When the horns of the SS Vulcania sounded and it was time to leave the Island of the Temple People passengers, upon returning to their cabins found hat le Enchanteur has left a surprise for them. She has left a special box of chocolates, to savour as the ship heads towards the next destination.  The chocolates have led to inspired writing.

Out of the Chocolate Box by Gail Kavanagh

I dipped into Le Enchanteur’s box of chocolates and I pulled out – my thumb. I remembered promising Lori that I would tell the story of my shot thumb. So here, out of the chocolate box of childhood memories is a tale you may think is highly unlikely, but is in fact quite true – any circus performer and traveller could tell you even weirder stuff…

How I Got Shot in the Thumb is one of those stories that gets trotted out every now and then. The kids used to love hearing it, and whenever they made too much fuss about something trivia, I would give them the Thumbs Up. Litanies of injury would come to abrupt halt with the words, “Of course, there was the time Mum got shot…”

As many Foodies know, I grew up as a traveller, and my parents were circus performers. My father was a sharpshooter and my mother his human target – and as circus kids do, when I was old enough I joined the act.

There were a few accidents but never with the guns until one Friday in Scotland in 1960, during the second house. I was standing at the target board, holding one of the small plaster disks by its matchstick handle between my finger and thumb. It was one of the simplest parts of the act – Dad shattered the disc with a bullet and the most I had to worry about was being stung by a bit of flying plaster. Except that, this time, it felt more as if my thumb had been hit with a large, dull hammer. I stared at it in surprise. There was blood pouring out.

One of the bullets had only half the charge, and dropped as it was fired, enough distance to go clean through my thumb and into the target board. I was hurried back to the bus where Dad examined my thumb. There was a small neat hole near the nail, where the bullet had entered. The back of my thumb was a bloody, ragged mess.
One of the locals gave us the address of the local doctor and I set off with Dad, both of us with coats thrown on over our costumes.

We found the doctor’s house, after a fair walk, and knocked on the door. The Doctor’s wife opened it and stared at us as if we were a couple of escaped lunatics.

“We’re from the circus,” Dad explained. “My daughter has had an accident.”

Seeing my hand, and the blood soaked cloth it was wrapped in, the woman ushered us inside and called for the doctor. He turned out to be lovely old man with a white moustache and a manner to charm the most stubborn of patients into submission. My hand was beginning to throb by now, and I wasn’t too keen on having the cloth removed. It had stuck to the wound, and we had to soak it off. Once my thumb was in the open he examined it with interest. Then he looked at me.
“I think the young lady should have a cup of tea,” he said. “About six sugars should do the trick.”

As he cleaned up my wound he listened to Dad’s tales of our life on the road. From his manner, you would think he treated Indian squaws for gunshot wounds every day. His wife, now past her first shock, was just as charming. She brought the tea, with a couple of biscuits, and joined in the conversation while the doctor expertly bandaged my thumb.

“I think there’s not much point in stitches,” he said, “since the bullet has blown out the tissue at the back. The best thing you can do is keep it clean, soak it in saline solution every night, and let the tissue rebuild itself. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have another look at it and change the dressing.”

We stayed for another cup of tea, long enough for the doctor to make sure I was recovered from shock – which explained the very sugary tea I had been given – and arrived back at the circus in time for the evening show. I had to hold the disc in the other hand, but I was thankful – Mum’s part of the act meant she had to hold the disc on her head, so if a bullet had to drop two inches, it was best that it dropped into my thumb.

I visited the doctor twice again before we left Beith and he was well pleased with the progress I was making. As he had said, the back of my thumb was in too much of a mess for stitches, but with repeated soakings and clean dressing, it began to heal over, though it left a permanent scar that has considerably faded now.

Deck Training for Pythian Games

The word music itself is derived from the Muses, the legendary goddesses of Delphi. Greek mythology is rich in stories related to music. One of the most well known myths concerns Orpheus, the son of the Thracian King, Oeagrus and Calliope, one of the nine Muses. Mythology tells us that Apollo presented him with a lyre and the Muses taught him to use it so that he not only enchanted wild beast, but made trees and rocks move from their places to follow the sound of his music. At Zone in Thrace a number of ancient mountain oaks are still standing in the pattern of one of his dances, just as he left them.

After a visit to Egypt, Orpheus joined the Argonauts, with whom he sailed to Colchis, his music helping them to overcome many difficulties. There are many accounts of how he died. One says that Zeus killed him with a thunderbolt for divulging divine secrets. Whatever, the Muses tearfully gathered his remains and buried them at the foot of Mount Olympus where the nightingales now sing sweeter than any where else in the world.

The Muses delighted in feasts and the pleasure of song. At one such contest the daughters of Pierus defied the Muses in a contest of song and, having been defeated, were turned into magpies, greenfinches, ducks and other birds. Likewise, the Sirens, who were daughters of one of the Muses competed with them and lost. The Muses proceeded to pluck out their feathers and made crowns out of them for themselves.

The Muses discovered letters and the combination of these we call poetry. These letters were used to celebrate victory. Polymnia is so named because by her great praises she brings distinction to writer’s whose works have won for them immortal fame. Perhaps it was Polymnia who crowned the Poet Laureate at the Pythian Games which took place at Delphi every four years. The festival not only involved athletic contests but included musical competitions and drama. Unlike our society which had turned sports figures into icons, in ancient Greece there was no divorce between intellect and muscle. Each was viewed to be a necessary quality of the perfect man. Pindar, a Boeotian poet made it his professional business to celebrate the athletic contests in music and song. When a city was victorious it rejoiced in poem and song. Thus these games furnished poets, musicians and authors the best opportunities to present their productions to the public, and the fame of the victors was diffused far and wide.

Homer was clearly present at a number of games and his reports provide us with the most accurate account of what happened during this time. There was a contest in which the fight between the god and the monster was represented; the prize a garland of laurel, which was Apollo’s tree. The story goes that Apollo had fallen passionately in love with Daphne, the mountain nymph, a priestess of Mother Earth, the daughter of the river Peneius in Thessaly. He pursued her all over the countryside but just as he was about to overtake her Daphne cried out to Mother Earth who, in the nick of time spirited her away to Crete, where she became known as Pasiphae. Mother Earth left a laurel-tree in her place, and from its leaves Apollo made a wreath to console himself. It is this wreath that is placed on the heads of the victorious.

After defeating the Python Apollo took over from Themis the neighbouring oracle of Delphi, which was in historical times the most famous oracle in the Greek world. It was after this that Apollo instituted the Pythian games, which took place at Delphi and involved a reenactment of the slaying of the Python.

The Pythian games fire my imagination because they permit me to participate. As someone who has neither the coordination or the body to engage in physical exercises I have never been able to conceive of a time when I might be able to enter myself in any sporting events. I am prepared to move mountains to do whatever is required for me to enter the writing events.

The Greeks insisted that poetry was a form of craft, of practiced skill. To prepare for the Pythian games we need to practice our skill and become deft wordsmiths.

Let the training begin on the deck of the SS Vulcania: Check out the mad deck activities and then use the Pythian Games forum to participate and contribute your entry.

If you are not a registered USER of the Pythian Games simply send in a request to the group to join and we will sign you in.

On Being A New Passenger

Late last night, in a flurry of anticipation, I was teleported on board the S.S. Vulcania.  With my homeland in turmoil I was reluctant to leave but friends urged to take the ticket they had arranged for me.

‘A cruise,’ they had cried. ‘You must go Almurta. It is just what you need. Take some time away to reflect, to dream, to heal. Go now before your health deteriorates further. We will contact you immediately if you are needed here. Remember you can beteleported home in an instant. Go now. Gaze upon new horizons and heal.’

