Menolyrical - Final Friday Fiction

It's FFF time again folks! If you are wondering what it's about, check out the Rulez page for details.  There have been some wonderfully creative and varied responses so far this year. CLICK HERE to see the previous three instalments of the Hindertwig tales. You can also look at the links to others who participated and see how they got inspired. Go on, have a go; just let the words or phrases which jump out of the lines on page 87 lead your mind around its secret corners!!!

The book taken by myself this month is Alexander McCall Smith's 'The Woman Who Walked in Sunshine'

    8.    As an ally

12.   Something confidential

16.   Edge to his voice

IN HINDERTWIG ONCE

For several more days, Hill Bert and Low Sooz continued as they had always done, grazing with the secondary flick of the herd. By virtue of Hill Bert’s being fourth, they had occasionally loped with the lead flick, which made them cuspers. Not really of one flick or the other. It was seen as an advantageous position, having a level of authority without too much responsibility. As Low Sooz was ninth, they had to stand a little betwixt and between. For him to reach first would be trying enough, but they also had to work on raising her through the ranks to second, and that could well be trickier.

It essentially meant that despite being her permanent, Hill Bert would have to act as an ally to Low Sooz. It might even mean that they would have to consider mating separately in the next routh.  When he had spoken to her of ‘eight’ ahead of them, he had not been including himself. Instead, he had been placing Vidge’s first buck son in the mix, which was custom at such times.  Whilst in the general running of the herd he was fourth, in terms of their moving to leadership, Hill Bert had to consider himself as equal ninth to his permanent.

“Soozma,” he murmured the endearment when they were separate from others, “I have something confidential I need to discuss. Will you walk with me to the falls?”

Low Sooz just turned and headed that way as affirmation.

They found a soft mound of froth moss, dappled by the shadows of the Shylet tree, the leaves breaking the sunlight into quick hard sherds and twinkles. As they settled upon it, Hill Bert could feel his blood rushing. He did not want to do this, but there was a long game to be played.

“Soozma dearest, we must now set firm plans for our rise. Vidge will leave freely, so our focus must be on the remaining six.” He could hear an edge to his voice, brought on by the stress of this new step. “It would not go well if we were seen working as one. With the upcoming routh, we must seek different mates.” Low Sooz gave the softest of gasps but also nodded. He loved her still more.

“I believe it will go best if I concentrate on Kern Tup and Meenlah. Kern is older than Vidge, and I sense he is growing weary of holding position. Meenlah was Vidge’s permanent until last year; this year I intend to make her mine, thus becoming third.” He paused for breath and to check Low Sooz. She took up the plot.

“Should I make a play for Vidge’s attention? Bypass the others and become second by direct action?”

Hill Bert was slightly aghast. He had been thinking several moves, but Low Sooz had seen a clear path. It could be risky but would have them positioned in this year itself.

(497 words) © Yamini Ali MacLean 2018

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Final Friday Fiction

Two and a half years ago this story got written, prompted by the FFHT lines given by Murphy and Stanley... it was essentially a Christmas story; but the recent trip to the North and seeing all the seals on Loch Fleet, I was reminded of it... perhaps you will be happy to be reminded also..? (Have made some minor edits and added a title.)

Skelbo Selkie

Peering through the glare of the low-slung sun’s light shafts, Bala blinked. Balanced on his sand strand, the tide had risen to almost submerge him. When the tide was out, there was enough room for Bigshanks the Shag and perhaps a couple of his brood as well. Right now, though, it was seal-room only.

Time to find a bigger strand.

Bala flipped over and slid into the dark and chill waters of the firth and headed with the current towards the spit of land over which the sun now hung. It was a lengthy swim, but he made the most of the current, allowing himself to drift with it as much as possible, conserving energy for when he rounded the headland and up into the loch he knew was behind. He’d been round there before, chasing fish. Now, though, he wanted to find a place that was all his own.

The other seals all tended to stay by the open water. The other young ones didn’t want to play with him, due to his twisted flipper. They taunted him and butted him.  Even his mother had left him as soon as the bull came sniffing round. She wanted fitter pups.

