Some girls wander by mistake into the mess that scalpels make. Are you the teachers of my heart?

We teach old hearts to break.

Leonard Cohen

Introduction

We will not feign an insight we do not possess,

nor parade before your minds eye a knowledge, which at best might be called fleeting. Rather, like Poe, we would claim to dream awake and it is to the opening paragraph of Eleonora that our attention is drawn. Many years ago composing a piece reflecting the thoughts of the moment, a paragraph was written that latterly we discovered to have been penned by Poe, the opening paragraph alluded to. A startling discovery for

at the time Poe was but a name to us. Needless to say, in order to circumnavigate the label plagiarist we quoted the original paragraph and attributed its source accordingly. It is now, many years later, that we return to the scene of the crime, solely for the purpose of celebrating the dark romance that is Eleonora. Our tribute also serves to attest to the authenticity of the paragraph in question having validated it through our own experience.

Also many years ago we attended a presentation, the central motif being the relationship between the author and their text. We believe there to be a distinction between the word smith and those blessed and cursed with vision. Where the former practices their art, labours to produce the wondrous examples we have before us, the latter begins to tell a story and then slowly but surely the story takes over and the life of such an author now becomes but a reflection of their apparent creation. This is a phenomena specific to those who pursue the path of the arcane. Over the course of the evenings presentation many examples were given and a bell rang clearly within our mind, having experienced such.

Poe we believe to be one such soul and whilst he doubtless laboured to assume a mantle of normality his fate was sealed, for he, like all must work within the confines of their nature. It is these two premises that the present text is founded upon. Very old are the woods and the buds that break out of the brier's boughs when March winds wake. Very old are we men, our dreams are tales told in dim Eden by Eve's nightingales. Very old are the brooks and the rills that rise. Where snow sleeps cold beneath the azure skies.

John Harle

Traditionally our tribute would speak of the man,

his life or at the very least his work. As previously stated this is not our intent. Sufficient comment has been passed by the erudite scholar and as a consequence the myth of one man has been created and cast forth before us, the audience. Much could be spoken of concerning the methods he employed to avoid his torment, be it alcohol or his romantic pursuits. Likewise an analysis could be performed upon his work and in this instance, Eleonora. This again is not our intent. Rather we would confirm the opening

paragraph and through its lens cast a tale of our own, which both celebrates the tale of Eleonora while reflecting it into a more contempory setting. An indulgence indeed, but then again our muse is a demanding creature and rather than deny her, a fatal choice, we will follow her urgings for as she whispers into our expectant ear we can but give voice to her spirit.

The quoted pieces that attend this our text are chosen simply to share the sentiments they embody given our own taste and the perceived mood of Eleonora.

The Axiomata that illustrates our text might be described as a directors cut, put simply a small selection of our favoured, which attest to the nature of dreaming by day, as we have claimed and Poe has alluded to. Let us then embark upon this our tale, a tale created of fragments which like the quotes and axiomata we favour.

Water is my eye. Most faithful mirror. Fearless on my breath. Teardrop on the fire of a confession. Fearless on my breath. Most faithful mirror. Fearless on my breath. Teardrop on the fire. Fearless on my breath. Stumbling a little. Stumbling a little.

Liz Frazer

! ! !

The pressure of leafmould above where she lay

was reassuring and in its own way provided her with a semblance of comfort. Not so long ago leaf life had basked beneath a warm sun, stretching its veins as it feasted on the light that was its sustenance. Now it but served as a blanket for Damiana and as it whispered to her of its life within the embrace of air and light she could but sigh. The robe of our most holy lady whispered in the breeze as it caught tendrils of memory from all that passed within its canopy. Here the fox spoke of his feast and the snail of its long

journey across a grassy plain. The hare spoke of the mysteries he encountered upon his quest for grace while the dove dreamed of the comfort of its nestled bower.

The lady woke from her seasonal slumber and stepped forth. Naked she stood beside the pool that served as a mirror to the moment and from beneath the surface of the lustral water her consort rose and taking her into his arms again her raiment was donned for yet another cycle of the unending dance that passes as life upon the bright globe. For a time she would stretch her limbs upwards and outwards, embracing all that comes to pass and this her joy, her service as ever more the pageant is realised. Gone, for now, her slumber as she dances upon the breeze. Gone the memory of past times as she rejoices in the greening that forms her veil and as her seasons unfold green resolves itself to copper and gold before falling like a robe, cast upon the forest floor far below.