And so I did as I was bid though the suffering of the people around me rang in my ears and my heart was heavy was their pain. Against the back drop of the current terrors that lay waste my homeland my own health troubles have paled into insignificance yet they weigh me down. My soul feels weary. Perhaps this cruise will restore me and I will return to my ravaged home invigorated and more able to give of myself to others.

Now as dawn breaks over White Owl Island a gentle light flows into the cabin where I find myself. The exultant songs of birds greeting the new day sounds in the distance. I fling open my porthole to hear it more fully and a rush of salt laden air fresh with undertones of wild heather and lavender rushes into my cabin. I breathe deeply.

In the corridors beyond my door I can hear voices abuzz with news of White Owl Island. I hear tell of old potting sheds where the seeds of new ideas can be germinated. ‘Come, let us seek them,’ the voices call to one another. ‘Let us too plant new ideas in the fertile soil.’ For a moment I think of joining them but fall back on my couch heavy with the realisation that it has been months since I had a new idea. Or perhaps indeed, it has been years. Either way, I have no seeds to plant.

From somewhere comes a whisper that perhaps there is a Temple of Solace on the island. The name captures my imagination and I strain to hear more of this mythic place. It remains though, only a whisper, a suggestion of a possibility. Still something inside me has stirred and I decide to go in search of it. Wrapping my midnight blue cloak of protection around me, I zip up the opening and pull the hood tight around my face. The amulets and talismans I always carry are safely hid beneath its folds. Drawing upon an invisibility spell I make my way off the ship. As usual the spell is only partially effective and I feel people moving towards as if to speak. ‘Later, later,’ I will them, ‘for now I need to be alone.’ My body language is far more effective than my pathetic attempts at spell making and the people move away with a shrug of their shoulders.

Once on land the penetrating gaze of the Lemurian Warriors rips through my faulty defence shield. I mention the name of the hostess, The Enchantress, and they allow me to pass. Clear of them. I follow instinct and climb a steep, over grown path away from the docks. Around me a luxuriant tangle of herbs and flowering plants perfumes the air. Along the edge of the path large chunks of rose quartz glisten in the early morning light. The breathy sound of a flute wafts through the air. The player is hidden from me. My muscles, weakened by sickness, ache as I ascend the hillside but the sweet magic of the trail beckons me onward. ‘Almurta, Almurta,’ the breeze seems to murmur. ‘Come hither now.’

I round a bend and enter into a wide clearing where stone benches have been strewn with soft mounds of cushions. Gratefully I ease my tired body down. The seat I have chosen looks out to the sea. The horizon line merges into a foreverness of blueness as sea meets sky. I become aware that the air around me has a pristine quality, a lightness I have never experienced before. It is as if it has been washed through the light of crystals to come now to me absolutely cleansed of any negativity, utterly uncontaminated by any taint of sadness, of fear or of anger. Pure. Clean. Filled with Spirit.

Time passes without me being aware of its passage. My thoughts have stilled. There is nothing I desire. I simply AM within the light. My soul uncurls, stretches and opens to the possibility of healing. The faintest whisper of a new idea comes to me. The idea of regeneration. The idea of rebirth. I know where I sit is a way station on the path the Temple of Solace. I realise there are still paths for me to travel before I enter that magical citadel yet this place I have been drawn to has given me the sense that the Temple does exist. That I will somehow find it. First though, on the morrow, I will seek out the potting sheds and plant the seeds of my newfound ideas.

When I return to my cabin the urge to make art that has been dormant within for so long reawakens. I pull out the few art materials I have bought on board with me and spend the afternoon making tiny paintings of birds and plants I saw along the pathway. My earlier desire to avoid my fellow passengers dissolves as I become intrigued with the possibility of sharing my art work with them. Already I have noticed the ship is filled with the paintings, drawings and photographs of our hostess and of fellow passengers. How, I wonder, do they post it so that others can see it?

From Almurta’s Cabin

Lemurian Toons by Gail Kavanagh

The Seed Festival

I left the Vulcania with every intention of heading directly to the train station from where I was to board a train taking me on a somewhat perilous, or so I had been told, journey to the caves wherein I would meet with my Dream Master.

The irony of the timing of this venture had not escaped me.  Imbolc is fast approaching, the ritual lighting of candles and fires to welcome  the slowly increasing power of the Sun with its promise of good harvests in the year to come and yet here was I, not for the first time in my life it is true, going in entirely the other direction, headed inwards to the dark when all around are beginning to turn outwards to the sun and the light.

However, on my way to the station I was brushed by someone obviously well versed in the art of shadow dancing.  S/he appeared as a wavering of the light, quite, quite indistinct to most eyes yet I could define a figure within swathed in rainbow silks.  This person laid into my hand an invitation.  It was to the Sementivae Seed Festival and although I knew the meeting with my Dream Master was somewhat overdue, I would not ignore this opportunity to plant for the future before turning inwards.

I followed the sign to the Temple which lay within a grove – a place of great natural beauty and peace.

Above the entrance to the grove:

I entered and was amazed at how the outer look of the Temple belied what lay inside it……as the inside was, in fact, open to nature.  I took my place to sit quietly to meditate on the year to come and to offer up prayers of gratitude.

This place resonated deep within me, transporting me to another time.   I was once again walking in meditation the spiral path of the Tor on Summer Isle.  I was hearing clearly the chanting and footfall of those who accompanied me as I took the circular route to the top, whereupon we would welcome back the light and pray for  fecundity in the year to come.

View from the Tor across the Summer Lands (Avalon):

I was connected to the earth beneath me, feeling my roots sinking ever deeper into her welcoming arms, the energy of the earth rising in me, awakening the snake energy which lies within us all, travelling from the base up through the spine.  I am at one totally at peace, connected and energised.  I am ready for the journey which lies before me.

High pitched singing brought me back to the present.  Slowly I returned, my vision adjusting itself to the here and now.  Stretching and looking about me I saw the masks hung to one side of the Temple.  I was instructed to focus and choose one to wear for the planting.  I chose a simple full-face one – the blue of which drew me to it, it being the blue of our robes on Summer Isle.

I was feeling quite wistful as I made my way down the path towards the meadow, holding the small hand-crafted pouch which contained the seeds.

On reaching the meadow I closed my eyes and let my feet guide me to the correct planting spot.  On opening my eyes I saw before me a small stone circle,  it looked to be a medicine wheel and I knew this was my place.

I sat in quiet contemplation for a while, offering up my prayers for the futures of us all whilst very slowly and deliberately planting the seeds.

I stayed a while breathing in the wonderful surroundings, reluctant to leave the warmth and peace of this place that reminded me so much of  my ancestral home, but I knew I must.

It was time.  I arose and set out for the station.

Morgaine’s Cabin

The Dream Master from Inside Out

I moved quickly into the dream.  I felt the walls around me close in, it was dark, damp and smelt of pungent decaying earth.  I used my hands along the walls to guide me deeper.  I knew I was ascending deeper and deeper into the earth.   Here I was answering the request of one of the master dreamers, I had been told it was my time to stand up and proclaim my creative right, there was no longer time for procrastination.  Many lives were depending upon me and this journey within.  Halting for a few minutes to steady myself and catch my breath, I repeated in my mind “I will not let fear overcome me”.  I could free the intense tendrils of fear slowly beginning to creep towards me the closer I moved to my destination.  I was in disguise, I needed this disguise otherwise I would be devoured by the ugly creatures, the guardians of the under world.  My disguise consisted of a skin tight insect suit, which changed my appearance to one similar to a preying mantis, the ones who after mating turning around and ate their mate.  Part of me  liked that idea of consuming the male in his entirety, that sense of power over another, it was then that I sensed the energy of this place was beginning to have an effect on me, I needed to be on my guard at all times, thoughts were very powerful things and could change my energy completely and in doing so imprison me in this place forever.  The deeper I walked the more on guard I needed to be.  Focus, this was the most important task…  I was here to rescue and bring to the surface the lost child within.  She had been taken from me eons ago and only now did I feel I had the courage to reclaim her.  This precious girl, the one who loved to dance, to sing, to paint with gay abandon and the freedom to be herself. Her smile brought happiness to all who beheld it.  So sweet, so innocent and so full of trust.  She trusted that one day I would come and find her and take her away from this retched place.  The radiant child, buried deep in my unconscious mind waiting patiently for my return.

