[Eadha Deora]

Synopsis: a mythic journey within, my "The Cave" tale rewritten and completed.


The mist is so thick, so deep that it feels as if the world were suffocating. My hair hangs damp upon my brow and neck, the little curls sticking to my pale, wet face. I can feel the water around me; it is as if I am pushing my way through the water below me and the water above me and the water all around me. But I am not propelling my little boat at all: it moves silently, almost eerily, of their own will. Sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of watery hands pulling my little shoon along to who knows where. They know. I have no comprehension of where I am or what the hour is, for here there seems to be no place or time. I scrub the condensation of air-tears that roll down my cheek. I would have said I was crying save that I knew I was not. There is no sound save the ebb and deep song of the waters that plummet down below me. Their greenish tint casts an odd glow over the white mist, which is no longer white but green like the water. I shiver suddenly, as a cold draft edges into my bones and overtakes my flimsy craft. A sense of mystery sets upon me, like the desire to know, the desire to see what is not known. I cannot forget all the tales that I heard when I was little: dear, dear stories of journeys between the worlds, of the mists that remove time and of the secrets hidden within these middle places. I close my eyes, listening, opening all my senses. Come, Seeker. Come with us. We lead you to the Cave of Truth, to the Blessed Isle of Hidden Things. The voices are fluid, fading, and I feel the waters within my spirit sing with them, the motion of the ocean. In my mind I see watery faces and queer eyes the color of the deepest pool. They are solemn, almost sad, and I can feel the wrenching mourning in them. They make my heart ache, so much that I wish to sleep and swim in the Sea of Beginning. But the beings lull, Not now. Not now. Open your eyes, Seeker. Open, open, open. They lead on.

I gradually raise my eyelids to peek about me, a wonderment suddenly capturing me. Through the impenetrable mists, I can discern a lonely island. Its shore is small but lovely and soft, all velvety sands and murmuring reeds, yet between me and it are threatening rocks that bare their daggers menacingly. I dare not pull in there. Past the beach, there are little hills--such a lush green with old, strong oaks growing on them. Even an apple tree. Ancient, sacred trees. The grove appears well-tended, though I see no flowers. The most beautiful music fills my ears: I hear strains of a weeping pipe, lamenting of loss in one moment and then laughing for joy in the next. Oh the power of the tune! It fills my heart with such a bittersweet feeling of loss and yet discovery that I do not know to weep and wail or to laugh and sing. I sit there breathless, allowing the pipe to weave its spell upon me. My little boat follows the edge of the island around at a safe distance from the shoals. Eventually, I peer up at the sky, surprised to see a pinnacle of stone rising from out of the tiny island. The tower of stone is perfectly smooth, as if some divine hand had carved it out carefully with ages of rain--beautiful, soft, gentle rain. As I continue round the island, I notice a nearly imperceptible beacon at the top of the pinnacle, a fire that manages to burn unquenched by the heavy shroud of mist. Who tends the light? I notice a sort of large rock, more of a cliff, that stands solidly behind the pinnacle. It is a greying brown, almost the same color as the soft sand of the beach; the cliff is short and squat though, in comparison to the ever-rising tower.

My eyes have been so absorbed in observing the wonders of this land that I forget to see where I am going, and in one swift moment, my view is cut off for my craft has been guided into a cave, so dark for a moment that I am fearful, wondering what hungry creature might dwell here awaiting my arrival. But then I see a faint light, more of a glittering. The walls flicker with white sparks, and as I continue in unto the cave, my eyes adjust to the darkness. Such beauties there that my eyes can barely believe it. Hundreds and thousands of glittering stones cover the walls and ceiling of the cave, so much so that they give off a light that burns soft and sweet. My reflection stares back at me from their mirror-cracked surface, a shattered, crusted ghost of numbness. I see the water is deep here too and I still fear that creatures might lurk somewhere near. Then ahead there is a little landing, a place where I can easily moor my poor excuse for a ship. I pull myself to it by grabbing the protruding crystals on the wall until I reach the spot. There I climb out and stand, lifting up the wooden craft and placing it higher up out of the reach of the water's potentially treacherous hands. The cave carries an ancient hymn within it, a song of life, and I feel safe here beyond explanation suddenly. Fear of evil creatures fades from my mind as I stare into the waters, listening to her words, listening to the healing murmur of this deep place. Ancient places of safety, where Time is naught and Existence is complete. The womb, the warm nurturing of life, protected and nourished by the Mother. Life ebbs through her veins; from Her waters we come; from Her womb we come; from within, from the secret places of the world. She passes Her love and life through the cord, into all creatures' beings. The cord is strong, very strong, and none can completely sever it. I catch myself drifting upon the River Sleep and I call myself back. For a moment I hesitate, the sweet sleep beckoning me. But I open my eyes and glance behind me.