But for now Damiana dreams of leaf and shoot as she lies within her palace of solitude and yet for a brief moment her hand is clasped by the fair one who guides her into the secrets of her domain. Life and death she witnesses upon opposing shores and smiles knowingly as rose petals tumble from the air and fall at her feet forming a carpet upon which she takes her ever strengthening steps. Hand in hand they walk life’s byways and the ancients in their citadels of knowing remain oblivious to their passing as they, husks of despair seek redemption.

Cast your eyes on the ocean

Cast your soul to the sea When the dark night seems endless

Please remember me

Loreena McKennitt

Across the portal he steps. Fire in his eyes, thunder

in his heart. Surveys the landscape spread out before him and sighs. Takes his first faltering step beneath a sky bruised by the presence of Solus Noir and Lammae Rouge. Enters the fabled city and dreams.

Axiomata and spellcraft summoned him across the trackless waste of time and space. Aeons unfolding amongst the whispers of stars dreaming in their adamantine citadels adorned with lapis, gold and quicksilver.

And in the presence of his beloved Na’amah whose embrace soothes his tortured brow he takes a moment to reflect upon the time to come. Prophesy unfolds and the Grigori rise. The end of days whereon the dance enters its final stumbling steps.

Wisdom granted, unheeded. Beauty manifest, unheeded. Eden purified by the venom of god. The rays shine forth and all are transformed by the light that radiates from a heart forged in the fires of sorrow.

The fire within her heart awakes and sends forth an ashen mist. Her tears, a mighty ocean that consumes all. Her breath, a mighty wind that renders all to dust and the thunder that are her footsteps travel across the tapestry of being.

The veil of the imagination is breeched and the realm of consciousness is entered wherein the archons and vesicas whisper in sibilant echoes across the star spawned wasteland laid bare by the benediction of our most holy lady.

And had this noble one been granted the apple Kallisti, what then of strife? Had she but supped upon the honeyed venom, what vision, what dreaming moment would have unfolded beneath a sky blessed by love and light?

Hail Eris Principia Discordia into whose embrace we now play out our lives in an arena of fire and travail. She whispers and all are blinded before her. She sings and all are caught within her rapture. She screams and all become as dust.

The word is uttered and a distant bell tolls within a tower that rises from the ashes of powdered bone across which he walks beneath a burning sun turned black by the elixir that flows forth. In the distance twin pylons rise crowned by the crescent and disc.

And it was given unto the false prophets to spread the lie, sow the seed of doubt, draw aside the veil and reveal the end of days.

The lord of the eastern horizon claims his domain. Prince regent cast into the fires of redemption calls forth his slumbering cohorts and releases them into the matrix of time and space and the aethyrs vibrate in their presence. Ave. Ave. Ave.

And at the end of days there shall be two grigori upon the earth and they will die.

By prayer are they redeemed and by fire and water are they purified to rise upon pinions of burnished gold to soar upon the aethyrs eternal. Seek them not for they dwell between thy passing breaths and heartbeats.

And beneath the ocean did he reach out and grasp the outstretched hand of the beloved. Beneath the stars he summoned her and within the mountains of the moon did he claim his bride eternal and with a kiss upon her rose petal lips did he consummate his love, his quest.

Long ago was the battle fought and won.

When life and death stood upon opposing shores and glimpsed each other.

Death looked upon life and smiled. whilst life like a maiden

shy upon her bed of roses coyly looked aside.

Damiana Evohe

! ! !

Through her art and guile she had come to

immortality in a singular way.

Na’amah took Ely’s hand in hers and told her tale while Ely listened attentively. I was once mortal, shared in the pleasures of the flesh, yet I knew the worm awaited me, the unrelenting passage of time would bring me into its chthonic realm, this I denied with every fibre of my being, sought long for the means of release from this curse, having searched high and low within the confused ramblings of my kind,

the promise of celestial paradise, the entrance to hallowed halls of learning and becoming. I finally realized that this served to distract, assuage the inevitable which I too would come to despite my time honored and cherished illusions. Yes I learned of the sweetness that sours in the light of times passing. I knew pain, hurt as any of my kind would, for as a woman I carry the joys of the world within my womb and also its sin. In time I came to know the purity of despair and came to savor the austerity of its bitter sweet taste. I found pleasure a paltry affair, visited infrequently by moments, mere moments of anaesthetic release. No more would this be so, I withdrew and so doing ceased to be as I was, and now, would never be again. For I abandoned my kind and their ways.

