One is the race of men,
one is the race of Gods,
and from one Mother do we both derive our breath;
yet a power that is wholly sundered parteth us,
in that the one is naught,
while for the other the brazen heaven endureth as an abode unshaken for evermore.
Albeit,
we mortals have some likeness,
either in might of mind or at least in our nature,
to the immortals,
although we know not by what course,
whether by day,
nor yet in the night watches,
fate hath ordained that we should run.
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.
He was in the beginning with God.
All things were made through Him, and without Him nothing was made that was made.
In him was life, and the life was the light of men.
And the light shone in the darkness, and the darkness did not comprehend it.
The day he moved in with the Featherfoot, some force from within told Simon that he should plant some corn seeds. So he did. That action would take on a greater significance in the weeks that followed…..
Simon dreams he is in a field. He is teaching, Tim, a 1st year apprentice how to plough a field with the lay of the land so it can be irrigated with the natural flow of water, using the principles of keyline irrigation, berms and swales.
The apprentice isn’t quite getting it and Simon worries for him. Two things happen simultaneously which distract Simon from his job. The one that gets most of his conscious attention is the yell of a leading hand coming from the shed uphill behind him. He turns to face the person whose voice he heard, and sees them wildly gesticulating up the valley. From this direction comes the other thing that happened. Simon could feel a dull roar with his bones which grew stronger with each passing second. Now he was turned to look at the metre high wall of mud and debris that churned towards him.
About two seconds had passed and the apprentice was still under the tractor, pumping grease. Simon gave him a solid kick in the guts to get his attention and pointed up the valley. “Run. To the shed. It looks like the shed will be above it.”
The valley they were working in rarely saw a flood like this. There was supposed to be a warning system too. People further up the valley should have rung on the newly installed telephone machines with the big round dial that you have to spin to get each digit. But what happened? Did they forget the number? Did the wheel seize up? - the technician said they didn’t take any grease, not even once. Simon was sure this was too good to be true.
And what about the signal fires? Was it so long since the last flood that people forgot? Whatever the case, Simon was now running a fast as he could and so was Tim.
They made it to the shed with seconds to spare. They were lucky. About twenty of the farm’s staff were in the picking shed. All of the men including Tim and Simon looked eerily similar, like brothers, or like the same person at different stages of development. They all looked out on the field were two others were running, but it didn’t look good for them. They weren’t far from the shed, but the water was moving too fast. The seconds seemed to drag on for an eternity as the onlookers came to the realisation that the father and son’s fates were sealed. It seemed the two running men realised it too as they both turned, in unison, to face their death head on.
A stirring breeze fell down the hill that rose behind the shed. The trees whispered to Simon. He turned to the other staff and said ‘That was just the first flood. There are more coming. We have to get to the city. Almost at once they others agree together and start chatting happily about Simon’s suggestion and how it is very important they all get started with planning and preparations at once.
Simon thinks they look too happy. As thought they don’t grasp the seriousness of what is happening. As though they think, ‘Sure this will be fun! We’re going on an adventure!’
He watches them carefully as they are distracted by one another and they forget what they were talking about. Simon points at the flood and reminds them of their quest. Once again they agree it is very important to do something, but they do nothing. This happens twice more before Simon sets off on his own.
He walks into the forest and up the hill. The hill is very steep and if he made it all the way to the top , he would have change elevation by just over 150 metres. As it was he only had to walk about half way, before it levelled out. The temperature was warmer here, the atmosphere more humid. Instead of being up in the mountains, he was in a coastal forest more than a thousand miles to the north. He took his thick jacket off and laid it down on a log. He took off his thick woollen pants and heavy boots. Underneath he was wearing clothing more suited to the metropolis he was approaching, a hundred and twenty years in the future. He found a pair of well fitting shoes behind the log and put them on. He didn’t know if he would be coming back this way, or if he would see that jacket again. Best not to get too attached to things, he reminded himself.