As he was musing on these rejections, he hadn’t noticed that he had swum further up the loch than he had ever intended. Here, the water was almost pond-like. 

Bala was brought out of his reverie by a raucous squawking overhead. It was Bigshanks!

“How come you are here?” called Bala.

“I would ask you that!  This is part of my fishing territory.  …So, why are you here?”

Bala stopped and just floated in the water. Bigshanks made a gliding landing on the glassy surface and paddled over to join him.  “Well?”

“To be honest it was just an urge. The strand is too small for me now and no one was really talking to me. I know there are some good fish up here, they taste sweeter somehow…” Bala noted Bigshanks nodding at this point, “and then there was the whispering.”

“Whispering?”

Bala waggled his dud flipper in the air before answering. “That there is magic up here.  That I might be able to get my flipper mended…”  He stopped when he saw a flicker of light in Bigshanks’ eyes. 

“Bala my young friend, there is much of mystery up at Lochend…but I think you should know that it is all just fairy tales and nonsense dispensed by the kilters; you know, those upright, hairless critters on the land, not a feather to wag among the lot of them…tsk, they think gullible things we are. Long years back, one of your ancestors was caught by the helper of the wummin, and that mischief planted all sorts of silly notions about you seals being "men-in-waiting" and that the Wyrd-wummin up the creek can fix up damages and make happiness…”

Bigshanks stopped when he saw Bala blinking. “Wyrd-wummin?”

“Och, Bala, it’s just the farmer’s wife who knows a thing or two about healing.”

“Thanks Shankie, now I know I have to go. Will you come too?”  The bird shook his head and spread his wings. “Sorry young ‘un, you’re on your own for this one.  Be safe…”

The seal watched as his friend took off with long, laborious strokes of the air. It would have been good to have Bigshanks along, but he also understood that, for whatever reason, the bird didn’t think it was worth his time.  Oh well. Turning slowly in the flat, cool water, Bala headed further and further up the narrowing and shallowing loch, towards the place where the hills bowed and curtsied to the water’s edge.

As there came to be more rocks than liquid here, Bala worked his body with clumsy flicking motions to clamber over them.

Okay, I know Mac2 isn't male, or a selkie...
but it's a nice pic, donchya think?

“It’s easier on two legs you know.”

Bala jumped out of his skin.

Literally. 

His seal skin dropped away and he became a white, naked critter, pale and limp on the right foreleg.  No, that couldn’t be right, how could it be a leg? He looked over to where the voice had been.  There sat a plump…something…with brightly coloured skins and a bell attached to the covering on its head.

“Come on then.”

“What are you?!” demanded Bala.

“WHAT I am is an elf. I gather up all the toys for Wyrd-wummin to wrap up and then her hubby gets them out to all the kiddlies in need of fun. Now get a move on!”

“I’m no toy!” yelled Bala.

“Oh is that so? Is it not that you are called Bala?” The seal-boy nodded. “Have you not the Gaedhlig then, to know that the name means ‘toy’? Even more than that, it means ‘ball-toy’… now roll on over this way and we’ll away up the glen to the wummin.”

Bala was shocked. He was frightened. He was shivering and could feel tears pricking his eyes.  Tears? How did he know they were tears? So much he knew and yet didn’t, but somehow he accepted that this was what had to be done if he was to get a better flipper. He stumbled his way over the slippery, sea-grassed rocks and followed the tubby little critter all the way up the creek-side. It seemed to take hours. Then suddenly it was over.

There was the Wyrd-wummin, sitting under a leafless rowan which was decked in full red berry. She beckoned to him. As he drew closer he was riveted by her eyes. Large as moons, as dark as the water he had just left, and lit with all the stars of the night sky.

There were no words. She simply reached over and held the bad flipper… he still thought of it as that. Like the shock of hitting ice, he felt her touch and life flowed into the damaged limb.