And in the desert of despair left this world, leaving only a shadow self to continue the pretence. That shadow continued, retreated further then it too dissolved and joined me and became she who now sits before you. From the pit of suffering and remorse I arose triumphant and made my pact with the lord of this world, the ever present one, thinly guised as pleasure, as pain and the means of release from both. He took me into himself and shared his glory, his secrets, his yearnings, until I finally joined him and knew rapture pure, undefiled by thought and speech, the chatterings of primates scurrying from darkness to darkness complete. For long aeons I dwelt within my fortress of night, taking my pleasure amongst the legions of the half lives. Distilling from their pleasure and their pain the vital nectar that sustains my form, form which exists within the dark cave of each of their hearts, their lives. They see only my horror and not the beauty of austerity that shines within my heart, the pulse of life that bruises my eyes, eyes that know their hearts and minds. Only suffering they know, for they have not plumbed the depths of despair and its kindred.

Then one day I heard your call, a call that the heart rhymes in blood and passion and casts adrift upon the aethyrs, often to go unheard but I my dear one heard and visited as I could and over the years prepared the way for our meeting, a meeting now consummated and a dream made flesh.

Ely understands and shares with her all that is known to him and together they form a pact that crystallizes their purpose. Avatars upon this world, Grigori, watchers in the night abroad at the end of days to herald the passing of all that has gone before and to welcome the dawn of a new world order. Avatars of the heart baptized in blood. Conjured from the very void itself to fulfill a purpose millennia in the making.

Together they define and refine their art, prepare and enact the cycles of their invokations, bathe in the nectar of delight and conceive a moonchild, as is their way. And then on the eve of his twenty first summer Na’amah departs and leaves our tale. Her departure witnessed by Ely after the fashion that Morgan and Ybrim had left. They walked by the ocean, the waves lapping at their toes and turning to Ely Na’amah with sadness in her eyes tells Ely of her need to depart for she too has been called to the city of pyramids to prepare the way for Ely’s arrival. Ely is saddened and in his heart the light is extinguished. Placing a final kiss upon his lips Na’amah lets out a piercing scream and the elven surround her and her form evaporates and she becomes limned in liquid light, her cyphers, the tattoos upon her flesh take fire and a single scarabeous rises from the ashes of her form, a whispered farewell my love, unto eternity and beyond and she is gone leaving Ely spellbound on the shoreline, tears rolling down his cheeks and in his heart a single thought is distilled, am I to remain upon this world having had my parents claimed for some higher purpose and now my beloved likewise?

And in this way Ely learned the meaning of his true name, the desolate one.

Dark the stars and dark the moon.

Hush the night and the morning loon. Tell the horses and beat on your drum.

Gone their master gone their son

Ioanna Gika

! ! !

Slumbering within her grave, pale Damiana sighs.

Above, the soft pressure of leafmould, like a blanket, wraps itself around her in tenderness, a tenderness she had not known in life. Beyond that a gentle warmth sometimes makes itself known to her diminishing senses. How long she had lain here none could tell, for in truth none knew of her presence, alone within this shallow grave. How had she lived, how had her life come to end and how, within this earthy tomb could she yet continue to be?

How could she still be here and not as the prophecy had foretold, released into freedom and the golden valleys beyond to join her Lord and Lover. Only in these rare moments of awareness did she wonder, for mostly she knew only the dark, the sweet embrace of oblivion. This she would have, and yet something called to her, called to her in fine sibilant whispers, seductive, enticing and beguiling.

In life she had been fine and noble of form, in stature tall, lithe, the body of a dancer, fine of feature, cheek bones a razors edge, nose aquiline above which a pair of almond eyes, stained violet at their heart, shone like bright suns. Crowned by a mane of ink black hair, dark as the night sky itself, hung in swathes across her shoulders and shrouded the nape of her neck, cascading, like a waterfall over breasts of milky opalescence crowned by aureoles of crushed peaches. Travelling downwards across muscle firm yet yielding to that secret place nestled between thighs of softness, covered in a fine down of gossamer strands of silk. Legs, long, tapering to an ankle of fine bone and sinew. Feet slim yet strong. Many had sought her through her short life, for her beauty, for her mystery, each of them now lay dreaming within her womb. Yes, she had shared her delights, only briefly and harvested the fruits of love, memories which now haunted her into the long night, unrelenting.

And then death, one velvet dark night had seduced her into his mystery, had come for her whispering gentle endearments into her ever open ears, had lain with her, entered her and claimed her as his, for was she not beauty indeed?