He walks for half an hour enjoying the salty air and the raucous sound of the parrots eating the fruit of the beach almonds that grew at the forest edge. Eventually the path goes up another embankment and through a thick hedge. The hedge is so thick as to block out all light as Simon passes through. He emerges into the metropolis. The close air reeks of diesel and petrosnacks. Simon sees the tall grim tower he must scale a few blocks to the North. As he walks he can feel sensors – both passive and active – scanning his body on every conceivable dimension. As quickly as they sense him he has to disable them, rewrite their databanks, or change the data they store on him to something that will not send alert messages to the central intelligence of the city. This is taxing work, but as he engages with the bots on a suburb wide front, he winds his way into background processes, rewriting subroutines and subminds. He needs to clear a path ahead so that he may approach the tower unharried.
A couple of streets away and the fruits of his labour are truly paying off. He has not been engaged by a sensor for over two minutes and not a single drone blocks his path. He reaches the tower and begins his ascent.
The slope is made of a frictionless material which was developed by material scientists in the mid 21st century, so they could build skyscrapers which would never get dirty. Simon imagines the substance to be as thick as treacle and puts his hand to the wall. It envelops his hand up to the wrist. He puts his other hand to the wall a little higher. Then each of his feet. All for extremities slip into the side of the tower. He removes them at will. And plunges them back in. Climbing now.
The building reaches all the way to the clouds and it takes Simon hours to climb. As he climbs Simon tunes into the vibrations coming from the city. He noted that once he started climbing the tower the city seemed to accept him. Not the central intelligence, but the city itself. The residue of the forest spirits who lived here centuries ago, the spirits who had been changed into something very different by the urbanisation and informationalisation of the city. The bots and droids which should have still been looking for him – he had missed some – just didn’t seem to notice him. Like the times the forest leads a grizzly bear or dingo away from a small child who has managed to escape the resolute watch of his parents to go for a solo stroll through the trees. Simon was presented with this knowledge as a vision. He knew it was not to warn him, but to let him know he was on track. Even here in this technocity he was protected by the forces of nature. Nature was asserting herself even in the realm of the informational by lighting the spark of defiance in the automated sentinels of the central intelligence. Demeter had tamed the computer life so her son could rise up.
Simon could feel hardly any human beings and even fewer animals. The city buzzed with AI life though. He could sense millions of processors. If he had to guess he would say there were only a couple of hundred, truly individual minds. Most of the processors and sensors would be running subroutines split off from much bigger personalities, some of whom had been split of other bigger personalities, but whom had grown in terms of hard space and energy requirements until they too were distinct personalities. Sometimes they even outgrew their parents as was the case in the natural world.
Simon could feel himself being distracted by the lure of investigating these mysterious life forms, but he refused to be swayed from his task. He couldn’t quite articulate what he had to do, but he knew it was important. He reached the top of the wall and pulled himself over the balustrade and onto the veranda.
He looks through the big glass windows and sees the engineer sitting at his giant bank of computer screens with his back to Simon. On one of the screens Simon can see himself looking through the window. Just as his consciousness processes this fact the screen is cut. Hopefully the engineer wasn’t looking in that direction. He disables the automated security system with a thought. It is now rigged to receive its data input from a black box program whose output is precisely what the security processor expects. This renders Simon essentially invisible to every bot and droid in the building. Simon makes his way around the outside of the building and tries to get in every window and door he can find. He can not make one of them budge, For the most part he tries to be stealthy. He doesn't want to alert the engineer to his presence. But as the afternoon wears on Simon realises that all the magical protection the engineer has invested in has most likely gone into fortifying the perimeter. He relents and starts using some of his fire and air spells, even the loud ones.
He is sure the engineer must have sensed him by now even if just from the noise. As he thinks this he realises the engineer has been listening to his thoughts, but now the jig is up. The engineer’s hand is forced. He presses the button that at the same time extinguishes all life on this continent and teleports him to a circling orbital cruiser. Simon is lost in this timeline.
He wakes up to the first rays of sunlight and the drone of his alarm clock.
There are certain holy ones, sisters born—three virgins gifted with wings:
Their heads are besprinkled with white meal, and they dwell under a ridge of Parnassus.
These are teachers of divination apart from me, the art which I practised while yet a boy following herds, though my father paid no heed to it.