Then it all stopped. With horror he realised that the limb was turning to wood.  It crept up his other limbs also and worked its way through him until he could not move. He was not breathing and yet he knew he was still he. The wummin gathered his bundle of sticks to her and turned them in her hands. He was being rolled and twisted and tightened and twined. He blinked.  Or that’s what he thought he did. He was thrown onto a pile of other wooden shapes and felt their presence. Heard their cries.

Along came farmer. A large and white-furred fellow. “Ho ho ho ho! What a haul of toys we have for all the kiddlies this year wummin.  You have done well!”

“SSSKKKARRRRKKKK!!” came another sound, very familiar to Bala.  Bigshanks! Bala shouted and shouted with his thinking but could make no sound. How could it be that Bigshanks was here? There was no time to question it though. For the feathered friend swooped and grabbed Bala from the pile of pining presents, fleeing as fast as possible wth the extra load.

Bigshanks headed back to the pile of blubber and fur on the shoreline. He dropped the ball of sticks onto the mess and made a bit of a crash landing beside it.

Bala felt the water, felt his pelt, felt his sticks reviving and wriggling their way free of their entrapment. As suddenly as he had lost his sealdom, so it was he returned to the water as a seal once more. A complete seal. Four working flippers. 

“Bigshanks! I can swim free and fast – but how did you know?”

The bird was not with him he realised. He turned to where his rescuer had landed. There was the multi-coloured mischief who had lured him in the first place… “I was with you always my friend. I am only in liege to Wyrd-wummin for two months of the year, and this being Christmas eve, I was freed of liegedom but an hour ago. When you said what your plan was I could see there was no changing your mind. It was my wish that you have your own wish met, but I had to satisfy her demands of me. Saving you was always going to be a matter of luck. That was what might be called ‘in the Nick of time…’”

(c) Yamini Ali MacLean 2014

Menocayshun; The Film Series

This one made me think of Casey and Jessie's mum, who is into the "Renny Sauce" fayres!!!

American Renaissance from Aeon Video on Vimeo.

Menompkinocide.... creating chills for FFHT

Over at Murphy and Stanley's place it is last Friday of the month story day... click to read more!!!

Normally I use a photo to prompt my stories and this is no exception; we are also given a sentence by M&S which we have to highlight in the story.

This month it is "...after that I never turned my back on another pumpkin."

_________________________________________________________________________________________

It was a dark and stormy night.......................................................................................... .....................................................................................................................................................................................

Rubbish - it was practically broad daylight. No; not that either.

In these more Northern climes, at the end of October, it's pretty much getting dark by tea time. So it was nearly dark. As it was tea time, I was racing home. A bowl of hot soup and a chunk of home made bread would do just fine after being out in the wild and woolly, early winter weather............... ............................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Oh okay. It was the suburbs; though they can be wild you know. I was the one who was all woolly, trying to keep the wind away. Halloween is early winter........................................................................
........................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Tsk...alright then. Late autumn. It was no less bluster and chill for the nomenclature.

As I was saying, I was rushing home for that bowl of soup and thinking how I had prepared it the evening before. It was a HUGE pumpkin to chop up, but the new knife Albert had given me was sharp as shark's gnashers and made the job easier than anticipated. First I cut right through the middle of that monster. The pale grey-green skin (it was a "Queensland Blue") was thick and leathery. The bright orange flesh almost seemed to beam light into the kitchen.

Next I cut the two halves into half. Each of the four pieces again were cut into two - and so on until there were thirty two bits on the bench.

Then I pulled out the special peeler; the kind which you pull down the body of the vegetable to rip the skin from the flesh. Pumpkins are a difficult breed and need that adapted tool. It's a bit like stripping bark from a tree. Not that I've tried that - but you get the drift. The carrots are a less rowdy bunch altogether.

The point is, one has to work for one's pumpkin carrot silk soup! The stock, herbs and spices... they cause no trouble at all.

I pulled out the soup pan and got the heat cranked up. Turning back to the bench, the naked pumpkin flesh made me pause for a moment. It appeared to be weeping. For the briefest moment I thought I heard noises.