And yet, she was still sentient, not a fleeting spirit adrift upon the night air, not a disembodied soul seeking solace amongst loved ones. Was this her reward, her penance? Had she not served her mistress well, offering blood and semen as votive offerings within the services performed in her name? Had she not offered herself, her flesh, the means of manifestation, where passion is the prayer and lust the means of Invokation? The dark shore of night whereupon, we embark upon a journey from

mystery into greater mystery, our blood knowingness our only guide, steers us through dark atavisms and pre-human byways of being, where bestial tongues utter inchoate sounds unto the firmament that hears them not. Hecate’s dark realm, awash with soft murmurings yielding to screams and the torment of tortured souls. She stands triumphant upon the bones of her worshippers, for torment is her service, where pain is but the echo of her yearning, where birth and destruction are the ebb and flow of her breath, fetid with the whisperings of dark mystery. Had she not been promised entry into the realm of the true gods, those who exist outside the night of time?

A whisper from the dark lord Lucifer, brooding within his citadel of memory, casting dreams like sprinkled stardust into the void. Dark lord of Repose. The Redeemer. The Opposer. It was for this one that she had served her dark mistress these cold, long aeons.

The circumstances surrounding her death are a mystery to her as is her present condition. Of time she knows not, of reason also, little is known, only the ever dimming memories that surface to torment her within her citadel of isolation. And yet occasionally she feels, rather than hears a distant, plaintive song, a calling back to flesh and life upon the surface of the shimmering star. And how does she spend her moments of lucid waking? Remembering sweet pleasures, ones which elevated her, made her complete within her service to her dark mistress.

! ! !

And how had that service begun?

Alone upon a wind swept beach, hair tossed by the raging tempest, the tang of salt upon tongue, stinging her eyes. Skin, open to the elements through folds and pleats within her dress and cloak, bruised by the contact of cutting wind and occasional grains of sand, too light to retain their tenuous grip upon the surface of the beach. Walking, musing upon trifles, what was and what would be. Then turning, noticing for the first time the moon, blood red, ravaged by clouds the color of bruised flesh, waxing, not yet full. A sound, at first shrill then becoming deeper, insistent as it invades her attention. From what source, and to what purpose?

Pausing to discover its point of origin, a shadow within shadows, the entrance to a cave and at its entrance a dull pulsating light, honeyed amber in color, reaches out and invades her senses, captivating, entrancing. Stepping forward, one faltering step then another and finally stretching into a run, a sense of slow motion envelops her as she moves forwards, yet moves not, a wrenching sensation in the pit of her stomach, a snap of some internal unknown and movement is granted and with lightning speed she arrives at the cave entrance. Waiting, waiting for what? She knows not.

Then the sensation of tiny fingers, touching, caressing, fingers of ice calling forth her heat and moisture as slowly she is lifted from the sand and begins to spin upon the breeze, now master of her movements. Ice enters her, touching first the surface of her skin, then penetrating inwards and meeting her fire, melts into languid and liquid delight, she glows, sweats and gentle moans rise from her throat as one by one her clothes are teased from her, opening her to the elements and the penetration of the night. Fingers slide across back, belly and breast, down thigh and leg leaving her naked, exposed within the embrace of fire and ice. She touches sand, its grains abrading soft skin, feels its coolness, its support. The sound diminishes and in its place, shadows arise, dimly seen, keenly felt and in the silence the tempest ceases and stillness soothes her ravaged senses. Advancing upon her, the shadows, at first fragmentary, coalesce into an aethyreal form of opalescent beauty, hues, pastel in shade undulate across and through surfaces creating a shifting plane of perspectives, “speak not” says a voice of liquid amber, “take delight and pleasure in the flesh.” Advances closer crooning a lullaby, distant memories arise, childhood, summer, a forest glade, lying at ease in the embrace of nature. Fingers touch, breath like the gentlest of breezes touches, flushing of skin, hearts blood coursing through sinew and skin causing breath to increase, as one by one each part is touched, hair stroked, teased outwards into a veil, a nimbus of dark light illuminating contours and features, eyes opened to the glories of the dark by a breath that touches lightly and then is gone. Lips brushed, the taste of almonds and orange blossom, causing the lips to part the tongue to move outward, to touch, contact lips, now gone. Breasts aflame as liquidness touches their surface, nipples harden, pulse, stretching towards this source of pleasure. Belly opens, like the womb of time itself, opens and releases moisture, demanding. Fingers touch, explore soft contours, like the petals of a rose, one by one unfolding, opening to the sensation of penetration, releasing moisture, as thighs gently bruised by a lovers kiss, back arches, stretches, the abandon of passion sweet.