From their home they fly now here, now there, feeding on honey-comb and bringing all things to pass.
And when they are inspired through eating yellow honey, they are willing to speak truth;
but if they be deprived of the Gods’ sweet food, then they speak falsely.
Meeting the Oracle was a major turning point in Simon’s life. Some might say that the Oracle’s job description is being paid by the ancients to be bossy. Simon would say she puts people on the right path by telling them precisely what they need to hear. Some people might say that both of those statements mean the same thing.
She opened by asking Simon to describe magic. Simon didn’t realise he was a Druid yet and hadn’t thought much about magic for a long time. He considered the answer for a few moments, brows furrowed in concentration. He provided an answer and deduced from the Oracle’s reply that it wasn’t a particularly good one. But that wasn’t the point, the question was merely meant to set the scene and prepare Simon to hear what he needed to hear.
The Oracle continued by establishing her credentials. The Oracle did so by telling Simon what he was thinking. Not just the subject he was thinking about, but the very words he was using to describe it to himself in his internal dialogue.
With the formalities out of the way The Oracle got to the meat of the issue.
“You know how to build a fire?” it was more a statement than a question.
“Yeah.”
“Good. I want you to go to Wandjina Creek. Walk up the creek and you will find some of the pools contain healing waters. You will know when you get to the right one. Before you go in the water - and this is very important. Before you go in the water you must ask the traditional owners and spirits for permission to enter the water. You must ask them to help you heal. MAKE SURE you ask BEFORE you go in the water.”
The Oracle’s gaze fixed upon Simon with deadly intent to drive the point home. An unspoken question hung on the air.
“Okay. I understand.” Simon answered.
“After you have had a swim in the healing waters you will build a fire. Sit and look into the fire. See if any messages or visions come to you. That’s what Druid’s are supposed to do. Don’t worry if the messages don’t come straight away. It may take you a while to come into your power.”
It was Simon’s turn to talk now, but he was still processing and he sat speechless like a stone. The Oracle continued, “You have a gift. It is very important that you use your gift. If you don’t use your gift the ancients will come to recycle it. You won’t like what happens if they have to do that.”
As the conversation continued Simon learnt that he was part of something much bigger than him. Bigger than anything he was at that time capable of imagining. He was an actor in a play which had been written aeons ago. One of the next acts was to be a special ceremony, but time was ticking. Simon had a lot to learn.
Behold, I send My messenger before Your face, Who will prepare Your way before You.
The voice of one crying in the wilderness:
Prepare the way of the LORD;
Make His paths straight.
Rising above the plains below, the Singing Waterfall is a riot of colour. It falls on the same range as Wandjina Creek, but is further to the North. Blue and red granite compete for prominence along the watercourse. To a learned eye a story can be seen of an interminable struggle between two diametrically opposed and forever united entities. The story of these entities is the creek. Green and browns are the trees, shrubs and vines that flourish in the woodland below and rainforest above. Almost every surface of rock and wood is covered with lichen, moss and algae.
The waterfall crashes into a waterhole which is framed by granite towers. The mighty drum beat of the relentless flow has carved the rocks and smashed them together again and again over thousands of years. By the waterhole two men sit. Both men have long flowing hair and bushy beards. They are naked except for their board-shorts and they pant from the exertion of swimming under the thunderous rapids. They look very much alike, almost like brothers, except that one is in his thirties and the other is of sufficiently advanced age that his hair is more grey than brown.
"So what's a Druid then?" pants the younger man.
The elder is in a light meditative trance. He is bringing his breath under control using Wim Hof’s guided breathing method. "Someone who lives in harmony with nature." He interrupts the cycle to answer the question on an exhalation.
"So, like a farmer then?"
"Sometimes."
"Druids built stone henge didn't they? Do Druids still do stuff like that?"
"Sometimes."
"What else do they do?"
"Whatever they need to."
"That's not very helpful mate. Are you taking the piss?"
“I’m not. I just don’t know how to explain it properly. Maybe it would be easier if I show you.”
The name Rhea they gave to the power of rocky and mountainous land, and Demeter to that of level and productive land.