The stench of rotting flesh grew stronger; I could hear movement, clanging of chains and sudden cries of anguish and pain.  What creatures must be imprisoned in this place, what sort of creatures would imprison them? All these questions bombarded me as I continued along the passage of fear.

I could see a glimpse of light as I moved further along; I no longer needed my hands to guide me.  There was a shear drop of about 20 feet below me, looking down I could see her.  My excitement grew, I had made it, well nearly, I just needed to get down to her.  From above I was amazed at her brilliance, her light so strong in this dark place.  The floor she was sitting on looked so cold, it was as if this place just sucked all the life out of anyone who ventured here, yet this child could hold her brilliance.

I had to be careful the guardians were all around, my disguise had kept them at by through the passage but how would I go getting down to her.  I glimpsed a stairwell in the distance and decided I would continue the journey passing through the guardians with the child in focus, it worked as I approached they bowed their heads and let me through.  It seemed that this insect disguise was respected down here.  The insect form was regarded as  higher breeding than the guards, and then I realized that the guards had been in this dark place so long they could no longer see, but they could sense strongly fear.  As long as I kept fear away they would not harm e, but one thought of fear and then I would be attacked and left to die here.  Fear feeds these creatures, this place was a storehouse of fear, any sign of weakness would give the cue to attack and be thrown into the pits to rot with the other vermin.  I needed to focus clearly on radiance, radiance and the child within.  These beings had captured this child in the hope of holding creativity from me, by doing this I would then become like all the rest of the beings down here lost and without hope.  If every being in the world lost this sense it would destroy the planet by taking away  hope, joy and spontaneous creativity.  There would be no more laughter.  I needed to bring this child to the surface, embrace her and leave the past thought system behind.

I had one more corner to maneuver around, one more obstacle and then I was through.  I could now see the light glowing brighter and brighter ahead, there in the centre of the room sat the child, holding the world in her hands, protecting it from the surrounding darkness.  Protecting her was a circle of flames

I was now asked the final question: Do you have the courage to stand before this radiance and pledge allegiance to life?  The fear around me was mounting, it was becoming thicker and thicker the longer I stood with questions infiltrating my mind, sadness, disillusion, betrayal, guilt all stood before me.  The main question that kept coming to mind was why should I be the one chosen for this quest.  From within me I felt a sudden urge to move forward, dive into the depths and trust.  I stood on the edge trembling was I making the right decision and then it happened, the inner push to dive in regardless of the outcome.  I felt the heat of the flames engulfing me, as I took the plunge, the heat burned my flesh then  it turned into a sense of icy cold, so cold my teeth began to chatter, my knees buckled from beneath me as I surrendered to this sensation, I could no longer fight.  I fell hitting the floor and knocking my head on the last step.  In my unconscious state I imagined the child getting up and  leaning over me, as she came face to face with me she looked deep into my eyes, she was thanking me for my courage and tenacity to meet her in this place.  I am eternally grateful to you for rescuing me from the shackles of the  past,   My hope and trust of your return was the only thing that kept me alive.  She spoke with the sweetest voice, it was so melodic I seemed to be enchanted by the vibration. You no longer need your disguise, she told me. It is safe now to be seen to let yourself shine, like I have done in this dark place so long.  Let us now combine our energies  and become one, we can then shine outside as well as inside.  As I took her hands the internal flame consumed us with colors of brilliance, the intense colors of the rainbow transcended us.  Now our work together would begin, I could once again connect with wild abandon the qualities of the radiant child.  I no longer needed anyone else’s approval or permission to be accepted in this world.  I was enough.  Innocence and joy were returned.

The child is reborn

The child is life

The child runs free

The child knows no bounds

The child expresses

The child creates

The child loves life.

The child is filled with love.

]]> https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/31/lemurian-culture/feed/ 0 109 Heather Blakey lemuriantoon1 temple1 entrance-to-grove1 meditation-spot-in-grove view-from-tor mask seed-pouch stone-circle-seed-festival1 https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/26/sementivae-seed-festival/ https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/26/sementivae-seed-festival/#respond Mon, 26 Jan 2009 01:22:55 +0000 https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/?p=88 “The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious. It is the source of all true art and science. He to whom this emotion is a stranger, who can no longer pause to wonder and stand rapt in awe, is as good as dead: his eyes are closed.” — Albert Einstein

On January 24th, each year, the Island of the Temple People, host, as a part of their festivities, the festival of Sementivae.

Sementivae, also known as Feriae Sementivae, is a Roman festival of sowing.  It is held in honor of Ceres (the goddess of agriculture) and Tellus (Mother Earth). The initial half of the event is a festival in honor of Tellus which runs from January 24 through January 26.

This is a particularly important festival for SS Vulcania passengers who have joined the ship on her maiden, Trans Lemurian cruise and who will be looking to harvest a rich crop of work by the end of their voyage.

The Festival of Sementivae provides the opportunity to mark the full circle of birth, death and rebirth. During the Seed festival of Sementivae, Lemurians take the time to ponder the untamed forces of nature, the cycles of wild plants and animals. Here life and death is venerated. The Snake goddess, the great goddess of life continuum, presides over this festival. It is the Snake goddess who watches over birth, death and rebirth. It is she who is the creator, nurturer and the destroyer.

In a temple, in the  Grove of Clementia  there is a variety of ceramic forms, vases, figurines and ritual implements. These stand alongside forms made of stone, bone, antler and amber. The temple is cluttered, filled with an offering table, on which stand fertility figurines, musical instruments, vases, ceramic jars, all filled with seeds. Disproportionate, supernatural buttock on female figurines reveal their regenerative powers.

Masks hang on the wall waiting to be received by participants in the Seed Festival. These masks represent sacred animals and when worn they embody a fusion of animal and human forces. Some have bird beaks, snakes eyes, rams horns or pig snouts.

Spend some time in the temple absorbing, using your sensory powers of sight, hearing, touch, taste and feeling. Meditate upon the masks and decide which one you will wear for the festival. You are amongst a small group of the chosen ones.

Once you have dressed, chosen your mask, choose a receptacle filled with seeds and make your way slowly down the sacred pathway, towards the terraced fields on the nearby mountain.

Take the time to sit on your plot, feel the earth and begin to ritually plant the seeds, uttering thanks to the Snake Goddess as you work. “In Classical Arabic poetry there is a device known as ‘kindling’ in which the poet induces the poetic atmosphere with a luscious prologue about groves,  streams and nightingales, and then quickly, before it disperses, turns to the real business at hand.” (Graves White Goddess)

Consider taking the time to fill a terracotta pot with potting mix and plant some seeds. You will be able to monitor the changes and growth that you witness in your journals and compare your own development.

Seed Festival

What a glorious day I had at the Seed Festival !

My day began with a few brisk circuits of the deck, then back for a shower and off to breakfast.  Fresh fruit salad and plain yoghurt, with pineapple juice this morning.

For the festival I decided to wear comfortable shoes and loose clothing, sunnies and a large sun-stopping hat. Not being very tall, the hat makes me look like a thumb-tack, but I’ve reached an age where I really don’t care.  Comfort is everything!  I also got out my ropes and crampons ready to tackle the gangplank, but it’s descending from a lower deck today, so I can’t be the only one who found it rather steep!

