Coming to rest at the crest of the hill he takes his rest. Long had been the journey and many a night he had but the memory of stars to serve as shelter. His mount, a steed coal black and steadfast grazed upon the sparse grass that grew in clumps here and there. Below him, dimly seen, the city was laid out before him. Occasional flickering lights being the only sign of its existence. At dawn he would enter the fabled city, but for now he would rest. Dismounting he feels again the solidity of the

earth beneath his feet and as a gentle breeze ruffles his golden hair he thinks upon the day to come and what it might hold for both himself and his kind, for below him lies the city, fabled, spoken of in whispers and to many a simple fancy bred of hope and promise. He was not the first of his kind to undertake the journey of a thousand nights and doubtless would not be the last. Of the former, only rumours had breached the silence and whispered their enticements into expectant ears. Of the latter, only history will tell their tales.

Reaching into the saddlebag that carries all his worldly goods he removes the last of his food and water, spared for this moment after three days of abstinence from both. Removing the saddle from Actea, his given name, and placing it upon the ground it serves as pillow to his reclining form and in the unfolding moments he gives thanks for his safe arrival. Rising he chews at the dried fish and fruit that has served as his banquet throughout his journey, for he has traveled The Boundary Lands where neither man or beast resides and the only creature that braves the barrenness is the sparse grass that clings tentatively to life. Washing it down with the last drops of his water, he rests his head upon the saddle. Around him the breeze dies to an insignificant whisper and mantled by the velvet embrace of night he enters sleep. Were their stars their tales would of interest but such had no place in this place and time, for only the unrelenting void shone in its aloof and indifferent way.

The crossing had taken a thousand nights and fondly he dreams of those he had left. Had he choice, the luxury afforded to all had been denied him for the signs at his birth had both blessed and cursed him with the bitter sweet gall of destiny. Each generation a single soul undertook the journey and in so doing entered the oblivion that others mark as history.

When we speak such platitudes as, the day to come, it is not to be assumed that a dawning brings the day star into ascendancy, such here, like all else, does not exist. Only the fabled city holds The Boundary Lands stable and were it not so all would be consigned to the realm of dream.

Hypnos finally relented and released our nameless traveller to the air, if not the light of day. Some way off Actea, sensing his awakening leaves his world and joins his master and his bidding. He saddles Actea and in the matter fitting for such events leads him down the step incline that borders the plain, the final stage of his journey. Not a whisper creases the silence, only the expectant hush witnesses the moment. The scree underfoot raises clouds of dust into the air and forms a haze before his eyes. Finally he reaches the featureless plain that stretches out before him and again giving thanks for his safe arrival he takes the first step

upon the Plain Of Reason, so called. It is upon this plain that Reason and its siblings belief and faith finally dissolve and all that remains is shadows, shadows which continue, step by step the final stage of his thousand night quest. With each step a single memory is erased, for here there is no place for memories master and with the passing of time is our traveler prepared, for only the truly empty might be filled.

Far off the city bathes in its own absence of light and our traveler stripped of memory is all but confounded. What is this place and why am i here? A moment of doubt passes as the final memory is quenched and all that remains is to but continue. The air thickens and his steps become laboured. Actea travels no further, comes to a halt and patiently awaits his masters return? Sensing his solitary condition our traveller continues and before him out of the air a being emerges that were memory to exist would terrify, for it bears the name of fear. The foolhardy have met the shadow of fear and perished in its relentless grip, left the arena and have deemed this wisdom. Only the foolhardy may continue for they are bereft of a place that fear and its countless forms may enter and finding no place of entry dissolves into the void from whence it briefly emerged.

Unaware of what has just passed our traveler continues and is now midway across the plain when what remains of his senses is presented with the first of many illusions he is to encounter. Before him stand two gateways and the presence of choice. The first formed of water ripples in the absence of light whilst the second is formed of rusted iron. Water and Metal, the primary vehicles stand before him, each whispers, enter me foolhardy one and claim thy reward. Seductive indeed but in the absence of memory there remains nothing that might be seduced and with an unfaltering step our traveler passes between the gates and continues his journey. Had he wisdom a gateway he would have chosen and entered but in the absence of such he can but continue and in so doing the gateways dissolve into the elements from whence they came and a sigh of relief is all that disturbs the pristine silence.