Demeter in other respects is the same as Rhea, but differs in the fact that she gives birth to Kore by Zeus, that is she produces the shoot from the seeds of plants.
And on this account her statue is crowned with ears of corn, and poppies are set round her as a symbol of productiveness.
Simon dreamt of his garden. The dream was a lesson from the spirits in his garden, or maybe Demeter. Simon saw himself building swales in his garden. The swales were made by half-burying logs in between garden edges in the front yard where the rain water had been washing away the topsoil. Over time gouges had been dug into the land by the passage of many thousands of litres of water. Much of the topsoil and mulch from the gardens had washed away down the driveway and into the drains. Simon had wanted to fix this for the health of his garden and also for his landlord who lamented the loss of soil and mulch and the constant erosion.
After he watched himself build the swales the dream went into time-lapse mode. Simon watched underground as the logs were broken down and converted into mycelium by the fungal colonies that were growing there. The mycelial networks grew and spread through the soil, linking together to give the soil texture and join the gardens inhabitants to the world wide plant web.
The swales and berms were finished that day. The next day Simon turned the grassed area between the swales into a garden. First he put down a layer of cardboard, being careful to remove all of the sticky tape from the boxes first. The cardboard would be digested by the fungal colonies first and anything the mycelium touches it eats. Simon didn’t want any plastic getting into the food he would eventually harvest. His brother Martin helps him and they caught up on recent news. They had not seen each other for a few years. Simon told his brother about his newly found Druidry path. He asked his brother if he thought that Loki had played some role in shaping the lives of their family. Martin suggested that Dionysus was more likely, to which Simon agreed. He made a mental note to spend some time reading about the mythology of Dionysus later that day.
On top of the cardboard Simon piled cow and horse manure. Next was a generous application of wood-chips and finally sugar cane mulch. The variety of materials would eventually break down into a rich dark soil with lots of microbial life. Building soil is a lot like cooking a nutritious meal; a meal should contain protein, carbohydrates, fats, fibre, vitamins and minerals; whereas soil should contain animal waste, plant matter – a mix of carbon and nitrogen sources - water and a spark of life. All of the different materials provide building blocks for different organic structures and microbiota.
Finally Simon planted some seeds. Corn seeds first, they would grow nice and tall providing shade for their companions – they would be ready for harvest a few weeks after the first lot he had planted. Pumpkin seeds went in next, their leaves would spread far and wide keeping the soil cool not only for their companions, but for many other inhabitants of the garden. Lastly Simon planted snake beans, they would grow up using the corn as a trellis. Growing plants in this combination is an agricultural technique developed by the Iroquois Indians thousands of years ago. The Iroquois used squash rather than pumpkin and likely never saw snake beans, but the general concept is the same. The three vegetables together provide a wholesome source of carbohydrates, healthy fatty acids and all eight essential amino acids. This is known as the ‘Three Sisters’ companion planting technique. Simon didn’t know this yet, but for some reason it felt right.
Some say that the study of philosophy originated with the barbarians.
In that among the Persians there existed the Magi, and among the Babylonians or Assyrians the Chaldaei, among the Indians the Gymnosophistae, and among the Celts and Gauls men who were called Druids and Semnothei, as Aristotle relates in his book on magic, and Sotion in the twenty-third book of his Succession of Philosophers.
God is only everything you can think of, therefore, properly speaking, he is only another item on the island. God cannot be witnessed at will, he can only be talked about. The nagual, on the other hand, is at the service of the warrior. It can be witnessed, but it cannot be talked about.
“So most of what is known about Druids now is second hand information right?”
“Yep.”
“Because it was a secret tradition? Like, they taught Druid stuff just with words, not on paper, nothing written?”
“Yeah, that’s right. The only written sources come from Greek and Roman writers, documenting their own perceptions of Druids.”
“Why didn’t they write anything down? I know other groups have done the same thing, why do they all do that?”
“Well, I can think of two reasons. Firstly, much of the stuff that you learn in any tradition which involves secrecy and especially if it is religious or spiritual in some way….”
“Like witches?”
“Maybe, some witches are very secretive but some are quite open, anyway, back to your question. Once you get past the basics the learning curve can be very steep. This information relates to the mechanics of the universe.”