There is a hole, an opening, quite small, and from without it comes a faint light. I stare over the cave once more and then back at the Door. Yes, I must pass through there. I must get onto my belly as best I can in the cramped space that is left me, for there are two rocks large that reduce my area of movement. I wriggle little by little, pushing my head through, trying so hard. I feel the stone opening to be smaller than I thought, and it hurts very much. Getting my shoulders through is quite an ordeal in itself. I squirm and strain until I feel nearly exhausted with the effort, but I get down to my waist through. Now my hips, oh how hard. I reach my hands forward, trying in vain to grasp something, anything, but I cannot find a hold. I am stuck and as my breath grows labored, I begin to fear that I will never be free of the squeezing passage. I feel my throat become swollen and thick as I strive not to release the flood that builds up behind the dams, but soon the waters overflow and I lay there weeping. It's as if there is no point to anything. I cannot express the pain that builds in my heart, deep in my very essence, and the weight of my past begins to crush me. I came here seeking, for what I don't know, but perhaps for healing, perhaps to understand why I had to go through all it was that I endured. Maybe I just wanted to be reassured that life was still worth living. The voices had spoken something concerning truth. But here I am, immobilized and I can not deny the warm tingle of blood I feel at my fingertips from clawing at the ground for so long. In one last moment of bitterness, I fling my hands forward, to beat my fists upon the ground. And two hands, soft and supple, grasp mine. I cannot see who it is for as of this moment, my vision is blurred, partially from the tears and partially from being in the dark so long. The hands pull me. For a moment, I utter a pained groan as my arms feel like they will rip from their sockets. But then I am free--or I think I am free for then I realize that a devious vine has wrapped itself around my middle in such a twisted fashion that I cannot wriggle free of it. I am tied to the hole, and all the anxiety begins to rush back into my spirit. And I am stumbling up from the ground, still holding on to the hands that must have worked magick of a sort to release me from my chains; ay, still holding on with a death grip in fear of losing myself again to the sorrow that had overcome me. I hear a gasp as the hands perceive the fluid I have marred them with is blood. I cannot see anything: it is all too bright. Being in the darkness so long, what seemed a year, leaves my entire being to ache, yearning to stretch the parts of me that were cramped and confined beyond comfort. The hands try to let go and I burst into tears, not comprehending why they would want to leave me. There is a great fear within me that causes me to shake all over. Those hands mean security.


"There now," the hands' voice soothe. "All shall be well. But we must tend your injuries; you must be clean and pure." The voice is so calming, as if it were hushing a wailing babe or nervous beast. I feel my heartbeat drop to a steady thu-thump, slow breathing easing through my body. I nod in response, biting my lip until it draws blood--what a bloodied day. I draw blood in an effort not to release my inward storm. I hear a ripping sound, like cloth hastily being torn, and then the hands are back, gently bandaging my sore yet numb fingers. I open my mouth to murmur my gratitude, but I am stopped. No voice! No voice! I cannot speak nor utter a syllable! It's as if my voice, my very world, has been stolen. My own speech lost! I feel frantic with this discovery and try to grunt as if distressed, but even that fails. "I am mute and blind. I cannot see the world and the world cannot hear me! All is lost for how may I ask the proper questions if I lack speech? And how may I know the proper questions to ask if I cannot make use of my sight?" I scream inside, wishing with all my heart that I could howl like a wolf stricken down by his enemy, feeling the loss of everything in a moment, an eternal moment. Then I grab one of the hands and pull it up to my lips, to show it how I am trying to form words. I pull the hand up to my eyes and place the fingers on my eyelids. A tunnel.