The Plain Of Reason traversed our traveler dissolves and enters the void that stretches out before him. All that remains of consciousness is a seed rooted in the matrix of Will and it alone blessed by Grace may complete this part of the journey. Here Knowledge fails. Here Wisdom bows its belaboured head and accepts defeat. Here Faith dissolves in the absence of that it would hold to be true, Here Power is rendered sterile and cast as sand upon the void. Grace alone permits the

journey to continue and that is granted to those who have ascended from The Vale Of Tears, left The Palace Of exiles and have entered The boundary Lands. The others, of whom only rumours remain are consumed within the fires of their success and remain in that palace unaware of failure, this guised as compassion assuages the pain and grants a semblance of completion.

Liquid gold coalesces from shadows and flows as breath which our traveler takes into his lungs and he knows rapture. History reflected upon a dull mirror passes before him. Here the noble pharaoh invoked the essence and seeded magick into the void. Here the noble roman brought the world to its knees in the name of Pax Romana. Here the tribes of germania raised a serpent that gorged on its own venom perished in The Night Of Time. Here Damiana dreaming in her grave summoned the dread one and died in her embrace. Here the Archons and Vesicas in quietude do dream upon the infinite. Here the Avatars seeded their lies and claimed the soul of life and cast it as if a rag upon the mirror of truth. Here blood flowed ceaselessly and death claimed dominion.

All this passes and is witnessed not, for the aethyrs, burnished gold become as a single drop, distilled in the heart and cast forth upon the void carries our traveller further along his way and all that now remains is a dimly perceived shadow that limns the contours of the fabled city. Here we can but pass into metaphor as our traveler falls to his knees and is consumed by exhaustion that would end his journey and that which has been called life stands as this exhaustion, for we are consumed in its fires. Will he succumb? Will he claim his rest? The seed that burns at the heart of that which yet remains casts a shadow and our traveller enters this and before him the fabled city finally reveals itself and consciousness returns and into its barque he climbs and sails upon the breeze across the dreamzones that form the portal into the fabled city. Sight diminishes and The Night Of Time emerges from the void and our traveler disembarks and stands before the pylons of the temple, each etched in opal and lapis and at their heart the avatars lay dreaming.

Summoning what little remained of his awareness our traveller steps upon the plinth that lay at the foot of the pylons and upon so doing is released and becomes as an ebon sun whose rays shine not. Between the realms of reason and the irrational lies fertile soil that only the rare and unfortunate soul can cultivate, for in paradox is meaning to be discerned, if meaning serves as important? Edgar Allan Poe once scribed it elegantly in his introduction to Eleonora, words I might have given voice to if he had not done so first. But we digress. What has become of our traveller? Ambiguous at best, suffice to say that there is a light, an

object and a shadow. If we were to labour the point, for clarities sake. In the absence of a light source no object can cast a shadow. In the absence of an object, no shadow can be cast. In the absence of a shadow there is either no object or light source. We labour the point for indeed within the fabled city the source of light exists. This we call Solus Noir. There is an object, that capable of receiving and holding light within its embrace, this we have called Samael who in conjunction with his consort invoke and open the portal. There is a shadow, this we call avatar and this is how our traveler fulfills his destiny.

Twin pylons stand within the void during The Night Of Time and their presence is all that stands between vision and folly. The erudite might profit by closely examining the nature of the word Egregore for therein lies our logic, albeit far removed form reason but as described earlier this and all other attributes are stripped during such a journey as undertaken by our traveller. To what purpose you might ask and for answer, because it is there to do so. Value has no meaning in the treasure house of the mind and those of lesser stature than our traveller have profited greatly from the font of wisdom and this was the final veil, drawn aside that revealed the pristine nature of the fabled city.

A spark of light, yes light, flickers behind the closed eyelids of him we have known as traveller and with it awareness rises into singularity and rising he leaves the plinth upon which he recently had lain. All about him has resolved itself into a semblance of normality for he finds himself in an elegant room facing a wall upon which hangs a representation of all that we have spoken of. Now choice enters the equation. Remain and become a child of mystery or leave and enter the house Of Dolls. Truth to tell, choice is a conceit for our natures compel us towards that which has been destined and we but serve as destinies puppets as we strut all but briefly upon the stage that is our life and world.

The scene dissolves and we find our traveller upon a hilltop accompanied by Actea. He stands wondering what will be his lot as he enters the fabled city on the morrow.