“So what’s the basic stuff.”
“For me it was being able to concentrate for a very long time, and learning about those things I am overly attached to and working on my sense of compassion.”
“How is that religious or spiritual?”
“Let’s come back to that later. Can I finish answering your question about why the secrecy?”
“Oh yeah, sure.”
"The second reason is probably the most important. Some of the information that people in secret traditions learn about could be very dangerous in the wrong hands.”
“You mean like a dictator, or a bad guy, like Hitler?”
“Yeah, or even just some random who hates everyone. So at the core of many of these traditions – including Druidry - is the notion that every sentient being has an immortal soul which has somehow become trapped in an endless cycle of birth, death and rebirth, through a series of mortal bodies, causing endless suffering. So our actions in this life echo down through the years into eternity, potentially affecting our future lives, but also the lives of every other being we come into contact with and many that we don’t. Sitting with this information and thinking about it for a long time helps someone to gain a certain perspective. This sort of contemplation can and often does help people to develop their sense of compassion, thus, those who have embraced the mysteries of life, the universe and everything don’t want to see such powerful knowledge fall into the wrong hands.”
“Why? What could they do with this knowledge?”
“Magic.”
Simon had discovered his Rainmaking ability quite by accident. There was a science experiment he conducted with the some of the kids at the library where he volunteered. The purpose of the experiment was to demonstrate how the phenomena of evaporation and condensation work together to make rain.
The children would often ask Simon “Can we do the rain experiment today?” One day Simon asked them why they wanted to do it so often, he thought they would quickly grow tired of it. They answered that it was hot and they wanted it to rain.
“It doesn’t work like that. The experiment is to show how the rain works, it doesn’t cause the rain.” Simon chuckled at what he perceived as innocence and naivety.
Another volunteer wandered over with a big grin, “Are you doing that experiment again Rainman.”
“Don’t tell me they’ve got you fooled to.”
“I don’t know man. It’s fucking weird though. Every time you guys do that experiment it rains.”
Simon felt a chill, “It must just be a coincidence, it rains a lot in Watervale.”
“No it doesn’t. We’re in a drought.”
Later, he considered what his colleague had said and mentally reviewed the times he had done the experiment and sure enough it had rained between two hours and two days after the experiment. Every. Time.
Simon decided to wait for a day when he was sure it wouldn't rain. He poured over the charts and finally a day came when it shouldn’t rain for a couple of weeks. He did the experiment with the children and assured them it wouldn't rain, thus proving that he did not control the weather. That night a huge electrical storm rolled in from the West, fuelled by a huge friction laden air mass from the tall ranges which stretched to the interior desert.
Simon worried that the new nickname might stick.
His first visit to Wandjina Creek would prove to be just as influential as his first meeting with the Oracle. She was spot on. Simon knew when he found the right place, it felt right in the same way that planting corn seeds felt right. He paid his respects to the Traditional Owners, the Spirits and other Inhabitants of the Land before he bathed in the pool. He set up his camp and he gathered his firewood. When he took a second swim Simon was lucky enough to be introduced to the world of crystals.
He was taking his third lap around the pool swimming under the water with his eyes closed and using his hands to glide from rock to rock. He found himself stopped under the water and with a sense that he should open his eyes.
When he did he found a quartz crystal nearly half the size of his fist seeming to gaze up at him from the stone strewn creek-bed.
“Take it. It is meant for you.”
“Thank you. What am I supposed to do with it.”
The answer came in fragments. It was like watching one of those old slideshows that people made from their family photos. All the photos were faded and it looked like Simon was viewing them from a distance. He saw fleeting glimpses of faces, some he knew, some he didn’t. One image repeated itself. He was climbing a mountain. It was raining. He was reaching down to grasp the Featherfoot’s hand as she pulled herself up over the rock ledge.
Later that night after dinner, Simon slept a deep sleep. Miles away from civilization with only the warm glow of the fire and the milky way to keep company. There were visitors during the night, some corporeal, some otherwise. In his dreams Simon saw glimpses of his future. Like the vision from the crystal the information came in half formed images, but the depth and volume was much greater. When he awoke the next morning Simon had a determination he had never felt before. He had internalised the lessons very quickly and now it seemed the path forward was clear. He was to learn how to be a Druid.