"Come," the voice says. And I follow. What choice do I have? I could stand there unbudging, but right now I feel like a little child, helpless and hungry for love. Or hope. The hands still clutch my own, but in such a gentle way, as they lead me through the tunnel. It is not really a tunnel, but that is how my vision is, for I know that I am outside, but all I can behold is a light ahead somewhere. The voice of the hands is a she. She leads me, yes, but it is more as if she guides me, for I walk in step with her and she next to me. So careful she is; but I feel a quivering in her hands. I know not why she shakes slightly, but it causes me to murmur within, "All lies well." Strange words for me indeed. Is it not at this moment that I can barely think these words without being overcome with weeping or wishing? Yet I think them nonetheless, and I am surprised that her quivering actually intensifies. I can see something blurrily though the tunnel of black: a pure whiteness, as light, with a rounded, darker object nodding as if understanding my thoughts. How could she possibly understand? All the past, the present. How could she possibly understand that as well? I want to slap the bobbing item, choke it, cause it to stop. Restraint. I inhale deeply, and suddenly notice a fragrance, a fruit smell so sweet that my mouth begins to water. The dark figure suddenly produces a small object, round like a child's tiny ball made of blown-up pig's bladder.

'Mamai! Please! May I have the ball, please! . . . Why thank you, Mamai.' The little child hugs it to her chest and trips outside to roll it along the ground. Mamai had blown it up with the porky's bladder. It bounces and reacts to the earth beneath it as she shoves it here and there. The ball is so soft, so joyous. It makes her want to dance. 'Mamai dances the prettiest of all the women in the tuath, but we don't go to the festivals much seeing the people are so mean to poor Mamai. It's so unfair! She never did anything wrong.'

I reach out to touch it, only my senseless fingers feel nothing. So I rub it against my face. It is smooth, oh so smooth, as a stone wrought flawless by water's tireless work. The sweet smell seemingly radiates from this stone, and it feels warm, hard, as I rub it across my lips. What is this? I wonder.

"An apple, 'tis an otherworldy fruit, is it not?" the voice asks, much to my astonie. Gradually, my sight is clearer and the light is brighter and more at hand. First I notice the green around me as if I am amidst a forest. Then, I can make out the figure next to me better. And finally, when I can see, I am speechless. The voice belongs to a girl who must have been of the otherworld, for who could be so fair and sweet and lovely? She is draped in a plain dark green shift drawn tight at the shoulders, but she wears it as if she is adorned in the most precious of silks and furs and broidered beads with gold. Her face is the palest of pale, so white that I can catch the luminancy of the moon in her complexion, and I see the little blue veins around her eyes. Her figure is slender and petite, but she manages a sort of queenly bearing that transforms her height to taller. Her lips are full and lush, yet partly open as if somewhat bemused, somewhat baffled. But then again, it is as if they constantly hold some dewdrop of song, poetry, or wisdom. How to describe her hair? It is fire yes, but more of a russet auburn, curling perfectly and faming her face to create the sense of an aura of silky beauty, yet power and passion. Her lashes are thick, most becoming. Everything about her is queenly--except her eyes. Her eyes invoke such strange and mixed emotions that I cannot explain for lack of words. They are deep, bottomless wells of limitless absorption and comprehension. I look into her eyes and see the ages of the world, all the pain and suffering that has existed and co-existed along with all the beauty and rapture too. I see there wisdom beyond ken, and perception beyond intaking. Is she a goddess?-I understand those eyes for what they are: the eyes of a seer. They are a pale blue with pale green around the brown centers. And they are quite glassy, distant and yet present, as if she sees what is not there. Yes, she holds the Sight; I can guess that much. She walks with me for a long time. I think in amazement how large the island is, though it had seemed so small before. Suddenly, the wood we are walking in opens up to reveal vast hills, perfectly voluptuous and lush, the tall greenish-blue long-grass rippling in the slight breeze as waves on the ocean would. Her eyes become queer as she looks up at the sky where the mist still hovers. She speaks and her voice is low and sad, like the dirge of a warrior who knows his doom. "I must keep this place safe for it is the Last Haven. I keep the Well and the Fire, testimonies of the Old Ones through Time. Watcher and Keeper, I see all, but can do nothing unless the Seeker comes to me." The earth seems to resonate with come, come, come. I know I have come to the mysterious isle where truth and deep things merge-but I feel so closed, still shivering after the ordeal of the cave.