Adrift upon the tide of passions velvet embrace she soars into unknown realms, realms of pure sensation, each breath etches a lambent flame upon her flesh, forming an alphabet, whose consonants and vowels are the sweet sensations of fulfillment, an orgasmic being, where only the essential, the pleasure of the moment unfolds itself to her saturated senses. Finally pausing, spent, she alights upon a barren plane and in the near distance a mountain range, a castle, brooding, casting its shadow across the terrain, staining the landscape, as if some hideous night born horror dwelt within. Rising, compelled to move towards this monstrosity. Surveying her surroundings, the barrenness reluctantly gives way to fetid swamp, her feet now awash, slime arising from the depths, ankle deep in the mire she makes her way tortuously through the rank undergrowth, the stench released by her footfalls releasing into the air the odor of decay and stagnancy, night creatures make themselves known to her sharpening senses. The slither of serpents rising along the

sinews of her legs, wrap themselves around her as if they would hide her nakedness, searching, probing, exploring her contours. She advances amidst the chorus of nights purple legion.

Swamp gives way to rock and the sharpened fragments of stone now underfoot, causing her to wince, briars in profusion, unyielding meet tender flesh, barbs that enter and tear at her skin, forming fine rivulets of blood travelling along the length of arms and legs, stinging as the night breeze opens her to further sensation. She gasps, her breath coming in halted gulps. Onwards and now upwards she treads, a barely discernible path, flanked by stunted trees and twisted shrubs releasing their perfumes upon the night air, finally gives way to a courtyard, an expanse of broken flagstones, limned with lichen and moss, glowing as with the presence of praeternatural light, weeds appearing in crevices formed by the passage of time. Steps rising and finally a doorway of marble embossed with plaques of metal, strange signs and images, some of nature, some of strange worlds, all carrying a sense of menace. The way is barred to her. Sentinels guard the portal, bestial forms, part human, part beast, raised upon pinions of furred talon, giving way to the torso of humanities perfection, ripe, full breasts and the softness of curves she recognizes well, crowned by a visage of bestial perfection, fangs bared as if awaiting their quarry, who even now passes between them.

A voice, hushed whispers, issues from she knows not where, “what seekest thou, fair creature, the delights of our castle, or perhaps the presence of she who dwells within?” In answer she claims her innocence of any intent, and as a simple traveler has stumbled upon this place, this castle. “Enter and know that shadows and despair await thee”. No way back, she advances to see the door dissolve before her eyes and now she is within a chamber, vaulted, supported upon pillars rising upwards into unfathomable heights, carpets scattered upon bare stone, alcoves containing statuary and images from the past of cultures divers, some human, many not. Recesses containing divans of velvet flanked by candles whose guttering flames cast an amber light upon the chamber. Pausing she takes her rest in order to better survey the immediate surroundings. Along one wall a hearth, the mantle of which is supported by angelic forms, wrapped in their pinions and gazing upwards beatifically. Within the hearth the roaring of flames fed by logs the size of small trees. She rises and advances to this place in search of warmth.

Whispered endearments meet her ears as finally she arrives and is greeted by a being who steps out of the shadows, ink black his skin, red his eyes, of form slender and sinuous, graceful, crowned by a skullcap of filigreed metal. Magnificent in his nakedness he holds within his hands a bowl of beaten brass figured in an unknown cipher. “Drink, fair one, for it will prepare the way.” Reaching out she receives the bowl, raises it to her lips and drinks deeply of its contents, again the taste of almonds and orange blossom assails her senses and carries with it a sense of well

being and rapture. Emptying the contents, swooning, she falls upon a surface of furs and rich velvets and dreams.

! ! ! Awakes to the sound of plainsong interwoven with the susurration of flowing water and the call of night birds. Beneath her back cold stone, she is stretched, arched across a boulder, hands and feet bound by silken cords. Above her, smiling, she stands, awaiting the return to consciousness of her ward. “Fear not the bindings, for I must open your body, your flesh”, comes a whispered voice, caressing her senses with its wine rich depths.