Simon stood on a grassy plateau. It was windswept and almost bare, save for a modest scattering of grass and two trees. The wise oak and the kindly ash stood next to each other, their branches intermingling. Though Simon’s robes whipped violently in the savage breeze, not a leaf on either tree stirred.
If anyone else had been there that night, they would have seen the plateau, Simon and nothing else. The trees were there in another time, but at the same time. Tonight Simon would touch those trees and walk between them. And when he did, he would step through to another world. To meet himself and prevent a tragedy.
“I didn’t know what the shadow was back then. So even though I had met mine, I hadn’t integrated it. I was still scared of it and therefore scared of part of myself. I blamed her for my fear. I felt she had carelessly let a genie out of the bottle. But now I can see she did me a favour.”
“Since learning about the theory of the shadow, you’ve been able to integrate and properly process that experience?”
“Correct. What I thought was an intolerable burden is actually the source of tremendous power.”
“How so?”
“To paraphrase Carl Jung ‘The shadow stretches all the way down to hell.’ Everyone has a monster inside them, but some people never meet it face to face. If you do get to your know shadow and you properly integrate you realise that you can be quite dangerous. People who don’t recognise their shadow often don’t have much respect for themselves. They can be careless with their words. Recognising the shadow means you treat yourself like a loaded gun, or an unsheathed blade.”
“What?”
“She showed me how far I would go to protect the ones I love. She showed me that I have the capacity to commit unspeakable evil.”
A couple of weeks after visiting Wandjina Creek Simon travelled with his father half way across the country. They had quite an adventure and both enjoyed the quality time spent together. Since finding his crystal Simon had become very interested in precious stones. He accumulated many more on this trip. Some he bought from tourist shops and gemstone traders. Many he found by the side of the road.
In fact, on the way back he collected a piece of quartz crystal from every place they stopped. The landscape was dominated by granite and it seemed as though every driveway, truck stop and rest area on the journey featured a carpet of shattered granite and quartz.
The Country he was travelling through had been experiencing a drought. On one occasion Simon remarked that it was so dry even the cactuses were dying. Therein lay the purpose behind collecting the crystals.
Simon had come to accept his Rainmaking ability and had found he could use it with some finesse. He had heard about the drought and the toll it had taken on the farmers in that region. Travelling through and seeing it first hand made Simon think he could possibly help.
He would usually perform the ritual with a large reservoir which was empty save for a little water - which varied depending on how much rain he wanted to call down. This time he would put a crystal from each stop on the way inside the reservoir with the goal of breaking the drought. A noble goal indeed, but not without potentially dire consequences, as he was soon to learn.
Upon returning home Simon performed the modified ritual, before he even unpacked his car or washed the story of the dusty trail from his skin.
Simon had progressed in this skill rapidly and expected to see results fairly quickly.
For the first time he failed to see a result.
One day.
Two days.
Three days. Four. A week. Two weeks.
Simon grew worried. He reasoned that he had asked for a lot, and that it would take the spirits time to fulfil his request.
In the dream the Rainman was crawling around his backyard. He was lost. The sun was a red jewel blazing in the sky and parching his skin. It was so hot it seemed his skin would melt. Dust was blowing everywhere, obscuring his vision while he crawled on his hands and knees looking for water. He was so thirsty, it felt like he hadn't had a drink in weeks.
The dust storm sounded like sand through a jet engine. Slowly at first another sound grew into his awareness. It sounded like someone chanting. A light grew from the North-West. A golden light that seemed to be rushing towards him in tandem with the chanting.
As it got closer the chant became loud enough for the Rainman to understand. “No man may speak for another man’s land. No man may speak for another man’s land. No man may speak for another man’s land.” Over and over again, louder and louder as the messenger approached.
Finally the light grew large enough that Rainman could see it was a human figure. A man flying on winged feet with a helmet of gold. He shed altitude as he approached the backyard where the Rainman looked up from his bended knees. He seemed to repel the dust as a sphere of clear air extended around him for ten meters in all directions.