There were lots of my fellow travellers milling about on the harbourside.  I caught a glimpse of the oriental lady and also the nice woman from the deck above, who offered help until my trunk arrived.  I gave them a wave, but they were too far away to talk to.

One of the islanders, a handsome, coffee-coloured young man with a happy, beautiful smile, asked if I wanted to go to the festival and would I like to ride there in his ‘taxi’?  Of course, I couldn’t wait to climb aboard.

The ‘taxi’ was a tiny wooden cart painted in bright colours and hung about with an assortment of tinkly bells of different sizes.  The ‘engine’ was a dainty little donkey called Lulu.  She was decorated in much the same fashion as the cart. We were quite musical as we travelled along. Omar, my taxi driver, and I chatted all the way to the Temple.  What a pleasant young man.  The road took us through some quite dense jungle and he was telling me the names of the plants and animals in his native tongue. Not that I retained any of it, but it made for a very companionable ride.

The temple took me by surprise!  We took a bend in the road and burst out of the cool, dark jungle into the bright sunlight of the temple clearing.  All around the temple are ancient olive trees. I climbed out of my taxi; paid Omar and asked him to pick me up after the festival, then joined the other people gathered there.

The temple is made from a golden sandstone.  There are columns and steps and a variety of statues of gods and goddesses.  The facade is covered in bas-relief sculptures depicting all aspects of life on the island.  All very intricate and beautiful. I think I could spend a whole day just looking at those.

We all shuffled into the temple and the murmuring voices faded into a respectful silence as we entered the sacred space.  It smelt and sounded like a huge cave – that musty, cold, damp-rock feeling.  The floor was a highly polished hard rock and bright silk cushions were set out in rows.  One for each person.

The ceremony began with a hypnotic chant and the lighting of a heady incense – the smoke spiralling into the air in gentle swirls.  I always find watching incense smoke to be quite meditative.  The temple proceedings lasted about an hour but, being in the native tongue, I relied mainly on my eyes for a sense of what was happening.  It was solemn and yet joyous at the same time, if you can imagine.  The high priestess wore a rich cape of bright bird feathers (I thought of Moctezuma) and the acolytes wore silken robes in all the colours of the rainbow.  At the end of the ceremony the priestess drifted through the congregation and tapped six people on their crown chakra.  I’m not sure what the criteria for this was, but I do know it was not youth or beauty because she picked me!

The six of us were led into a small antechamber.  Covering one wall were masks in the form of animals and birds, and on another wall were silk robes in every colour you could think of.  We were asked to choose a mask that ’spoke’ to us, and then choose a robe.  I chose an owl mask and a deep purple robe.  ‘This will be fun’, I thought ‘they aren’t made for midgets’.  But they’d allowed for all shapes and sizes.  Each robe had two ties encased in the side seams which could be pulled up and tied to create a garment with an adjustable hem.  Neat!!  We were then asked to select a container of seeds from a table and the six of us would be involved in the completion of the cycle-of-life ritual.  I chose a tiny, patchwork satin pouch which just fitted around my wrist.

We went in procession through the olive grove to newly turned earth on the terraces.  Here we were asked to plant the seeds and offer a prayer to the goddess of fertility.

Oh, great goddess of abundance, accept these tiny seeds.  Give forth your tears and your warmth and bring them to maturity, that they might nourish the faithful.

Afterwards, there was wonderful native cuisine and a local wine with a mighty kick.  There was a great deal of singing and dancing.  A few wines and I was up dancing too.  The party lasted all afternoon, but I was picked up again by Omar at 3.00pm and returned to the ship.  All in all a very satisfying but tiring day.  I slept very well that night!

from Scribblen Paint

Dreams of Wee Things

I watched the back of my eyelids for only an instant before the weaver of dreams arrived. I felt a tug on my right eyelid and up it rolled like a window shade. There stood my new friend, Fairy Rainbow. “Well, you invited me for grub and grog at the date and time of my choice. Get up! Get up! Let’s fly! The full moon is high!” She’s just so darned cute I couldn’t refuse.

I sneezed three times when the fairy dust landed near my nose. I got smaller with each sneeze. Luckily some of the sparkling dust also landed on my nightgown as it was a might bit chilly to streak (fly in the buff) tonight. Fairy Rainbow provided some quick instructions and off we went!

Did you know you when you fly with a fairy you leave a trail of sparkles? I didn’t know if they were coming out of my butt or what, but I didn’t care! This was the best! I wrote a few words. Charlotte, the spider of the famed “Charlotte’s Webb,” had nothing on me! Well, except for the fact that my words disappeared soon after written in the air. But Charlotte wrote words for children to read and I could write whatever I wanted.

butthead         poop

Oooooeeeee! Crossing those double t’s was fun!  Those o’s made me kind of dizzy…

Splenduferousiness

Take that, Charlotte! OK, Fairy Rainbow! I’m done! Whoa! Did you see that mosquito? That could have hurt. I guess I’d better watch where I’m going.

The air is warmer than I thought it would be and I am surprisingly comfortable in my silk gown. I love the way it shimmers, shimmies, and ripples as I fly. I feel like a goddess, beautiful and mythical.

We fly above the ship and look down at the passengers still milling about. The lights are magical as all lights are from a distance. We fly back down and peek into the windows of some of the cabins, giggling as we are almost caught. Now we know where many of the Tim Tams are hidden! We spy some passengers painting, some sketching, some lovin’ and some doing things that we can never speak of in public. “Let’s not do that again!” we scream laughing hysterically in unison.

Flying off the starboard side, we skim inches above the water just out of the ship’s wake. Towards the bow we discover dolphins hitching a free ride. The force of the bow breaking the water forces the dolphins frontward and it is an effortless shot forward. One rolls on its side, its eye looking right at me. Was that a wink or a blink? I have a feeling I will be seeing this dolphin again.

I am growing weary as flying is foreign to me and much more work than I anticipated. Rainbow Fairy looks over, sees my eyes struggling to stay open and takes my hand. I close my eyes and give myself over to her.

The light is shining and I hear voices. My eyes struggle to open so I let them stay closed and look at the back of my eyelids. The sparkling reds and pinks swirl awhile then I allow my eyes to open. It is morning. I feel so incredibly alive, happy, and free. Wow! I was out last night. I didn’t even get move after I fell asleep as the sheets and comforter were still tidy. I stretch my body and my smiling muscles. I hear James Brown singing in my head, “I feel good…na  na na na na na…Like I knew that I would now…na  na na na na na…I feel good…”

Time to get going! I don’t want to waste another moment and I’m starving! Time for shower, spackle and putty (makeup), and breakfast! I jump out of bed and make my way to the bathroom wondering if the smile will stay on my face for the entire year, or just for the day. I turn on the shower and wait to for the water to warm. I turn towards the mirror, drawing my brows together, moving closer. What the heck is that?

There is this sparkling dust on my skin and all over my hair!

Visit Mystical Magical Cabin

Image by Fairy Rainbow

Lemurian Toons

]]> https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/26/sementivae-seed-festival/feed/ 0 88 Heather Blakey Snake_Goddess_Crete_1600BC seed-pouch1 ) dreamcatchercavemashed cartoon12 cartoon2 https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/visit-the-dream-masters/ https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/2009/01/19/visit-the-dream-masters/#comments Mon, 19 Jan 2009 05:53:08 +0000 https://vulcaniantimes.wordpress.com/?p=79

The Ship of Fools who have lost the Train of Thought
by Heather Blakey

On the Island of the Temple People there is a tiny station, near the Grove of Carmenta, from which trains leave, late each evening, during the  Festival of Carmentia.