“Long have I awaited you and now the time of waiting is past, be at ease, rest, be attentive for I have a story to tell. Like you I to, was once mortal, shared in the pleasures of the flesh, yet I knew the worm awaited me, the unrelenting passage of time would bring me into its chthonic realm, this I denied with every fibre of my being, sought long for the means of release from this curse, having searched high and low within the confused ramblings of my kind, the promise of celestial paradise, the entrance to hallowed halls of learning and becoming. I finally realized that this served to distract, assuage the inevitable which I too would come to despite my time honored and cherished illusions. Yes I learned of the sweetness that sours in the light of times passing. I knew pain, hurt as any of my kind would, for as a woman I carry the joys of the world within my womb and also its sin. In time I came to know the purity of despair and came to savor the austerity of its bitter sweet taste. I found pleasure a paltry affair, visited infrequently by moments, mere moments of anaesthetic release. No more would this be so, I withdrew and so doing ceased to be as I was, and now, would never be again. For I abandoned my kind and their ways.

And in the desert of despair left this world, leaving only a shadow self to continue the pretence. That shadow continued, retreated further then it too dissolved and joined me and became she who now stands before you. From the pit of suffering and remorse I arose triumphant and made my pact with the lord of this world, the ever present one, thinly guised as pleasure, as pain and the means of release from both. He took me into himself and shared his glory, his secrets, his yearnings, until I finally joined him and knew rapture pure, undefiled by thought and speech, the chatterings of primates scurrying from darkness to darkness complete. Long aeons have I dwelt within my fortress of night, taking my pleasure amongst the legions of the half lives. Distilling from their pleasure and their pain the vital nectar that sustains my form, form which exists within the dark cave of each of their hearts, their lives. They see only my horror and not the beauty of austerity that shines within my heart, the pulse of life that bruises my eyes, eyes that know their hearts and minds. Only suffering they know, for they have not plumbed the depths of despair and its kindred, my offspring. And now I would claim thee as mine fairest

Damiana for I know your heart, your mind and now I would know your flesh.”

So saying she advances and in the silence of her passage Damiana again tastes almond and orange blossom upon her lips as a gentle breeze resolving itself into flesh touches her lips with a stroke so fine and rich. She answers the call and opens her heart to the embrace, an embrace which ignites her flesh once again into rapture, as tiny tongues of flame reach out and touch her. Breast to breast, lips to lips they meld and become one, exploring textures and shapes, tastes and odors of intoxication, lines of fire limning their every angle and contour. Caught upon a wine dark sea travelling from rapture to rapture. Gently she rises wiping the sweat from her brow, from her lips and breasts and looks upon Damiana. “Would you join me fair one and know my Art, my Knowledge?” In silence Damiana answers an assent. “I must open your flesh, let it blossom, strip the kernel that yet binds you and release you into the exaltation of the new flesh.” Advancing she utters a brief plaintive call whereupon she is transformed into the guise of the sentinel encountered in the outer hall, in shadows he advances, black within a deeper black, his eyes glowing in the darkness now all but complete and from the air he plucks a crystal which sparkles within its own light. With this he touches her forehead and she sleeps and dreams of caresses, of kisses, of passion ignited by the touching of flesh to flesh and as passion unfolds itself within the passing of their breath, one to the other he opens her fleshy veil and extracts her essence, bone, blood, organ and muscle does he excise, making of it a mannequin which dances in rapture. And of her essence he shapes a new form and inscribes upon its contours the ciphers of desire, sigils of power, of protection and eternity. Lambent light courses through this new form, sigils form and reform, dancing eternity’s dance of splendor and becoming. The sigils coalesce, writhe and finally meet at a central axis point between her breasts, then dissolve into the new tissue and flesh.

Damiana awakes from her dream to whispered words, caught upon the breeze, “in time you will know my name, for that is secret and undivided, for now go forth and take thy will and pleasure amongst the legions of the living.” And in this way did Damiana meet her mistress and true to her did service through the flesh, opening herself to each and every delight, celebrating the new flesh. And then she met with death one ink black night and now waits for the call that will release her from her leafy grave that she might know glory and the promise of eternity in the arms of her dark lord. He who awaits her arrival on the other side of the veil called appearance.

“Go in peace and rest within the embrace of shadows tender arms”

Damiana ! ! !

Kiss me goodbye. Bow your head and join with me. And face pushed deep. Reflections meet.

The strangest twist upon your lips. And disappear. The ripples clear and laughing Break against your feet.