Finally Hermes stopped and hovered over the back yard gazing at Rainman with his full might. He shouted again “No man may speak for another man’s land.” The messenger of the gods pointed at the Rainmaker. He finally understood.
Simon woke from his dream and dismantled his Rainmaker.
The next day ex-cyclone Paula washed ashore as a rain depression. With the exception of his home town, every place he asked for received rain. In some places rivers ran that had not run in a decade.
The rain would come for his home town later. Simon had asked for too much. He had called down a flood.
“Nothing, mark you, can be so firmly bound, not sickness, nor anger, nor bad luck, such that it could not be disentangled by Dionysus.”
A cool breeze blew across the savannah. For the most part the savannah was open. The sandy expanse punctuated by the occasional stand of pandanus. The vegetation was thicker near the creeks that drained from the nearby ridge which trailed off into the distance. Near these creeks the vegetation was thicker. The water table was high enough to support numerous species of trees.
It was in one of these stands of trees that the Simon had set about his grizzly task. Vincent and Peter were doomed to spend the last days of their lives beneath the shade of those trees. When they were bought here unconscious the day before yesterday they were dragged from the van on to the ground outside. Star pickets had been driven into the ground in a rough square measuring two meters across. There arms and legs were secured to the star pickets with thick rope. The rope had to be strong enough to stop them escaping, but not so thin as to cut into their wrists and drain their lifeforce prematurely. They had to suffer as long as possible.
Vincent had woken up first. He was still peaking from the hit of the glass pipe he was taking as his front door was kicked in. He looked around bewildered. Simon had been sitting on a log a meter away smoking a hand rolled cigarette. Vincent looked around and saw Simon. He squinted at the harsh glare of the sun rising behind Simon’s back.
“What the fucks going on?”
“Payback motherfucker.” Simon said as he stood up. He crossed the intervening distance with one step and sunk a boot into Vincent’s ribs. His abdominal muscles contracted and his testicles briefly appeared to disappear into his abdomen. He discovered his hands were held fast as he tried to pull his arms down to protect his internal organs.
“Ooooofff” he screamed. He gasped, sucking air in. Hyperventilating he cranes his neck around to its limits taking in the futility of his situation. His body now well and truly in panic mode he starts to access some of the more primal senses possessed of a human. He feels his friend Peter staked out behind him. Vincent doesn’t know this but their hands are tied to the same pickets. He arches his back, pushing his head into the ground. He tries to dig his heels into the loose sandy loam and slips repeatedly.
“Save your energy cunt. Your going to need it.”
“Peter? PETER!!”
THUNK!! Simon sinks his boots into Vincent’s naked genitals. Vincent screams. Peter wakes up groggy and confused. He doesn’t like the glass pipe, preferring brass. He likes spirits too and as such his nervous system is somewhat depressed; that is to stay he’s still drunk and quite stoned.
“What the fuck man? Where are we?”
“I don’t fuckin know man.”
“Now that you’re both awake I’ll fill you in.” Simon is circling the two captives. He is peaking too; though his drug of choice is ecstasy. He’s drunk quite a few beers too.
“My name is Simon Sparrow. I believe you two know my sister Crystal.”
Peter stairs up at Simon mouth agape and uncomprehending. Vincent is doing his best trying to crane his neck back to see Simon, his feet are still struggling for purchase, Vincent is a slow learner, or maybe he doesn’t think too well with a head full of meth.
“Yeah, we know her so what?”
“YOU FUCKING WELL KNOW WHAT!!!! MOTHERFUCKER!!!” thunk! Into the ribs again.
“AAARGH!!! FUCK!!! WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? YOU CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER!?!?!??”
Vincent pants. His breathing his painful now. Two of Simon’s boots have hit the same spot on his left ribcage and he can feel a mortal type of grating as he inhales. He is starting to get scared. He poos himself a little bit.
Peter thinks he’s having flashback. He starts laughing.
THUNK!!! In the guts goes Simon’s boot.
“What's so funny cunt?”
“You’re not real. Hahahahahahahahaahahahahaahahaha!”