The small trains that leave from this station take you on an unforgettable ride. The track somehow clings to the edge of a sheer cliff and the ride is exhilarating. When you reach the station at the bottom there is a track that leads you further down, into the subterranean caves where the Dream Masters live and work.

To reach this subterranean cave you must ride a Night Mare.

Dream Master
by Heather Blakey

When you arrive in the subterranean cave you will be greeted by one of the Dream Masters who will take you to a dreaming place where you can dream a thousand dreams and capture some of them in your dream journal.

My handmaiden, Heather Blakey, is tracking  Trains of Thought. You can store yours in your cabins and on the Island of the Temple People under the categories of  Night Mares, Dream Masters and Trains of Thought.

RIDING THE TRAIN OF THOUGHT
by Vi Jones

I had gathered my camera, extra batteries and memory cards, my journal and pencils, along with a bottle of water and a light weight jacket. I also tucked some snacks; nuts, dried fruit, and a chocolate bar or two into my day pack. My walnut shell was tucked safely in my pocket next to my heart. I was eager to explore The Island of the Temple People, and although I had no idea what to expect, I did know was that those had been ashore and had already returned to the ship were changed somehow. They exuded a feeling of well being and of love for their fellow human beings.

When I stepped from the tender onto the dock, I saw the train for the Grotto was waiting. The carriages were open to the fresh air and were sea shell shaped. The locomotive was so clean and shiny it mirrored the images around it. It puffed white steam into the air. I could tell immediately that it was not powered by coal, neither was it a wood burner. Whatever powered it was clean and green. I took my seat at the rear of the last carriage where I could see the length of the train in front of me. The seats were full, though I did not see any of my shipmates. The passengers were mostly women. They were attired in dresses the color of rainbows. Most wore their hair long. Their exited chattering was like music to my ears.

There was no sound as the train began to move forward, no huffing or puffing, no smell of soot, nor were there any of those nasty little particles that stung and burned the eyes. It was as if, one moment we were stationary, then in the blink of an eye, we were moving forward. There was no clickety clack of the rails. The green meadows on either side of the tracks were dotted with wild flowers of every conceivable color. Butterflies. Honey bees, and hummingbirds flitted from blossom to blossom while the larger birds soared lazily above. A small stream bubbled musically over the rocks. Children squealed with delight as they paddled about in the clear water. This is what it could be like, I thought, if we didn’t have the noise and pollution that plagued our modern world. If these, The Temple People evolve as we have done, I hope they learn from our mistakes. On second thoughts, maybe they have evolved so much further that we have.

I leaned back in my seat and allowed the pleasant rocking motion of the train to lull me into an even more dream-like state of mind.

Suddenly I was in another time. I found myself alighting from another ship, one that was tied to the dock near Ellis Island in New York Harbour. It was 1950, and that morning I had stood on the deck and gazed upon the Statue of Liberty as we sailed by it. I was fresh from Wales, a little afraid, very naïve, but as excited as a kid on Christmas morning.

I don’t really recall how long it took, but it seemed forever as I was processed through the gloomy halls of Ellis Island. I thought about the thousands who had been through here before me and wondered how they felt, the uncertainty of whether they would be rejected and returned to the land of origin. Unlike so many of them, I wasn’t running from anything. I loved my homeland. I had after all spent all my life until this point in Wales. I had played, walked, been schooled, and been nurtured by, to use the title of Tom Jones’ popular ballard, The Green Green Grass of Home. If I were not accepted I would be returning to the open arms of friends and family in post war, but still rather austere Britain.

* * *

Having escaped the gloomy halls of Ellis Island, I stood with luggage on the streets of New York. I was alone and lonely and was questioning my wisdom. The feeling didn’t last long though. An American couple I had met on board ship had arranged to meet me and show me some of the sights. Mostly I remember being on Broadway and seeing the lights…they were like nothing I had seen before.

My train for California was scheduled to leave the next morning so I didn’t have a lot of time to take in the sights of New York. Besides, I was eager to be on my way.

The next morning I arrived at the station and hiked the platform to find my seat on board the New York Central. I had ridden the train many times in Wales, but my goodness, I had never seen a train this long. It seemed that I hiked miles, all the time carrying my luggage…no wheelie bags in those days, and I was saving my money so didn’t want to hire a porter. Besides, I really didn’t have that much stuff.

I was traveling coach, and was completely mesmerized watching the scenery passing by my window. I sat up day and night; afraid to close my eyes least I miss something.

* * *

I had to change trains in Chicago and had a several hour layover. There was a fair going on, and it was there I ate my first piece of Southern Fried Chicken. I remember feeling quite embarrassed for the diners around me who seemed to have no table manners whatsoever. They just picked up the chicken with their fingers and ate it that way. How awful! It didn’t take me long though to find out how difficult it was to eat fried chicken with a knife and fork. Soon I threw my table manners to the wind and joined everyone else, eating with my fingers.

Later that day I boarded the San Francisco Limited for the rest of my journey. Once again, I traveled coach and rarely slept.

One thing I remember to clearly is that when the train stopped for an hour or so in Green River, Wyoming, I stepped outside. It was dusty and hot. So hot! It was my first experience with dry heat. When I stepped down from the air conditioned coach it was like stepping into an oven. Needless to say, I didn’t stay outside for long.

The rest of my journey westward was uneventful except for the fact that my mind was being filled to overflowing with fleeting images. I don’t remember a whole lot about my fellow passengers except that they were for the most part friendly. There were a lot of service men on board and they tended to get a little rowdy, but that didn’t bother me overly much.

The San Francisco Limited ends its journey in Oakland where those bound for San Francisco, must board the ferry to reach the City by the Golden Gate.

* * *

My day dreaming came to an end when our magical train pulled up near a waterfall. A sign pointed the way to the grotto. I had heard about the grotto. It was said to bathe in its waters would purify the soul and release one’s inert creativity. And I needed a boost in that direction; in fact I need a kick in the pants. I had been neglecting my muse for too long, allowing other things, unimportant bits and pieces to eat away at my creativity time.

I stepped down from the train, eager to visit the grotto.

Vi Jones

©January 18, 2009

MORGAINE VISITS ISLAND

I awoke this morning with a start.   The dream I had been having was so real, so lucid it took me some time to re-orient myself to my surroundings.   I sat up and had some water, seeing a note that had been propped up against the glass I took it up and read it.  It was an invite from E to join the precarious ride on the Train of Thoughts on the Island of the Temple People.   This train would take me to the deep, dark caves within which I would meet with my Dream Master, who would lead me to the Land of Dreaming.    Now there’s a coincidence!   The dream I had moments ago awoken from was very similar in that this too was the beginnings of a journey to meet my Dream Master.  It was obviously a portent which indicated I was well on the mend.   In the lucid dream I was in a Maiden form and I feel that for the journey ahead I should remain in my present state of Apprentice Crone, I have the sneaking feeling that to enter the caves will take someone with more experience than a Maiden, in all her innocence, could bring.

I will pack a few things to take with me, my cloth journal which is essential and will be my record of my time in the Land of Dreaming, the gifts from E – the walnut and bag of essentials, pens and pad and my special stones.  My needs are few and I prefer to travel lightly, but I do have the sense that I shall be gone a long time, although when one travels between the realms time becomes irrelevant.

Before I leave I shall offer up prayers to the Mother to watch over us all.

Gwaelyan I shall leave on the Island of the Temple People to enjoy the various festivities and to visit with old friends as she wishes.  She is a wonderful apprentice and an excellent friend, it will be a great gift to her to have time for herself – it has been a while.

So….I shall make ready.  It is time to depart for the Island.

M.