The dust finally settled and all that remained of the windstorm were the last fleeting whispers, almost sighs, as the air stilled and its memory of the recent turbulence slipped into oblivion. Removing the mask from her face and the silk that served as a veil she looks around the room and surveys the damage left in the wake of the windstorm. What had once been opulent and certainly decadent had been reduced to debris that barely resembled its original

form. Here a picture, its frame reduced to tinder, lay upon the floor and what had once been a smile on the face of its subject had now become a grimace. Glancing to her side she caught a partial reflection in a shard of mirror breaking the surface of the sea of dust beneath her feet.

Her face, not quite as she recalled but it would serve. The crossing had been particularly irksome, though they said it would be different this time and as ever they had lied. She fondly grasps the shard of memory that lies buried deep in her heart and reflects it upon the mirror of memory. The fabled city wherein she yet dwells as she recalls the chamber which served as her exit from the realm of dreams into the even less substantial realm in which she was now cast.

The dust surrounding her, now long settled serves as a mantle beneath which he recall ascends into consciousness as she takes her first tentative step across the room, reaches a door and as she clasps its handle a tendril of sensation informs her now longer senses. The room dismantled and dismembered now fades and her exit is attended by a thousand voices raised in prayer and celebration. For again the House Of Dolls has been breached and the day star bids her welcome. Before her a turquoise plain of rolling hills beckons and upon a path of amethyst that weaves its way through the hills she steps.

A stream of liquid gold undulates across the terrain and this she must follow for as it is written all finds its source in the ocean that claims all and takes us into its eternal embrace. The sun above warms her and the air fills with the sound of birdsong and in the distance, perhaps a half days walk she hears the oceans swell and the taste of ozone upon her lips. The dust that once limned h body is washed away as a mist like rain tinted emerald envelops her form and cleanses her of the remaining detritus, so recently her identity. Renewed and attired in a flowing gown of the whitest lace she kneels and gazes into the stream and beholds again her recently acquired shape and form.

Almond eyes gaze back at her, golden stained violet at their hearts below which a nose aquiline and predatory crowns lips rich and full. High cheekbones display her noble heritage and the tumbling waterfall that crowns her flows ebon down shoulders delicate and strong. Rising she beholds her body cased in the finest lace which reveals in its subtlety the body beneath. Lithe yet muscular fro she is bred of the fey, warriors and mages and generations of her kind poured their life essence into her becoming over the millennia that have passed unheeded. Beneath a willow, roots drinking of the stream serves as her arbor and she sits, embraced by the

dryad within. The air sparkling and alive with the fluttering of butterfly and lacewing evokes a drowsiness which she embraces and she dreams. A dragonfly rests upon her upraised knee and joins her in her reverie.

And in the depths of her recall memory surfaces and she briefly returns to that which she has come to know as home. Had it been so long since she walked the marbled halls that led to forest beyond? How long had it been since she had dipped trembling fingers into the nectar that was the lifeblood of this ancient world? Had memory been so erased by the travail that ensued upon the arrival of the shadows. A once verdant world reduced to marsh and quagmire. So nearly lost, so far away and yet but a whisper and all is reclaimed and the shadows dissolve into the void, banished, never to return. Into her reverie steps a figure limned in lightning and with a voice of softest silk whispers, “come for I await thee” And with this recall she rises into wakefulness, rubs the dust of sleep from her eyes and greets the dragonfly that upon hearing her voice takes to the air on gossamer wings and returns to his task of patrolling the stream in quest of his own needs.

Rising, having rested well she continues to follow the undulations of the stream that acts as guide upon this her maiden voyage in this new form. Time passes and with it rolling hill resolves itself into the foothills of a mountain range, peaks capped in clouds of cerise and gold. Flanks dressed in a robe of wildflowers amongst which bees eagerly gather the nectar that rises like a mist into the air. To her left she marks the presence of a cave, its entrance dividing the waterfall that flows down the flanks of the mountain above. She enters the mist of rainbow that informs the air and enters the cave. A narrow passageway cut into the bedrock leads to a gallery of cathedral like proportions. Pools of liquid crystal adorn the surface of that upon which she now walks. Outcroppings of sulphur iridescent cling to walls, veins of gold weave their way across distant walls and from the far distant roof of this vast edifice hang crystals of quartz and amethyst. Light entering the cave becomes a symphony of sound and colour and before her a raised surface informs her ever sharpening senses and towards this she walks.