I stare at her and begin to trudge through the silky grass, leaving a thin, snaking path behind me. She follows me. I cannot speak. What is the purpose to that? Why did I lose my voice? I push on blindly, not sure where I am going. But it does not matter to me. I want to find the Truth. But how to seek it correctly? Finally, I stop and turn around to express my inquiry with a look of perplexion, but she is not there! She has disappeared, and I wonder whether she was spirit or real. I cannot see above the grass because it is so tall. The grass is like thousands of trees, an impenetrable isolation. And the path I had trampled down is gone too. It is as if I had simply dropped out of the sky and landed right here where I stand. The sun feels hot though I don't know how that is possible with the dense clouds above. The plant-ocean waves as the wind blows, creating beautiful ripples. I cannot really see it, but I know what it looks like. I know the feeling and am thankful for the breeze beneath the pitiless sun. I sit down where I stand, right near a hill.

"Mamai, tell me a story, please. I want a story!" The slender, overworked woman lifts her child into her lap and the little one settles its head against her breast, already contented and listening, motionless save for one finger that slides in and out of its mouth, wet and dripping baby-drool. The woman smiles down at her child and then stares out the hole of the tiny hovel. "What story would you like, dear heart?" The child shrugs its little shoulders and waits for the enchantment spell to begin. This weaving had been done countless times before, the beautiful tapestry of rhythm, words, tone, and expression. The wind blows hard outside, almost as if it seeks to strip the ground bare of grass. But the sun shines warm, very warm, tripping into the room with its friendly flow. "Ah, aye. I know, Love. One day Wind and Sun were having a conversation. Wind was very boastful and laughed at Sun because she did not have the strength he did. Sun smiled kindly at the Wind and sighed, 'Perhaps'. This made Wind angry and he declared that they should have a contest, to prove who was greater, stronger. Below, in a field, a man busily tilled the earth, striving to coax a little bit of food from the hard soil. Wind sneered upon seeing him and said, 'Whoever can force the man-creature to take off his wrappings will be best'. Sun agreed. So Wind blew and blew and blew. The poor man had to hold onto a tree trunk to prevent being blown away. And for all that Wind tried, his futile, forceful efforts only made the man huddle and close in on himself more, making it near impossible to remove the coverings he had wrapped around him. Wind became furious and ripped and tore at the coverings, trying to yank them off like a bad brother might snatch the covers off his other brother's bed. But the Wind could not make the man remove his coverings. He huffed, 'Well, these man-creatures are stubborn and cannot be forced to do anything. I doubt that you, Sun, could possibly conquer him.' Sun smiled warmly at Wind and murmured, 'Perhaps'. She then sent forth her warm, loving rays of light upon the man who had begun tilling again. The man looked up at the Sun and smiled. She smiled back and began to caress him with her gentle heat. The man easily removed his wrappings and continued working. Wind was furious as never before, but he also felt quite ashamed that he had tried to boast about his strength. Sun had been wiser than he. Little One, remember that--open up to others." Her words drifted away as the little one fell asleep.

Lessons. I smile at the memory. How I loved my mother. But the happiness is overshadowed by the other memories, the later memories, the evil wights that I came here seeking for the stake to impale them upon, writhing, abominable drakes of pain and remembering. The Truth. I knew the Truth--but how to deal with it? That is why I am here. I am stretched out on my back, looking up at the mist that sinks down like airy snow. The ground below me trembles, causing me to sit up in wonder. Examining the hill closer, little white stones poke out like ancient rubble-teeth, a wall for the hill-this knoll is not natural, I suddenly consider. I circle round to the other side, and sure enough, facing west, there stands the entrance. I shiver as a damp, warm breath seeps from the hole of this sidhe, resonating like a ripple in time and thought. All around me are hills, a land of the faded, sleeping life, death of the past. The burial mound does not fill me with fear though; instead that same sleep that wooed me in the cave, it shines on the edge of my senses, a shimmering shudder of something that is like a dream. Inwards I am falling, the place sucking me into her walls, like a worn hollow in the stone is filled with puddled liquid. My senses slipping, all is dark, all is deep, but a warm buzzing barely eludes my ears. It originates from the same rumbling I had felt before, but this was like a star shivering or a quiver on the river-surface, so effervescent, so evading, that I am not even sure it was there to begin with. The resonance increases though, humming of the spirit as it emerges. My body-do I have one? I am the dark song, vibrating with a presence-essence. From the song arise soft, gleaming triskelles, turning in golden cycle with their fading impressions upon my darkened spirit. They slip before me, symbols sacred but intangible, for I reach but they melt into the depths, leaving me stricken down, lost to this place where the earth-melody weaves powerful waves that overwhelm little by little, not crashing upon me as an ocean-flood, but wearing away like water lapping in a pool against a stone through the ages, until it is worn down to perfection. This place delves its fingers upon me, molding and holding me in its bosom. I lie a puddle on the cool ground, seeping into the serenity-or the spirit seeping into me. Nothing matters, nothing is for all drifts far away, leaving me on this subterranean island of sense that is not sense and presence that does not exist. I float, and then from somewhere a pale gleam swims across my sight and begins to probe me open, like a sunbeam slicing through ice, so this ray melts into me like a warm ooze that fills me with sluggish awareness of self. And suddenly, the sun bursts upon me, like solstice through a cairn, and all I can do is stretch open before it, open, open. The place has eased me opened, until I am laid bare and there I ripple, like a heat wave rising until I am propelled out of the earth's mouth, cast upon the soft grass, panting, wavering, and stark.