Anyway. All got put in the pot, boiled and simmered for due time and then blitzed and then sieved.... oh yeah, it got done good and proper. Now it awaited my arrival to be heated once more, and get dunked with that bread.

Just as I was drawing past the neighbour's place, I heard some unusual noises. There was a kind of rustling and a low rumbling. I stopped by the wall for a moment and the noise stopped. Remembering the peculiar sensation of noise last night, I started to feel colder than the wind was making me. I sneaked a peek round and over the gate. At the bottom of their path, near the door, the kids had put out their jackolanterns. It occurred to me that perhaps I might have attacked the pumpkin through its head and created a lantern myself. Then again, why bother? No kids at my place and I certainly didn't want to be encouraging any unwanted callers seeking sweeties or playing silly sausages.

I moved on.

The noises grew loud. VERY LOUD.

I turned back to look over the gate.........................................................................................................
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I could hear them................... "WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!  WE ARE THE PUMPs AND YOU KILL OUR KIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!"

I ran backwards the remaining few yards to home. 

"Alll-BERT! Pour that soup away - NOW!!! It has gone sour. We'll have cheese on toast!"...

...after that I never turned my back on another pumpkin.

Menori......we interrupt our usual broad cast for breaking news...

Blogville, we have an emergency... there are reports coming in of unseasonal eruptions of SNOWFREAKS... there are, as yet unconfirmed, sightings in many parts of the world and even in snowless countries. Here at YAMarazztelly, we are being very cautious about conveying this news to our loyal watchers and listeners - however it has been given on good authority that these invaders ARE creeping about the globe.

The YAMster herself is bringing us images of an outcropping from the floor of the National Museum of Scotland;

We can see why this might be taken for a Snowfreaker - and, again, we must advise that as these sneaky freakies have a habit of morphing according to where they sprout up, this could indeed be a specimen. It exhibits the clarity of water - the essence of the SFs - and there does appear to be a skeletal structure holding it together - though this is not always required. Some SFs are invertebrate, still others manifest with exoskeletons... that is to say, with their insides hanging all over their outsides. 

You should note that size is not necessarily a guide, either. This one is ginormous, as can be witnessed by this second shot;

It towers over mere hyoomons!!!... but wait, what is that at the far end of that hall................................................................. Oh  my word how to warn those peeps???!!!

Beven P Bear demonstrates to his daughter how to deal with Snowfreak outbreaks. Take note and take action. What you can't see can't hurt you. [...it's a theory...]



Now the question is, from where are all these SFs springing? Word just in tells us that there is a concentration of the SFs in Oh-HI-oh. ... 

Long-term residents of Blogville, Frankie Furter and Ernest von Schnitzel are known to be on the move from their hill dwelling and headed over to more level ground in the Vain state of Pencils. Rumour abounds as to the release of SFs previously held captive in their peeps' storage places. Reckless, not to say careless and even downright feral behaviour. Now the entire world is under threat of being forced to engage in winter shenanigans.

No need for that Itchikant! Don't scare the good folks of Blogville. Here at YAMarazztelly, we like to give you the good news. [The bad news just makes the good look even better.]

We have it on good authority that if the SFs are ignored (see bucket on  head method if you require mechanical assistance for this), they will simply melt into the background of life and will in no way infringe on your daily activity. The Hillguys New Flatlanders are known to be reliable and environmentally conscious folks. Only those SFs which they are sure will prefer to hide than ride have been culled  released. 

It is with a fair degree of certainty that we say to you now that there is absolutely NO need of panic and, indeed, efurrybuddy ought to be preparing for a great big HI and OH WELCOME BACK to Blogville's legal beagles dachsies (who's proofing this thing??). They have been absent from our streets for far too long and if one or two SFs do turn out to be troublesome, surely they can  be forgiven in the name of justice, equity and a milkbone or three. (Scrub that last line for crying out loud - no whif of underdesk kibbling please - this is the THWAPPERATING JUDGMENTALISMIST - who has taken up with that Abby Labby from Funky Blogeau Investigatorings - AND HIS PAWSOME LAWHOUND BRO - and his simpering sidestress Roxy with da Moxy - WE'RE DEALING WITH HERE!!!)