The steps she climbs, etched by natures hand led to a chamber wherein upon a lectern of brass adorned with ebony carvings rests The Book Of Life, whose pages she was sent to read. The book open upon a page of purest vellum is etched in cipher and image she knows to be the Axiomata. Long had been her preparation and the study of the ancient ways had initiated her into the apprehension of the alphabet of desire. The ink that formed the cyphers was drawn from the hearts of all that had entered this sacred place and the images were drawn from the tapestry that served as a portrayal of their lives and its memories. With reverence her fingertips

brush the surface of the page and what was once ink scribed upon a surface of vellum now rises as light and before her eyes the dance of the Axiomata unfolds. An embryo bathed in amniotic oceans embrace with a cry becomes a babe held in loving arms, tiny hands reach out and grasp flesh and she begins to learn. An infant stumbling upon legs yet to bear her traverses a room huge to her developing senses and clasps the edge of a chair before her and steadies her shaking body. A girl upon a swing, the wind in her hair rejoices in the sense of flight and freedom. A young woman feels a glow as her lips are parted and she shares her first kiss and dissolves into the purity of its embrace. This and more she reads in the cyphers alight upon the air.

Deeper the Axiomata travel as beneath a sea of stars the first of beings, the Grigori raise their voice in celebration of life. Millennia of evolution unfolded and the watchers, witnesses to life’s mystery entered the matrix of form and lay dreaming within their masks of wonder.

Protohuman looks upwards and wonders at the mystery that surrounds them. Language evolve and the dawn of consciousness begins to its reveal its fable. Nature, man and beast, leaf and stem, stone and water, fire and aethyr dance in the unity and the Grigori deep with in their dreams stir.

Empires rise, only to fall into the dust from whence they come and cycle upon cycle unfolds. Belief, the home of the feeble claims life in its unrelenting grasp and squeezes the lifeblood of its servitors and offers this as sacrifice to its infernal god. The Grigori rise from their slumbers, called forth by the mother, she who has nurtured them throughout eternity and into their outstretched hands she places the seal of dominion.

Reading from the Book Of Life Damiana continues her quest and as the Axiomata continue to dance upon the air the cavern in which she stands trembles and the windstorm without begins to rage and were you of a foolhardy disposition and entered this sacred place, which resides outside the circles of time and life your eyes would be greeted by the sight of the fairest of maidens enraptured as she gazes into the aethyrs that now form her essence and form. Eternal she stands, witness to all that unfolds and her tale is cyphered in the stars, who whispering across the void witness the despair that has become life’s reward.

Shed not a tear for those who have passed

Cast not a sigh upon air now spent

Bind not the free to your temple of woe

Gut rather rejoice in the freedom gainsaid by life

In the immortal lands of deliverance therein i dwell

The children, three in number gazed longingly at the row of shelves before them, carved of oak lovingly polished to a sheen that reflected the room in which it stood. The dwindling light of evening descended into the first promise of the night to come. Rachel, the eldest clasped her younger brothers hand in hers as Samantha stood aloof at the far end of the room. What are they, Stephan asked of his older and wiser sister? Dolls, was her reply for their father had not, until this day

permitted them to breach the secret entrance that was the door to this room. Long had they, beneath the sheets of their beds wondered as to what it was that lived on the other side of this mysterious door and then one day to their delight he had led them into its now accepting arms. It seemed that hours had passed when Rachel, always the first to notice such things became aware of a change in the room. Let us be clear the word room is quite inadequate when it comes to describing this most mysterious of places. In the world beyond the confines of this room all existed in an ordered and predictable fashion. The house, of modest structure stood amongst others of its kind, sporting a garden both at the front and rear. Of contemporary design a passerby would not have given it a second glance. The rooms well appointed spoke of domesticity incarnate and whilst they showed the scars of cohabiting with three small creatures, all was to be as expected. The lounge gave way to a dining room that led into a garden at the rear. The Kitchen, rustic in appearance spoke more of a country cottage than a dwelling in the city. Stairs led to three bedrooms and a bathroom. The bedrooms housed Rachel who was old enough to have her own room. Next door and to Samantha’s ever present horror was the room she shared with Stephan. The third room was occupied by their father, a gentle and unimposing man who delighted in nothing more than caring for his oftimes challenging children. Their mother, now a slowly diminishing memory had passed on many years ago and as father often said was in a far better place. This had perplexed the children for where could be better than right here with us? But then that is how children perceive things in their simplicity. Above under the eaves lay the equally mysterious attic, again often speculated upon in the small hours. The room in which they stood was located in the cellar and though of modest proportions appeared cavernous to small enquiring minds. Enquiring minds who had relentlessly, over the years attempted to break down the barrier between them and the contents of this room and today, to their utter delight victory was theirs and here they now stood before shelves adorned with dolls of all descriptions.

