The Jetsam, Lara Biyuts [classic reads txt] 📗

The Jetsam

essays

by

Lara Biyuts


To Jocelyn Lindenridge-Blanche

Debris Fields For Ever

Time. Time is the he only of your valuables that cannot be returned. Fourth dimension, where we’ve not learnt to be at ease, unless being like algae slowly drifting. Stream of Time degrades the past. Your past. The past is the only of your valuables that cannot be taken away. The past is tarnished by time -- the scaled golds, dust, beyond curtains, but -- the more painful remembrance of the vain and sinful days, the more powerful is our longing for gaining knowledge. The past is seen like a golden age, like better than the present, like the unrealizable, but -- don’t touch the ashes of memory. It seems to me that a little hand alone can cure the dissonance and ache -- the hand and my friend’s eye -- the shining beacon of hope from the unforgiving void of space.

This book is collection of essays, published in 2005-2009 on the Internet (this writer’s DeviantArt page, my blog and so on). Gleanings from fields of history and literature, summed up and sorted out, for the last several years, according to this writer’s tastes, interests and bias. Two of the essays (this writer’s view of the story of Hadrian and Antinous) are a part of the novel La Lune Blanche and its sequel.

“I Saw the Night…”

(fantasy)

I saw the night that walked along the slopes of the forested hills of Arcadia.

With the star-spangled blue cloak the night covered the weary earth

that emitted the heat of the sunset.

Creeping noiselessly the shadow enveloped the venerable trees

that were entwined with ivy.

The sad, pensive moon floated slowly in the sky in search of its Endymion,

la lune blanche,

and the keen stars twinkled in the incomprehensible depth of Space.

While walking over the carpet of fragrant forest grass

I moved towards the old olive grove.

Here and there, flocks of fireflies frisked, lightening mysteriously the forest

that was bewitched as it was.

Timid white moths flew from one night flower to the other

bringing the stellar duster and fragrant pollen.

“Something wonderful is waiting for me!” I thought here,

in the very heart of the great mystery of life I desired to comprehend.

Attracted to the dusk and coolness

greenish dryads frisked in the blooming May forest;

along with the goat-legged fauns and bluish nymphs

they plaited wreaths and garlands of the wild flowers.

They didn’t seem to see me and without confusion they continued

to play and dance in a ring under the crowns of the sleeping forest.

It was a pleasure watching their irrepressible passion for life itself.

It was impossible neither to bridle nor to overcome their ardor

because it came from the very bowels of their being, rooting deep in the murk.

giving neither sword nor word.

Only life, a moment, a powerful impulse was of importance to these primeval creatures

who happily have not lost links with the irrational side of being.

Because everything we call a reality today

is essentially a simple illusion and the empty fantasy of our far ancestors

who nearly lost, irretrievably,

a link to the depth of the true subconscious, intuitive being.

Like the fauns, I call you, my reader, to belaud that great skill to live;

the skill to feel, imbibe, be glad and filled like a flower in the rain,

and to wait till the drought is over, to lie in shape of a tiny seed that hides

and is detached from the hostile Universe.

Good Heavens! What a lot of mysteries are waiting for me on my way!

What a lot of them have I passed and gone round

out of my carelessness or unwillingness to live…

However that may be, I was so far onward of my way, and the uncertain forest pathway led me further, towards the old olive grove. Weak lights glimmered somewhere in the grove’s depth. Carried by the lights, I hastened to go onwards, forgetting cares, and I dived into the thicket of dark heady foliage. While walking through the high dusky arches of the closed crowns of trees, I peered at the darkness ahead of me seeking to forestall my predestined future. Ancient marble slabs underfoot covered the way to something significant and tremendous, and I tried to bridle my curiosity and did not hasten to meet the Great, remembering of my former failures. And now, very soon, the trees parted revealing a large grotto with an ancient altar to an unknown deity.

The moonlit and torch-lit marble told of many centuries or millennia of serving to the Celestial. In front of the simple altar there was a throne for the only priest endued with great power and mightiness judging by the large crowd of inquiring people around the sacred place.

The priest’s bare body was entwined with vines; he had a silver mask over his face and his lips moved in the slit of the mask as he spoke; there were no attributes of his outstanding status that associated him with the Deity. The pilgrims were different. In their faces one could read all misfortunes and calamities that brought them here. The dusty varicolored clothes, odd features, strange dialects, all this told about the long journey which the desperate ones had gone on in search of salvation. They seemed to be exhausted with pains and tiredness but they went on standing at the altar. While waiting for their turn, they had a rest with their simple baggage on the ground. Some of them slumbered, some, apparently countrymen, talked… Now, a sudden agitation like a cold windfall stirred the crowd: those who slept woke; those who talked became silent.

A clatter of horses’ hooves was heard low at a distance. The people turned their heads to the darkness from where a cavalcade appeared presently.