CURRENT PASSENGER LIST

Voyage

• A Quiet Cabin
• Aft Views – Lori
• Anne’s Cabin
• Aquamarine Sea – Rhonda
• Archipelago Traveller – Megan
• Celtic Sea – Colleen
• Cruising Seven Seas – Cheshire
• Cruising With A Shadow Dancer – Jill
• Cyns Quarters
• Enduring Bones – A.M.
• Ever Adrift
• Fairy Rainbow – Maryna
• Inside Out
• Journal of Evangeline
• Lemuria By Sea – Imogen
• Lemurian Travel Journal – Rosie
• Lemurian Waters – Barbara B
• Mystical Music Cabin – Sally
• Northern Lights
• NY Stage On Board – Sylvia
• Osbeth’s View – Thalia
• Petty Officer – Fran
• Remember the Wonder – Jamie
• Sail Away – Vi
• Scribblen Paint – Sue
• Scryers Knoll – Daryl
• Sea Gypsy’s Log – Gail
• She Wolf’s Den
• Temple Freya -Gemma
• The Dragon’s Lair – Carolyn
• The Harpoon Room – Joanne
• The Veiled Lady – Gwen
• Trains of Thought – Heather
• Traveller – Carol
• Travels of Mystery – Senua
• Travels With Rilla – Alexis
• Unity’s Cabin – June
• Wave Upon Wave – Shelly
• Were Pen Station – Kerry
• Word Works – Chefleur

Carmentia has long been an important centre for Lemurian Merchants who traverse the Soul Food Silk Way in their caravans filled with fascinating wares. It is a city filled with history, a melting pot, inhabited by people from all parts of Lemuria.

Reporters from the Vulcanian Times managed to catch a glimpse of Enchanteur, incognito, heading to partake of some serious retail therapy.

The departure date for the SS Vulcania is February 1.

Enjoy your days on the island. There is plenty to see and rich festivals to engage in. The two main festivals are the Festival of Carmentia, held in the Temple of Carmenta and Feriae Sementivae, the time when creative seeds are sown.

Carmenta was the goddess of childbirth and prophecy, associated with technological innovation as well as the protection of mothers and children, and a patron of midwives. The Camenae were originally goddesses of springs, wells and fountains, or water nymphs of Venus . They were wise deities similar to the muses and sometimes gave prophecies of the future. Carmenta bears much in common with Themis, the Greek Goddess of divine law and wisdom.

Carmenta, the Triple Muse gave oracles to Hercules and taught Evander and is said to have lived until 110. “Mercury, or Hermes, or Car, or Palamedes, or Thoth, or whatever his original name was was given poetic sight by the the Shrouded Ones (his mother Carmenta, or Maia, or Danae, or Phorcis, or Medusa, or whatever her original name was.)”

Carmenta  was famous for chanting her prophecies in verse. Her Greek name was Nicostrate, but when she arrived in Italy, the locals called the singing woman Carmenta, for the Latin ‘carmina’, or ’song’. That the Gorgons, of which Carmenta was, by another name, lived in a grove at Tartessus can mean only that they had an alphabetic secret to guard.

The Vulcania will berth at the Island of the Temple People, in time for the Carmentalia festival on the 15th of January. The journey on the Vulcania is a time of birthing of creative ideas and so many passengers will want to participate and make offerings to Carmenta in the Temple of Carmenta.

In the grove of the Temple of Carmenta nymphs await instructions and are ready to respond to wishes.

Participants are to enter her grove barefoot, as no leather is permitted in a templum dedicated to Carmentis. No immolationes (blood sacrifices) are to be performed for Carmentis. Milk, rather than wine, is poured as a libation for Carmentis. She may also be offered water with which to wash, olive oil, salt, honey, course meal, and flowers. Soothing herbs, especially those associated with Roman practices of childbirth and breast-feeding, would also be appropriate offerings – rue, malva, and salvia. Offerings of special dishes of cheese and herbs, called popana, may also be made.

Some people who visit the grove of Carmenta learn the songs of Carmentalia, the art of healing herbs and experience a contentment they have not known before.

Reference: The White Goddess by Robert Graves

AT THE SEA DRAGON TAVERN
by Gail Kavanagh

It’s a tavern like many others – dim and smoky, with wooden tables and benches and a bar overflowing with flagons of ale. A Buxom wench takes charge of me as soon as I enter and steers me to a quiet table with a cheery, “don’t want to hang out with that scum, Ducks, I’ll look after you.”

She bustles off to get my order of ale and stew, and I sit back and look around. This may be an Island of Temples, but the worshippers in this particular temple are as scurvy a bunch as you can imagine. I am sure I hear AM’s laughter rising from the general hub bub.Scurvy knaves or not, they’d better watch their step with her!

I have wrapped my cards and placed them in a fold of my skirt, and I finger the medicine bag around my neck,wit E’s walnut safe inside.Wll I need it here, I wonder? But for all the noise and the free flowing ale, thee is no sign of violence or disrepect toward the few women. Perhaps its the presence of those buxom wenches, who look like they could beak a head or two.

Still, I can feel eyes boring into the back of my head. Is someone watching me, concealed in the tavern shadows?

The wench brings my meal and slaps it on the table. Her name is Alys, she says and if I want to stay the night she will see I get a clean room. I gratefully accept and fish out a few coins from the ship’s exchange from my purse. Alys is painstakingly honest, counting out the exact amount for the meal and board, refusing a tip.

“Doesnt go down well with the Goddess,” she explains, and then leans closer to whisper in my ear. “There’s a man been asking about you – he wants to join you at your table.”

“Is he all right?” I ask, trusting her judgement.

“Well, he’s a bit of all right, if you see what I mean,” she chuckles. “But as to the other way – he’s a blackhearted pirate, they say, but I’d trust him with me rent money.”

“And your virtue?”

“If I had any? As sure as eggs.” She chuckles again. “For all his piratical ways, he’s a gentleman -but a strange one. His name’s Sinbad.”

I catch my breath. “But I’m looking for him! Call him over.”

She bustles away and leaves me to savor my stew. A few moments later I feel a firm hand on my shoulder and look up.

“I’m Sinbad,” he said. “You must be the Gypsy.”

He takes the seat across from me and whistles for the wench, who materialises quickly out of the crowd.

“I’ll have what she’s having,” he says, and laughs.

“Are you – or did you used to be – Farakh Sinbar?”

“That was my name in another life,” he agrees. “I understand you are interested in my paintings?”

Lucky Enchanteur, I think, to count this vivid,exciting man as one of her former lovers – but not surprising either. They would have been well matched.

“Your art is so amazing, so miraculous,” I say. “How could you give it up?”

“It wasn’t that hard. I entered one of my own portals, but I did not make the same mistake as poor Bunty. I can come and go as I wish. I have many identities, in many places. Here I am now a pirate, because its one of the best things to be in Lemuria. Back in Atlantis, I am still Farakh, the name I was born wth. It was there I learned the secret of painting portals from a great master.”

“Atlantis,” I breathe. “I would love to go there – they say my people came from there. Is it true?”

“Do you really want to find out?” He asks teasingly. Then his meal is delivered and he raises his glass of ale to me. “Perhaps I wil show you how – but you must promise to do exactly as I say, or you will not be able to return.”

“I will,” I promise, and raise my glass. We are having a fine time over the meal. He is amusing company, and very easy on the eye. He points out various pirates to me in the Tavern, and tells uproariously funny stories of his life at sea. I can see why he loves it so, and why he has become a legend.

The time flies by, and then he says – with genuine regret, it seems – that he has to go. But first he asks the wench for pen and parchment.