And laughing. Break the mirror sweet. So we shall be together

Robert Smith

Seven are the seals upon creations countenance

Seven the trumpets that announce the day of redemption

Seven are the visions of the dragon and its kingdoms

Seven the visions that accompany the lamb

Seven are the bowls of gods wrath

Seven the veils upon the lady Babalon

And Seven are the visions of the end of days

And in those days the sons of god beheld beauty upon the Earth and lusted after the daughters of man. Seven were they who defied the logos and left the false paradise of gods beneficence in search of their destiny. Foremost amongst these brave souls was bright Lucifer, lord of the eastern horizon, accompanied by his loyal cohorts and their legions. Numerous as the stars hung upon the night sky were they who descended on that fateful day, the day of redemption. Their journey completed within the passing of a single breath, they alighted upon the Earth and sought pale Lilith within her desert fastness. She, who would be mother to these, the errant sons of god.

The beloved of god, Michael, was the last to see them on that day and into the hands of each he delivered a parchment upon which a seal was placed. This, the judgement of the lord, that his Elohim carry to the Earth the means of humanities redemption.

Into the hands of Lucifer he delivered the parchment of dominion. Into those of Galamael the seal of history. To Salamis the parchment of learning. To Palemon he handed the seal of life and to Azrael he handed that of death. To Malekh, the parchment of mystery and into the hands of Vain he placed the seal of keys. Each of them gazed deeply into the eyes of Michael, their accuser, found no comprehension or understanding, only a sense of pity and remorse. And upon the wings of night a last word is whispered, “farewell.” No more were they seen within the portals of the holy empire, yet they were mourned and in time, forgiven.

Pale Lilith faced the glory of the stars falling to the Earth and greeted the arrival of the Elohim with open arms and a heart filled with a tenderness previously unknown to her. To her encampment she took her wards and began their education in the ways of their new world. The days cascaded like water over a precipice, as many as the grains of sand upon a beach, and in time the rebel angels found comfort within the desert lands of Lilith, their guide and protector. And during this time they learnt the ways of man, a primate barely risen from the pool of inchoate form, possessed of

reason in its infancy, trusting, spellbound by the beauty of the Elohim. Willingly they gave their sons and daughters to these gods and in this way did they gain a soul. Of their unions did the nephilim arise, beings monstrous in form, yet possessing the tongues of angels. The nephilim took to solitude within the mountain ranges to the far north where they scorned both human and Elohim alike. There they founded their empire, an empire of solitude wherein they wove their spells of anonymity and were heard of no more. It was said that they had found a way of leaving Earth. That they lived within the heart of the mountains or had entered the depths of the ocean. All rumour. To the south, the harsh burning grounds, where lived the demons of the world, the issue of Lilith’s ever fertile womb. To the west the human settlements, though few in number, they prospered and thrived as a hunter–gatherer culture, dwelling in small communities, often nomadic, following the seasons changes. And to the east, the ocean, unbounded, covering two thirds of the globe. It was said that the old ones, out of the night of time lay dreaming within its depths awaiting the time of their ascension. Again, rumour.

I am the spring, the holy ground, the endless seed of mystery, the thorn, the veil, the face of grace, the brazen image, the thief of sleep, the ambassador of dreams, the prince of peace. I am the sword, the wound, the stain. Scorned transfigured child of Cain. I rend, I end, I return. Again I am the salt, the bitter laugh. I am the gas in a womb of light, the evening star, the ball of sight that leads that sheds the tears of Christ dying and drying as I rise tonight.

Patti Smith

! ! !

I'll walk with you through space and time, And when sleep is near I will fold you in. I'll disappear with you in clear blue flames. And when our time arrives we will slide through space.

When silence falls and light remains and time is born beneath the sun I'll hide your name inside a word and paint your eyes with false perception. And I feel your mind in everything. And every breath destroys a sound. And I will follow a false sensation. And I'll always believe your blood promise. And every breath I stole from you. And I never will see your perfect body. And you never have spoken an unclear word. And I'll never betray your blood promise.

Michael Gira

Eleonora

I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of passion. Men have called me mad; but the question is not yet settled, whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelligence – whether much that is glorious – whether all that is profound – does not spring from disease of thought – from moods of mind exalted at the expense of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of many things which escape those who dream only by night. In their gray visions they obtain glimpses of eternity, and thrill, in awakening, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, and more of the mere knowledge which is of evil. They

penetrate, however, rudderless or compassless into the vast ocean of the "light ineffable," and again, like the adventures of the Nubian geographer, "agressi sunt mare tenebrarum, quid in eo esset exploraturi." [ they ventured out against the sea of darkness to see what they would find ]

We will say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least, that there are two distinct conditions of my mental existence – the condition of a lucid reason, not to be disputed, and belonging to the memory of events forming the first epoch of my life – and a condition of shadow and doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I shall tell of the earlier period, believe; and to what I may relate of the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it altogether, or, if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the Oedipus.

