, magical.
Your breathing rapid and shallow,
Your pulse has quickened.
Even the English understand. They get it. They perceive the communication unsullied by the Empire, by Victoria's skirts.
Abandon hope all ye, not quite, although something approaching the sentiment.
Go no further.
There is a risk, if your curiosity is too great, you will pass towards the back, you slip, under the low roof, curved towards the floor, squeeze into a crevice, and become locked, jammed into the mountainside, ossifying, you blend with the minerals.
Breathe deep, breathe no more.
Once, twice, the future appears, all is apparent, all is revealed and the moment, the continual is expressed in human binary, in zeroes and noughts that race before your eyes, that programme, hardwire into your brain, a high-speed connection to your spirit, to the you that is beneath, under, within.
No pause, no moment, no time to reflect.
All is gone.
Like the moment when you are swimming,
As you stare at the ocean floor and imagine the end,
The nonsense of the waves
Lapping against you
And all is over.
Moment, step by step
You pass unnoticed,
Into the other world
Out of time, out of space,
Not here or there,
Imploded,
It takes you.
No comments:
Post a Comment