We need these guys on our side - cuz after all......



With that, we shall now return you to normal programming...

Menolyrical; Words for Words' Sake

For my parent's 50th anniversary I had made a book of mandalas and other artworks including some photographic manipulations.  Others more of a scrap-booking/craft style of thing. One was this - part of a greetings card I recycled - and wrote this little ditty to go with it...

Single-pointed control of mind is the primary aim.
Many steps and techniques are touted.
Be it transcendental or in the Christian frame,
It must be tried, no doubt about it.

Tho' Fraught with challenges, (I must dare to mention here),
for the mind's of fickle substance;
Plans the shopping, recalls the day, or just sits in fear
Of reaching across the distance

Between the body-present and the ultimate goal,
The open secret we all keep...
Reaching, reaching, just over there, can I feel my soul
Awakened from this dream-filled sleep?

Menolyrical; Fractured Fryday Hairy Tails

Over at Murphy and Stanley's place it is last Friday of the month story day... click to read more!!!

Normally I use a photo to prompt my stories and this is no exception; but we are also given a sentence by M&S which we have to highlight in the story... This month it is

" I knew I would remember this forever because . . ."  
but I am taking a small liberty, changing 'I' to 'she'... and again I am reworking one previously published on the TAKE TOO blog. (It had to be recycled sometime, so why not now?!)
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Ponderment

Bess breathed.  Deeply.  The air was so clear it was painful in the lungs. Tainted with the tang of the sea. Squaring her shoulders, she took another deliberate and considered breath, right to the diaphragm. Count to ten.  Out again.

A few more, then Bess focused on her eyes.  They were tired.  Tired of concrete and glass. Tired of screens and keyboards.  Tired.

Looking across the straits towards the mainland she took the point between one hill in the background and another before it.  The furthest mark on this horizon. Holding that for ten seconds, she then followed the rim to the left, slowly and consciously, noting each lift and drop of the land.  Just the eyes, no turn of head. Then back again.  Rest for ten seconds on that centre dip.  Then she traced the rim to the right and back again to the centre.  Rest for ten seconds.

Again she checked her posture.  Shoulders back.  Stretch.  Twist.  Shake. Settle. Slowly tranquility returned.

MMMMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!

Bess nearly fainted at the noise in her left ear. Turning, she jumped a metre back in surprise.

The surprise turned to incredulity...

"Whit are ye aboot then hen?"

Bess swallowed, looking about her to make sure there was no sign of a farmer or another walker.  No.  Just herself; and a talking cow.

She answered "Breathing. Walking. Seeing. Being......" she trailed off as she found herself drawn forward to the big hairy head. She felt her feet move beneath but not of her own will. Something demanded a closeness, an intimacy, which her rational mind declared 'absurd'.

"Och, lass, let it oot.  Hae a hug." Bess blinked at the cow. "Go-oan, gie us a cuddle..." Which Bess did, because the warmth and the insistent pull of a pounding, throbbing sound in the voice drew her close.  

"All thon looking outwards is braw for the short term, wee lass; but dae ye nae think it's time tae look inwards?

Bess knew those words of old.  "GRANNY?!"  

The shaggy head snuggled against her.  "Aye lass, 'tis myself."

"Oh Gran, how did this happen?"

"It's a fine place to be in hen.  Munching and meditation.  That pretty much sums up my life.  Well that and calving.  I dinny mind that, ken.  It's what my life was like with all o' you, anyhoo! Ach, but noo I hae time tae take the longer look.  Intae mysel' y' ken?  Live simply Bess.  Dae more o' this breathin' and walkin' and stuff. Especially the being.  Just being is the key."

Bess stared into the one eye which faced her.  For the briefest of moments she could swear she saw...

What? 

Nothing.  Everything.