“These are exact instructions for going through the portals and coming back again. You must not miss any step, especially the meditation. Bunty was too impatient as always. But you have learned the value of patience, I think.” He pushes the parchment across to me. “Remember, do exactly as it says, or you may not be able to come back”

As he rises to leave, he takes my hand and kisses me on the cheek. “We will meet again, Gypsy,” he says..

And now he’s gone, and I stare after him, the piece of parchment clutched in my hands. When I can tear my eyes back to it, the first words I see are…”Go to the Mirror Lake, and know who you are.”

TROPICAL DELIGHT

Sipping sweet nectar

tracing soft spots with fingertips

peering in the pulpit

at this petal-sized universe

by Kerry Vincent (2009)

AN ISLAND EXPERIENCE

I find myself facing rather an unusual set of circumstances. I am sequestered alone in a small room whose cleanliness leaves much to be desired. There is just one grimy window and a splintered oak table on which I now lean to write. I do not appear to be locked in, but feel compelled to wait as instructed.

Perhaps I ought to start from the very beginning. I set foot upon dry land some time after elevenses. One cannot explore islands unknown on an empty stomach after all! I ventured just a short way from the harbour and found myself among a variety of market stalls selling all manner of trinkets and delights. Some claimed to heal and others are to be worn merely as decoration. I purchased for myself an amulet on a leather string which I am now wearing around my neck. This amulet gives strength and protection to the wearer. The price for such a piece was merely the telling of a secret. Such a strange request. I told the secret of the shell, the game we played as children.

I discovered a long and brightly striped, scarf. Some may describe it as gaudy, but I know that our Mother will love it so.
In the near distance, the pounding of drums and a chorus of voices lured me further along the island’s cobbled streets. The sweet and spicy aromas of vendors selling tasty treats assaulted my senses. I shall have to sample their wares later. The marketplace receded and the streets and alleys began to teem with celebration. I was drawn along by the dancers and spectators honouring the Goddess Carmentia. This must be the Fertility Ritual that E spoke of!

I was so thoroughly engrossed in this marvellous spectacle when I felt a tugging at my waist. A young girl, no more than 5 years of age, though I am by no means a sound judge, stood by my side.

‘Come, Lady,’ said she, ‘I shall show you something special.’

Of course, I was naive as always and followed on. I am rather beginning to regret the decision to go on ahead of Teddy. The young girl beckoned me forth and I had the sudden unshakeable feeling that matters were no longer within my control and I must trust this small and fearless guide ahead of me.

Masked figures thrust themselves in my path, the celebration raging all around me. Vibrant masks with grotesque features and bodies leaping and cavorting in a rather vulgar fashion. I side-stepped the surge of spectators, into a narrow alleyway. The girl opened the blue door before us and led me up the stairs. She led me to the very room where I now write. I can see the crowd in the streets below is beginning to thin out. I grow more nervous with each passing moment.

‘Wait here,’ she said, ‘he come soon.’

‘Who comes, who is he?’ I asked of her, rather more frightened now that the sounds of the celebration outside began to drift away.
‘Lady, you are far from home but there is a man here who say he know you – he say fetch the lady with the golden hair. Bring her to me.’

And so, dear sister, I wait. I clutch my amulet tightly and I wait..

from Elizabeth’s Journal

Enchanteur has been in the habit of providing bags, filled with talismans to guide and protect travellers who are brave enough to set out on one of her adventures.

Like the tooth fairy she has quietly visited cabins on the SS Vulcania and has left a simple walnut shell in each

In the case of an emergency it can become a life raft

But look deep within the shell and you will find

Carefully stored, minature items, that may be of use.

a tiny net

a compass

a hairpin

rope

a miniature anchor

a snorkel

a flare

one surprise item

Look very carefully and you will see that each shell is inscribed with a map of the heart.

Guard your walnut shell at all times. Keep it on your person and under no circumstances exchange this, no matter how generous the offer seems to be.

Take a moment to acknowledge receipt of E’s gift here in the comment box, sharing any thoughts or perceptions. In addition you might take a moment, within the privacy of your cabin, to create a visual or written entry in a diary, journal or letter.

From Were Pen’s Station

The First Officer turned to the gaping crowd lining the rail and loudly announced, “Nothing unusual here folks…just a local merchant vessel on its way back to port.” The passengers, who were already getting bored, moved off in various directions, some heading towards the pool, others to the casino. I stayed at the railing and handed the field glasses back to the H.J.

“You apparently know about Cetea’s Revenge?” he asked.

“Just a little… enough to know that you lied to these people.”

The First Officer looked at me for a moment, and then said. “Come to the Briefing Room on Deck E at 1400 hours. Bring a warm coat and your Walnut.” He hurried off, leaving me a bit startled by his strange command. Deck E? The Admiral’s Deck? Only special guests of Enchanteur get invited there. Now what? I wondered. A chill moved down my back and I shivered.

Having a little time before 1400 hours, I scurried down to the ship’s library to review the little bit I did know about Cetea’s Revenge. I located a cracked and faded copy of Bosley’s Compendium of Cursed Ships and Other Sea Mysteries and flipped through the pages until I found this entry.

“Cetea’s Revenge, a phantom ship whose appearance portends madness and mutiny to the crew of whatever vessel sights it. According to legend, the sea-nymph Cetea (also known as Cetus) fell in love with Albigensio Schlagg, a sea-captain involved in the rum trade and other activities of questionable legality. Schlagg returned Cetea’s affection by stealing her treasure hoard which included the Great Pearl of the Nereids. Upon discovering Schlagg’s treachery, Cetea confronted him. When she learned that Schlagg had already sold her treasure and the Great Pearl to the crew of a passing ship, she went into a rage. She commandeered his ship and drove Schlagg and his crew to madness, murder and suicide. It is said Cetea’s Revenge now roams the Lemurian Seas searching for the ship’s crew that bought the Great Pearl. Her rage will not be assuaged until she finds it.”

I closed the book. No, indeed, this was not good. I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 1400 hours. I raced to my cabin, grabbed my coat and walnut and headed towards the Briefing Room.

I lightly knocked on the door and pushed it open. A group had already assembled there. Seated around the conference table were handful of passengers and the ship’s senior officers….including Albion.

“Good,” said H.J., “we’re all here. Let’s get started.”

I landed hard on the deck of the Revenge. I tried to get up but nearly pitched onto my face.

“Not quite as smooth as the Vulcania, is it?” said the actor as he struggled to find his balance.

“You said it.” I regained my footing and put my transport amulet into my pocket. I spun around to look at my surroundings. The Revenge was not a large ship, but given that we had no idea what we were looking for, suddenly the ship seemed enormous.

Miss Marplewood immediately took charge. “May I suggest that we split up to conduct our investigation? It will be a more efficient use of our time.”

I nodded at her suggestion. “I agree. It will be dark soon. I don’t think it’s a good idea to be here after nightfall.” I looked around. There was not a soul to be seen and the only sound was the creaking of ropes and the flapping of sails.

“Fine,” said Miss Marplewood. “Mr.— what is your name?” she asked the actor.

“William.”

“Well, then William, why don’t you visit the wheel house, and I’ll look through the officers’ quarters. Excuse me,“ she motioned to the young man who had said he was a graphic designer, “where would you like to investigate?”

“Beats me. I don’t even know why I am here.”

“Then why don’t you can check out the galley area and the crew quarters.”

“Fine, whatever — What am I looking for?”

“Anything that would suggest where we might find the Great Pearl. Just use your instincts.” Miss Marplewood pointed to a doorway toward the bow. “The galley is that way.”

The young man rolled his eyes and trudged away. Then Miss Marplewood looked at me. “I guess that leaves the lower decks for you.”

“Great! I’ll just go right down into the dark hold of the big scary ghost ship…..” I muttered.