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly and distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the only sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name of my cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical sun, in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass. No unguided footstep ever came upon that vale; for it lay away up among a range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its vicinity; and, to reach our happy home, there was need of putting back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world without the valley – I, and my cousin, and her mother.

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shadowy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. We called it the "River of Silence"; for there seemed to be a hushing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.

The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling rivulets that glided through devious ways into its channel, as well as the spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom, these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the river to the mountains that girdled it in, were carpeted all by a soft green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla – perfumed, but so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white daisy, the purple violet, and the ruby – red asphodel, that its exceeding beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the glory of God.

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wildernesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall slender stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light that peered at noon – day into the centre of the valley. Their mark was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of ebony and silver, and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so that, but for the brilliant green of the huge leaves that spread from their summits in long, tremulous lines, dallying with the Zephyrs, one might have fancied them giant serpents of Syria doing homage to their sovereign the Sun. Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I with Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, beneath the serpent – like trees, and looked down within the water of the River of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the God Eros from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for centuries distinguished our race, came thronging with the fancies for which they had been equally noted, and together breathed a delirious bliss over the Valley of the Many – Colored Grass. A change fell upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star

– shaped, burn out upon the trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them, ten by ten of the ruby – red asphodel. And life arose in our paths; for the tall flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by little, a

murmur that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that of the harp of Aeolus – sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, all gorgeous in crimson and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, turning all their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, as if forever, within a magic prison – house of grandeur and of glory.

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim; but she was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we walked together in the Valley of the Many – Colored Grass, and discoursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place therein. At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last sad change which must befall Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz, the same images are found occurring, again and again, in every impressive variation of phrase.

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom – that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in loveliness only to die; but the terrors of the grave to her lay solely in a consideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the banks of the River of Silence. She grieved to think that, having entombed her in the Valley of the Many – Colored Grass, I would quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and everyday world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet of Eleonora, and offered up a vow, to herself and to Heaven, that I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth – that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or to the memory of the devout affection with which she had blessed me. And I called the Mighty Ruler of the Universe to witness the pious solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and of her, a saint in Helusion should I prove traitorous to that promise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not permit me to make

record of it here. And the bright eyes of Eleonora grew brighter at my words; and she sighed as if a deadly burthen had been taken from her breast; and she trembled and very bitterly wept; but she made acceptance of the vow, [ for what was she but a child? ] and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, because of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit she would watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were permitted her return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Paradise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her presence, sighing upon me in the evening winds, or filling the air which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. And, with these words upon her lips, she yielded up her innocent life, putting an end to the first epoch of my own.

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in Times path, formed by the death of my beloved, and proceed with the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let me on. – Years dragged themselves along heavily, and still I dwelled within the Valley of the Many – Colored Grass; but a second change had come upon all things. The star – shaped flowers shrank into the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the green carpet faded; and, one by one, the ruby – red asphodels withered away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, eye – like violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered with dew. And Life departed from our paths; for the tall flamingo flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling melody that had been softer than the wind – harp of Aeolus, and more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream returned, at length, utterly, into the solemnity of its original silence. And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gorgeous glories from the Valley of the Many – Colored Grass.

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten; for I heard the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels; and streams of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley; and at lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that

bathed my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct murmurs filled often the night air, and once – oh, but once only! I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the pressing of spiritual lips upon my own. But the void within my heart refused, even thus, to be filled. I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and I left it for ever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the world.

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might have served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many –Colored Grass. The pomps and pageantries of a stately court,

and the mad clangor of arms, and the radiant loveliness of women, bewildered and intoxicated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly these manifestations they ceased, and the world grew dark before mine eyes, and I stood aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed, at the terrible temptations which beset me; for there came from some far, far distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once – at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, indeed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in comparison with the fervor, and the delirium, and the spirit – lifting ecstasy of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? – Oh, bright was the seraph Ermengarde! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. – Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde! and as I looked down into the depths of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them – and of her.

I wedded; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked; and its bitterness was not visited upon me. And once – but once again in the silence of the night; there came through my lattice the soft sighs which had forsaken me; and they modelled themselves into familiar and sweet voice, saying: "Sleep in peace! – for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, and, in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou art absolved, for reasons which shall be made known to thee in Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora."

Edgar Allan Poe

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