"Away you go noo, wee lass.  Live rightly. Live lightly. Then all will become right and light."

The cow gave one last snuggle and soft huffing, then turned and sauntered away.

Bess knew she would remember this forever because her grandmother had said those exact same words the last time she saw her. Now, in the middle of wilderness, the message came again.

Turning back to the view up the water, Bess focused on the notch on the horizon.  Then closed her eyes.



ॐ (c) Yamini Ali MacLean 2014.

Menolyrical; Words for Words' Sake

SURGE

Looking through a spectral
it seems there is an umbral
which havocs with the innerwal
being-ness

Words become unhing-eth
brain thinks it is be-wing-eth
heart leaps forth and singer-eth
of the mess

Which is the jelly being
am stepped outside and seeing
the eyes which are now weeing
like a spout

That light the senses drew-ed
caused all inside to flew-ed
and upwards outwards strew-ed
dropped out

............sigh, 'tis pass-erd
the rainbow vortex ax-ered
no more are we blatt-erd
Normal service.




` © Yamini Ali MacLean 2014

Menosterycal - a case of mid-week mirth

Transferring back from Edinburgh to Dunoon, so a bit of a lazy fill-in post.  Then again, laughter is a medicine.  Hope you find your dose here... 
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Cats are smarter than dogs - you can't get eight of them to pull a sled through snow!

A lion spotted two men - one reading the other writing. It pounced and chomped on the reader. Why not the writer? Well, everyone knows a writer cramps but a reader digests!


What happens to a toad's car when it breaks down?
It gets toad away...

What did the duck say when buying lipstick?
Put it on my bill...

My friend thinks he's so smart.  He said the onion is the only food item which can make you cry.

Then I threw a coconut at him...


An old farmer's dog goes missing and he is distraught.  He puts an ad in the local paper, but two weeks go by and still no sign of the dog. Wife asks 'what did you put in the ad?'

"HERE BOY!" he said...

Menolyrical-Words for Words' Sake

This Too...

Vikram stood outside on the road and stared at the shutters.  Looking around, he was still aghast at the devastation the tsunami had wrought.  That the village he was now visiting sat at 1000 feet above sea level was what had him puzzled. 

As an archaeologist, he had always had the ability to set himself at the scene in any dig, as if he were actually standing in the time to which it belonged.  Now, however things were not falling into place.  There was a peculiar sensation of things moving about within the very landscape, yet he knew it to be in absolute stillness. 

He couldn't get over the feeling that he had walked into someone's meditation.

Shaking his shoulders and refocusing, he walked over to the one building that had remained comparatively intact in Parrtakoo village, high in the Seentoo Hills of Bhasha.

It, like all the others which had been so severely damaged, was made from the material from the ground around.  To call it a mud hut in the human sense of the term would be inaccurate - yet true also...  In the way that diamond is coal only.  Carbon is carbon.  How it is treated is what makes the difference to what comes out the other end of any process.  The Bhashini homes were made of the soil, but went through such a firing process that they became a pristine, almost porcelain-like, quality.  Then they were decorated with a product made from crushed vegetation blended with oil of uddamoo, a by-product from the milk of that creature.

Everything on Bhasha was in tune with the environment and not a thing was used without first seeking blessings of the The Power, a numinous deification concept  of what humans would identify as Mother Nature.

There were very few Bhashini surviving when the Cosmic Exploration Vessel "Pushpaka" had arrived.  Fourteen years on, the world was renewing itself under the care and guidance of the ARK team. 

EarthGov had been stunned when early exploration teams came upon the first civilization outside of Earth's own.  It had been in severe decline and so Gov had formed the ARK to assist it, plus seek out and preserve any other civilizations which now might be found.  Ahimsa, the universal code of 'cause no harm'; Revival, to support existing structure and assist it to grow within the tenets of its own philosophy; and Knowledge, the sharing and mixing of which could only bring unity amongst the members of ARK. Bhasha was the fifth world to come 'aboard'.

As Vikram approached the shuttered window he stopped and took a sharp breath.  Had that been a movement?