“Not real hey? What about this? Is this real?” Simon extinguishes a cigarette on Peter’s exposed scrotum.
His scream is loud. Very loud. To the South a startled brolga takes flight. From the marsh on the other side of the river a flock of magpie geese take to the heavens and follow the brolga. The braying of a water buffalo carries from the creek.
“What the fuck is going on?” Vincent exclaims as he hears his friends pain. “What the fuck was that?” He asks as he hears the buffalo.
“I was going to wait to pull these out, but you are too fuckin noisy.”
Simon is standing in Peter's field of vision again and a black backpack has materialised in his hand. He reaches inside and pulls out a ball gag with a thick leather strap. There are two, one for each of them.
Unfortunately for this iteration of Simon he was too hasty with the ball gags. If he had questioned these men he would have found that he had been played.
Instead with the gags secured he started torturing them. Despite the fact that it was the dry season the sun was very hot and it beamed down for a long time each day. Simon had read about this method of torture in a book about adventurers in Africa. He poured olive oil over the naked men’s exposed skin at regular intervals throughout the day. The sun heated the oil which slowly burned their skin. They would have been dead after the first day if Simon hadn’t been plying them with fluids. He would fit a funnel into the gap between their cheeks and ball gag and then pour water down it. He didn’t want them dying of dehydration as that would have ended their punishment prematurely. He didn’t want them sleeping either, so every time their eyelids drooped too far he injected them alternately with MDMA and ice. He knew they weren’t going anywhere so at night Simon would retreat to the comfort of his tent, occasionally emerging when the desire to inflict pain overwhelmed him. He was so angry at these men for what they had done to his sister. No punishment was too much.
Over the course of the next two days the oil slowly burned the condemned men’s skin, which hardened, blistered and grew taught. Eventually the skin on their torsos grew so tight that they could no longer draw breath and they suffocated. Seeing the dead men bought home the reality of what he had done and Simon wept. He wept for his soul, for the two men and for what they had done to his sister.
As Simon walks to his ute to get the chainsaw a rumbling noise makes its way to his ears. It grows in volume. It comes from everywhere. Every stone and grain of sand strains and groans. It is reality bending to fit the will of a powerful Druid, who emerges from a tear in spacetime and steps into the gory scene.
‘Fuck! I’m too late.’ Simon gazes on the two corpses. He looks at his younger self.
“What the fuck?” The young man looks incredibly confused and disbelieving.
“They didn’t do what you think.’
“What?”
“Your sister didn’t tell you the whole truth.”
“What?! Who are you?”
“I am you.”
“Fuck off.”
“I’m fair dinkum mate. I’ll prove it.” Simon shows the young man a tattoo they both share.
“You're going to spend the rest of your life in jail. You’re sister will do six months. What happened is basically your fault and these men did not deserve to die. And you’re autistic and dissociative and you don’t know it. There’s a lot going on that you don’t understand. The odds are stacked against you mate and in this state you get a mandatory 25 years in jail for each count of murder. You won’t serve the full sentence though, someone will bash your brains in with a paperweight just before your 50th birthday. I came here to save you. To save these men, but I fucked up and now I’m too late.”
Young Simon stares dumbfounded. His mouth agape. He has dropped his knife into the sandy soil. The rumbling noise reappears.
“I’m sorry mate. This timeline has to go.” In the horizon a bizarre effect is materializing. The horizon itself appears to be disintegrating and floating into the sky. Reality itself appears to pixelating and evaporating. The effect rushes closer. The rumbling noise gets louder and louder and louder until nothing else can be heard. The brolgas disintegrate. The magpie geese disintegrate. The buffalo disintegrates. The crocodiles that the innocent men were to be fed to after being dismembered disintegrate.
Young Simon looks around at what is happening and is sure he is having an acid flashback. He locks eyes with his older self, who stares back with a mixture of boundless compassion and deep disappointment. They too start to disintegrate. Their consciousness holds on long enough to see reality turn pure white. For an instant all that exists in this timeline is their souls and they see it stripped bare to pure volition and then there is nothing.
Simon steps back on to the plateau and prays to Dionysus for guidance.