May we touch them, Rachel, the ever polite one asked her father? Of course my dear he replied, one day they will be your responsibility and it is only right that you become acquainted. They came into my possession when I was not much older than you are now. It was my mother who guided me into my present understanding of their nature and existence and whilst at first I could not believe, the passing of time has revealed much of the mystery that surrounds them. We are keepers my dear, those entrusted with the safekeeping of the vault of memory and though this may be beyond your present comprehension, all will reveal itself in time. For now you may

become familiar with them and as you do so they will tell you their own unique stories. Where shall we start father? Let your heart guide you dearest one he replied and upon hearing this Rachel reached out and from the shelf she removed a rather rugged and handsome young man. Ah said her father, the Traveller you hold in your hands. His tale is unique and during his lifetime he undertook a journey that brought him to the threshold of mystery and yet, like all such, was he finally consigned to our care. Boldly Samantha reached out and from the shelf she removed a second doll. Her father sighed as if memory claimed him, my dear you have chosen Damiana. She came into our care but recently and the echoes of her time still resound across the walls we now share. She will reveal herself in time but for now lies dreaming, as do all the who have recently crossed. Not to be left out of the fun Stephan, releasing his sisters hand stepped forth and removed a third doll from the shelf. Ah the Muse was all his father would say and so saying asked the children to place the dolls where they had found them that they might leave and have an early supper, one which they might choose, for today was a day for celebration.

Settled in their modest dining room they talked excitedly about what had transpired whilst their father prepared their favourite dish of pasta and seafood and as he did so tantilising smells, escaping the kitchen reminded them of what was to come and with this expectation their bellies began to rumble. After what seemed forever he emerged from the kitchen weighed down by the biggest tray you can imagine and upon this four plates piled with the aforementioned, garlic bread and four large glasses of homemade lemonade, courtesy of Rachel who delighted in the making of such a delicious drink. Placing the plates and glasses before them and setting the garlic bread in the middle of the table they paused momentarily to give thanks for the bounty before them and without further ado tucked into the feast.

Such excitement and the wonders of the day, as always, can be exhausting to little ones and though they all managed the daily ritual of brushing teeth and reordering the chaos that was also their hair, off to bed they went with a parting kiss, as always from father.

Beyond The Vale Of Belief nestled somewhere between Knowledge and Truth lies a tiny kingdom unknown to all but the few. Within this realm the Grigori were born and dwell eternally, their sole quest to attend to the budding leaves of consciousness so that evolution might realize itself and though the lives of common man are, in the main, oblivious of such, all participate in the pageant that has been named Life.

Were you a man, woman or child you would be consigned to the halls of Eden wherein you dwell, as you always have. Those of wisdom have claimed all in their name. Those of knowledge have consigned all to the narrow confines of their beliefs. Those of power have made of thee a servant. Those

of faith, with wringing hands have cast you upon the crucifix of their suffering and removed you from Eden’s gaze. And yet all remains as vanity for whether beggar or prince, maiden or queen all are consigned to the care of the keepers and into the House Of Dolls are you consigned for eternity. So as you lay dreaming in your beds each night spare a thought for those who have passed before you and to those who will pass long after you have gone and were their purpose, it would be as simplicity shining in the darkness of anonymity.

The keepers, ever vigilant, nurture the seed of possibility. Water it with kindness and the warmth of their sun shines so that root, stem, leaf and blossom might know its season. A human soul is a rare thing and though life claims thee as one of its own do not think that makes of you a human being. Such a thing is likewise rare and as you stumble, somnambulant like from one moment to the next, pause and reflect upon the essence of which you be but a dim reflection and forge from that understanding a weapon with which you might do battle with the ever advancing wave of uniformity that threatens to quench the fire of all but the strongest and even they might ultimately succumb? The Traveller, Damiana and the Muse are three such amongst the countless numbers that dwell within the House Of Dolls.

Adieu … …

Damiana Evohe London England May 26 2012ev 1.09pm

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