A few seconds passed before he moved closer.  Something prevented him from actually reaching over to look into the window.  He couldn't shrug off the sense that he in turn was being watched.  He turned to the entrance.  No door was left, but he was struck with the fact that a curtain hung there.  Surely it hadn't been present when he arrived.

Now he had to sort out whether he was hallucinating, or if the curtain was in fact there.  This certainly wasn't his usual 'time travel' experience.  His hand stretched and grabbed the material.  It was very real.  Course, yet not hard.  Some kind of unrefined wool-like substance.  He called out.

"Namaste! I am Vikram Singhania of the ARK.  Would the dweller honour me with visitation?"  He used the local vernacular and his throat translator rang out in the song-like tones of Bhashataa.

After what seemed like eternity, a strong-fingered hand drew aside the curtain.  Through the door came a tall, male Bhashini.  "Harhagh.  I am Bhertoo of Parrtakoo. Your visitation is honour indeed."  Vikram was stunned.  The being was strong, finely dressed in the style of the ancients of this world - and he had spoken in Earthglish.

There was also something creepily familiar.  Vikram's Indian heritage tickled his synapses and in an instant he noted that the appearance of this man - and he was a 'man' for all the strange colouration and outstanding eyes - was as close a representation of Bhagwan Rama as he had ever imagined.  The only thing missing was the bow and quiver.

"Not required here," said Bhertoo, "it is an instrument of measurement.  Disguised as a tool of hunting, it was in fact that each arrow was only stupefying and taking samples."

Vikram blinked.  His mind had been read. Frantically his brain dug through all his knowledge of the Ramayana and understood that each of the rishis who had written of Sri Rama had actually spoken the truth about his magics, but only from the experience-base they had.  Incredibly, almost as a vision, Vikram understood that this magnificent being before him was nothing more than an anthropologist.

"Indeed, it is true.  We came at a time when your race was crumbling and sought to bring it to its full glory again."

"Just as we are now doing through the ARK project!"

"Correct.  It was inevitable - your arrival.  Come in and let me share with you."  Bhertoo turned and re-entered the building, Vikram only hesitated a fraction of a second.  How could one not follow the Lord of one's history?

Inside, the place took on a completely different look.  It was sparsely though finely furnished and one wall appeared to be made of mirroring.  Moving over to that side,   Vikram reeled from the sight.  Before him moved the entire universe.  His new acquaintance spoke again.

"We travelled long within this place that we imagined.  Earth was an extra special project.  It's inhabitants were the most receptive and yet the most rebellious.  Each eon I came to them and each time they made a name and a story for me.  I let them have their play. However, we were away from home too long.  Bhasha suffered.  This could not be permitted for it is, after all, the centre of the universe.  We left it too late.  So we have been gathering together again to make a fresh start.  You are the last."  Bhertoo held out his hand for Vikram to take.

There was no sensation, no effort.  For a fleeting moment Vikram recalled the meaning of 'Bhasha' in Earthglish - "language of the mind".  He had always thought this quaint.  Now though, Vikram knew that very same language and mind to be his own self.   He knew that the body in which he stood was nothing but a machine he was operating.  He knew that he belonged with Bhertoo and all the others beside him. 

"Others?!"

"We are all the thoughts of God.  We are the ones he allowed to stray.  An experiment he is drawing to a close."

"But," Vikram paused briefly as he tried to comprehend the import of what he was hearing, "then every living thing must also be such a God-thought?"

"This is true.  Not every thought is aware of itself however.  Many thoughts simply flutter about, with no aim, no achievement, no rest awaiting them. All must pass away. Only those who could bring themselves back to the origin are here now, to unite again in His Being.  You were always able to set yourself wherever you wanted to be, is it not so?"

At last Vikram realised all this was his own mind, leading him to the final conclusion.  It felt good.  It felt Real.  He knew it to be Truth.  Looking for one last time at the body he wore, he smiled a final smile.

This too must pass away...

                                                                          ©2013 Yamini Ali MacLean