I look around me and blink. The colors dazzle my eyes. Had I seen these varying hues before? The breeze stirs in my hair, but it feels like the embrace of an old friend, firmer than before, more memorable. The sun shines brighter, the mists swirl faster, the hay-mead warmed smells sweeter, the earth feels firmer but softer below my feet. My senses riot with pervading splendor, as every detail spins deeper, every tone enhances her thrall upon me, till I am walking in a vibrant, swelling world that vims with vigorous presence as I never felt before. The under-currents and through-currents of life pulse with vivacious joy, this joy that suddenly bursts upon me like the sun in the sidhe, and my spirit rolls and tumbles like a dancing bird. I can feel the Great Song, and it ebbs through my being until, without thought or sentience, a high melody wells up out of me, and my song harmonizes with the Song around me. The music carries me forward, my quivering form moving with the coursing threads just below the surface of the earth, the thin strands that all roads follow. They lead me through the high grass, wading through the dusky twilight; I think of nothing save the song that still burns upon my lips-onward I come until I pass beyond into a grove of trees.

This grove rises above me like a temple, surrounding me with sacred strengths. Duir the oaken door, and red-berried Tinne entwines round the Nuin pillars that spread to the heavens, where eagles and all manner of lesser birds light in the roof of the Nuin branches, while Ngetel clumps around the entrance, and the edges of the grove are guarded with watchful Uath and courageous Fearn. At the very end of the grove rises the tower cliff I had seen before, and round its entrance springs white, fresh Beith. I enter the silent temple of trees, and as soon as I pass between the oaks, the reeds and thorns grab at me, pulling me back. This place resists me, as if my presence profanes its virginal vestige. But a wind from the cliff creeps over to me, careful not to stir a leaf, and whispers in my keen ears 'Come'. And so I must. With meek but determined heart, I move my foot forward. And again. Another. I pause and a vine of Gort springs round my legs and roots me to the earth. Tingling, they glow with a green-gold that pulses in life. I quiver, about to close up my cup, but then I remember the sun in the sidhe, and I let my soul lie hallow and calm within me. The glow seeps into my body, and the blood of the earth becomes my own. Soon, the blood reaches my heart and it throbs to a momentary halt to then pump out an ecstatic drumming pounding in my ears, as I feel my being bursting with this vitality. Just as the Song before, this flows through me, filling me up, my soul over-brimming. The air I inhale scintillates golden, and every breath I take is like fire, but so easy, so pure. My senses stretch out in strands and I gaze up at the ceiling of branches, now a glimmering web. And this web reaches from the heavens, all the stars sending down their rays. My senses run rampant along the tenuous strands, all the way up to the stars, which sing and sigh a grand harmony, pulsing from their fiery cores of molten spirit. I explode with the stars, and all that remains is the All, this Infinite that pervades everything, connecting with these filaments of spirit a soaring, singing creation that transcends time and place, until every finite being is filled with the Awen and bloomed into infinite infancy of innocence and joy. The stars rain down upon the grove, and I fall back to earth with a swirling swoosh. I sprawl shivering in a heap of shocked soul-pieces. Now Muin with its sweet tendrils and sensitive fingers threads me back together, and I lie there in the new-night, grappling with the awe-full Sight.

In the center of the grove grows Eadha, dancing and shivering there, her golden leaves rustling like a sigh of sorrow, and below her slender trunk forms a silvern pool. She beckons me with her quaking motions, and I rise off the ground and kneel at the edge of her pool. I sit with my eyes closed, feeling this serenity, the resilience that ebbs from Eadha's roots. A hand closes over my shoulder, and I gasp to see the seer-maid standing beside me. Her smile is kind and approving. "You have found the Well of Wisdom." I look at her strangely, a knowing slipping into my comprehension from somewhere. "Well, have a look, for you sought and now have found the sacred heart," and she motions to the surface of the water.