The equestrians and horses seemed grey, for some obscure reason, either it was dust or it was the play of light and shades. The newcomers dismounted; two men of the group came forward unsheathing their short swords on the move and began to work their way through the crowd. The frightened pilgrims parted quickly before them. The two had glittering helmets with red plumes on their heads, a military uniform was visible from under their dark tabards -- everyone could see now that the men were officers of the Praetorian cohort. The group of about dozen their fellow-travellers came after them; these were bareheaded young and middle-aged men wearing travel clothes and short purple cloaks; in each of their gold belts, jeweled hilts of their daggers glittered in the moonlight. Reaching quickly the ground at the throne, the officers parted and mingled with the group. The group of the newcomers parted too, and a tall solitary figure appeared from its middle and stood motionless. All the others stepped back and stood still.

The man standing at the throne now was tall and stooping. Wearing a long grey cloak, with hooded head, with his face in the shade, he looked like a ghost. A minute passed and then the tall man’s legs gave way under him and he fell on his knees to the Priest sitting in the throne. At the same instant, a clear young voice said, “Stand up, my good Spaniard!”

The man in grey rose from his knees and took the hood off his head. His curly grey hair was disheveled. He had a short beard, grey too; grief and disappointment furrowed his large face. He locked his hands together and began to speak, looking at the silver mask shining in the moonlight, “Hail, o holiest! Yes, I am an old ill Spaniard. I’ve come a long way and I must have help.”

The silver mask nodded the old man to continue.

The old man took breath and went on, “I lost my friend seven months ago. That was the youth I loved, as a son for me. During our journey through Egypt he died, drowning in the Nile. My grief is boundless. I still bemoan him. A new star came into being after his death, and I realized that he was divine. But mystery veils his death. I still don’t know how and why he died, whether he sacrificed himself voluntarily, or he was a victim of an accident? What if he was killed? I ask myself these questions day and night and I’ve forgotten the meaning of mental peace.” The old man drooped his eye trying to collect his thoughts and gather himself up.

The Priest’s voice rang in the silence, “And you? What do you think of the death of your beloved?”

The tall old man answered without hesitation, “I think he committed suicide.”

The silver mask nodded and the Priest asked the next question, “Was the youth ill?”

“No, he wasn’t,” the old man answered.

“Was he unhappy, disappointed, subjected to fits of melancholy? Did he suffer from unshared love?”

“No. All pleasures of the world were at his disposal. And I loved him…” the old man paused and finished, his voice broke with emotion: “… maybe too much.”

“Maybe,” the silver mask said, but did not nod.

The fragrant night wind blew. The flame of torches flickered; the invisible foliage soughed.

Then the next question from the silver mask ensued, “Was the youth inclined to meditations?”

“Yes, he meditated. And every time he asked advice of me. We read, talked and meditated together.”

“Did visions visit him? Did he hear calls of Gods?”

“N-no,” the old man said hesitatingly and then he said again firmly, “No.”

The Priest said, “Maybe, he loved his death more than he loved you. Did he want to part with you, to never see you again?”

“No! He loved me!” the old man exclaimed, his clenched hands trembling.

“He was thankful for you,” the silver mask paused before saying, “He loved you. He was young and he loved life. So, why do you think he killed himself?”

The old man shook his disheveled head, “It’s an opinion of the wisest priests and magicians I talked with.”

“Had you help in Egypt? Did the magicians help you to solve your problem?”

“Only partly. I accepted the fact of his death, but my mind never found peace.”

The reply, which the old man heard, stunned him, because the Priest said, “You cannot find peace, because you must not find it, and you’ll never find it. For ever and ever.”

The retainers were standing motionless like shadows. The Priest and the tall old man seemed to be alone in the whole world. The old man drooped his eye for a moment and then he began talking again, “I desired a revelation. But in vain. Tonight, I am waiting for your revelation as a pronouncement of sentence.”

“Revelation…” the Priest said, “Revelation may visit any mortal at least once. While thinking of her child, a mother is capable of revelation and can foresee the future. While thinking of his friend, a friend is capable of this too. It happens like this: a sensitive person is reading or working and then suddenly stands up, goes to the door and opens it. The friend is coming, but the person who opened the door, has already shaken off his absentmindedness and is surprised at the correctness of his action. Do you remember?”

“Yes, it happened to me many times”, the old man said, “I was always a sensitive person. But my bereavement… I seem to have lost this capability after the death of my boy. I spent many hours saying prayers in the Egyptian temples, but nothing happened. He rose in my mind’s eye, I saw him as though he was alive. I loved him so much, I besought the Gods to give a revelation to me, but in vain. The mystery of his death has not been unveiled to me.”

“It may be your illness. Or it’s a will of gods.”

Seeing the shining silver mask, the old man drooped his head.

Complete silence fell in the grove for some time. Both men and nature stood motionless. Here the Priest’s hands on the arms of the throne moved and he lightly stood up. One