I peer in. Above are the branches and through that I can see the stars, but just below that, I behold the threads of spirit I'd seen in the Sight. A music rises in the air, and this time it weaves soft and sweet, not the powerful, ravaging strength of the first, but rather a gentle relinquishing and respite, easing like a slow rivulet into my soul, filling me up as before, but with a tender satisfaction. The strands shimmer in the water and then spread out, like ripples, until all the surface is like a sheen, and in that, shapes begin to form. I perceive the monsters of memories, moving with their grotesque, repulsive bodies-and then like dreams, the golden tendrils spread to them, and they ripple and transform, one after the other, into beautiful symbols of life. The sorrow and grief knotten tighter and tighter within my breast, until I choke out a strangled cry, and I can no longer hold in the hot grief that rolls down my face in force. The tears splash into the pool, a flood of long-harbored bitterness and anger finally being expelled. They sizzle as they hit the water, and each turn into a fine, pure pearl, sinking to the bottom like the jewels of my experience. With each shed tear, my heart grows lighter and when I am empty of tears, I gaze at the Keeper of the Well. With a strand of the Eadha tree, she strings the pearls into a long, beautiful amulet, which she then wraps around my neck and through my long hair. A quiet strength pervades me.

Then she takes my hand and leads me through the Beith trees and entrance, into the pinnacle. Like coral, the walls are twisted and porous, but stairs are worn into the side, spiraling up and up. We climb up the steps, and we rise above the trees, above the cliff, above the mists, into the stars which gleam between the uneven holes of the walls. The stairs open out onto the roof of the pinnacle, a mossy floor below our feet. Out here, so far above the earth, my head spins and the stars bend so close. In the center of the floor lies a hollow, and in that burns an eternal Flame. She takes a branch and touches the surrounding stars until the branch burns, and she places this new kindled light on the Flame, feeding it. I watch carefully, and when she beckons me to her side, I willingly come. And the Keeper reaches into the Flame with both her hands and pulls out a flame that flairs in her palms. I stare, and she places the flame upon my brow, upon my heart, and upon my hands. Triple blessing of head, heart, and hands. A warmth ignites within my core, spreading throughout my body like a branch devoured by the blaze. An aura of light emerges from me like the dawn, and I know. The knowledge feeds off the Flame, and in triskelle circle, my being fills with comprehension. I lead her back down the stairway, down to the pool. I look into the water at myself, no longer a shattered reflection, and see her wholesome figure. I See and Understand. With that, she speaks, a fragile but confident voice, "Welcome, Keeper of the Flame and Watcher of the Well" and steps into me. So it is done, and thus it begins and continues.

I have seen and heard the Truth now, and abide in the sacred grove. Come unto me, to the Isle of Hidden Things, to the Cave of Truth, where you may heal and learn the mysteries of eternity. Only the Seeker hears the Sight. Only the Open sees the Song.

[psycosis]

With no offense meant for anyone......you are a trully great writer cuz I dont read this lind of stuff but I never have a problem reading the things you write......maybe cuz its so short LOL

[Eadha Deora]

so short? lololol . .
well thank you thank you . . you deserve a nice hug for that *hug*

[psycosis]

I say so short cuz I cant concentrate long enough to read a book but I can maintain enough focus to read things on here....I know I havent posted in a long time but I always stop on periodically to read and ponder

[xtremelady]

Lovely descriptive images and you give a decided sense of inner journeys – the dream quality fully visualised allowing us to share and take this journey with you. The knowing she took this journey voluntary...the seeker of hidden truth; the desire to continue and not drift...link to her control. The finding and eventual inner evolution. It is also open for ppl to read what they will, delightful read

[Vorcla]

Wow. This is truly fine. Incredible descriptions; has an almost ethereal feel to it. Nicely done indeed.

Rick

[Nupur]

Fantastic descriptions! I agree with Rick; this piece has an ethereal feel to it. I felt like I was dreaming, like I was in another world. You've set the entire scene so well. Really really well-written.

[Eadha Deora]

I *was* in another world when I wrote it lol .... the story is the result of some trance-journeys and what you have there is what I experienced. Kinda crazy but to me, it is a "personal mythology" ... a map to me!

Thank you for your good words. I need to try to write something like this again sometime.