“I’m sure it is perfectly safe, dear.” Miss Marplewood patted my arm and then waddled off in search of the captain’s quarters. “We’ll reconvene in about an hour,” she shouted to me and the others.

I found a hatch in the deck and yanked it open. A gush of rancid air burst through the hatch. I started down the wooden steps. A lantern with a tiny bit of oil hung at the top of the stairs. I unhitched it, lit it, and slowly worked my way down into the hold. My imagination conjured all sorts of nasty things lurking in the shadows.

Instead, I found wooden barrels lining the bulkheads and from the smell I could tell they contained rum. Crates of various sizes were piled in the center of the hold. Some were clearly marked “Pitchford and Gibbons Spice and Tea Company”. I pried open a few unmarked boxes and found a variety of unusual items: a dozen athletic trainers, a hundred packets of Tim-Tams, a complete set of DVDs for the second season of Dr. Who, and box of Victoria Secret Pushup bras, double-D cups. I was about ready to give up my search when I saw an ornately carved trunk. It was unlocked so I lifted the lid.

It was lined with red velvet and in the bottom was a flat chunk of stone with something akin to hieroglyphs chiseled on it. The stone had jagged edges as it if were broken away from a larger piece. I lifted out the stone and examined the glyphs

To read the remainder of this cliff hanger visit Aft Views.

When I didn’t climb the ladder immediately, the hooks on either end of my little vessel were jerked up and down, making it even more unstable than the rough waters  had made it. Clearly, the message was that either I could safely climb aboard or I could take my chances with being dumped into the sea when my dory was hauled aboard. I sucked in a deep breath, made sure my knife was in my pocket and my spare was in my boot, and climbed the slippery, half-rotten rope ladder. My boat was hauled up underneath me.

As I climbed over the railing, I took a good look around me. There was a crew aboard the rotting vessel, sure enough. And they all looked like drowned men – fish belly pale and cold, with straggling hair and tangled beards. Their clothing was made up of rags and tatters. They didn’t smell of rot as the ship did, and I was grateful for small blessings. One man, a big fellow with only two teeth showing in his ugly grin, grabbed me by my arm and dragged me away from the railing and towards the center of the ship without saying a word. My boots slipped and skidded on the slimy deck as I fought against his grasp, but I could not free myself. I found myself being dragged below decks and then into a cabin.

The crewman pushed me into a chair beside a table and then left. I could hear the door being bolted behind him. I could see that the cabin was stuffed with  myriad of items of all sorts – it was a regular treasure house, if you don’t mind your treasures being water-rotted and covered with barnacles.

Before I could even get up the nerve to leave my seat and look around, the door slammed opened again. The man who entered could be no one less than the captain, to judge from his dress.

“So this is what the crew dragged in, is it? A lobsterman. Out in a growing storm to check traps that have been empty for days. Surely this is a desperate man, and perhaps he even knows that he’s a dead one.” The man broke into a creaking laugh. “Don’t you know better than to put out to sea when there’s a storm brewing and the ghost ship has been seen? Or are you just suicidal?”

I worked to get enough spit in my mouth to answer him. Finally I croaked, “Desperate. You said it the first time. I’m a desperate man.”

“Well, you’re aboard the ghost ship now, Laddie-buck, and make no mistake, it must mean that you’re a dead man and cursed to sail with the rest of us cursed fools, mustn’t it?” He leered at me and walked around to the other side of the table, where he dropped into a chair. I could hear the wind rising outside and knew, with a sinking heart, that there was no way I could make it to shore safely now, even if I weren’t captive aboard this nightmare ship. As if to emphasize this, the ship pitched and rolled with the waves and wind. “What were you thinking? Even if the storm didn’t scare you ashore, wasn’t the thought of the ghost ship enough to keep you safe home?” He glared at me with dead eyes.

“I didn’t believe. I thought it was all superstitious nonsense and rot.” I was babbling. Part of me was saying that telling the captain of the ghost ship I though he was rot wasn’t such a good idea, but it seemed my tongue and my brain weren’t connected anymore.

“Well, now you know better, don’t you!?” He wheezed out another laugh. “I’ll leave you to cool your heels here for a bit. I’m needed on deck.” He made sure to bolt the door behind him again.

As the ship rolled in the heavy waves, I explored the cabin, hoping for a way out. Just as I had noted when I first saw the room, it was full of treasures of all sorts. There was furniture from the finest European cabinet makers, carved and once gilded. There were figurines from the Orient, and rotting bits of silk. I found a spice chest with no spice left in it, but it was heavily carved and a work of art in itself. Finally, lying abandoned on a desk bolted to the wall, I found the ship’s log.

I picked the book up and took it back to my chair to read it. Much of it was unreadable, the ink having run and the pages stuck together from its immersion. But the last few pages were still legible, the ink having been switched to a permanent sort.

“There’s a storm brewing,” read the first readable entry. “Don’t know if we will be able to weather it. We need to find a safe harbor.”

The next one read, “A fishing boat has signaled us. The captain indicated that he knows of a safe harbor…we will follow his sail.”

Then came another entry. The handwriting was staggering, as if the writer were having trouble holding on to the pen. “We have been tricked, and led astray. The fishing boat was a cover for wreckers, who led us onto a sandbar. We are exposed to the full fury of the storm – the ship will not last much longer. I fear that all is lost, and ask the Good Lord to take me, His humble servant, and my loyal crew, good men all, safely into his bosom. And I pray that the villains who have done this to us will rue this day.”

I pause a moment in my reading. But the log continued, so surely he must have survived?

But the next entry was in a different handwriting. “Have taken over the ship. For a wonder, she lasted the storm although the captain and crew did not. She is a prize indeed, and stuffed with goods for us to sell. I believe I’ll keep her. She’ll need a few repairs, but it will be nice to have such a fine ship as a base of operations.”

Then, later: “Taking on water. I don’t know where the leak is and if we can get it patched in time. To add to the trouble, another storm is coming. I don’t think we can make it to shore in time to save the ship and ourselves. Just desserts, I suppose. Fate seems to have dealt us an irony – we have killed by the sea will ourselves be killed by it.”

That was the last entry in the log. From the look of the ship, she had indeed gone down, with all hands – those pirates from the wrecker’s crew – aboard.

I put the book back and paused, thinking. The captain had called them cursed. They were a wrecker’s crew, sailing a stolen ship and had gone to the bottom in yet another storm. I was suddenly certain that I would not be left to perish aboard this ship to join these evil men who were certainly continuing their dreadful ways in their afterlife.

I raced around the cabin again and settled on a porthole, finally deciding to take my chances in the stormy sea. Better to perish cleanly that way than to lead a corrupted life after death.

I snatched my knife from my pocket and began prying at the swollen wood. It wasn’t budging, so I grabbed a chair and began to batter at the glass with it. It shattered on the first blow, but even then it was too small to allow me through. The wind and rain blew in with a vengeance, though.

As I continued to swing at the wooden frame, hoping to bash a larger hole, the door to the cabin flew open again. The captain stood there, bellowing, “What do you think you’re doing, you fool!”

I was across the room in one leap, pinning the captain against the wall. “You’re nothing but a bunch of wreckers and pirates  ! I’ll not spend eternity joining your crew! I’ll take my chances in the storm before I’ll join you in this hell, pirating and wrecking and plundering and killing!” I pushed my arm against the captain’s neck. His dead white eyes, cloudy and dim stared back at me. Then, with a strength that was no longer human, the strength of a man beyond injury, the captain of the ghost ship threw me across the room. I landed in the chair I had been sitting in earlier. It collapsed beneath me and I lay sprawled amidst the splintered wood. My nose was pouring blood where his arm had hit it and I could feel that several of my ribs were injured.

“Hell. You call this ship hell. Well, you’re not wrong there!” he spat. “It’s a hell sure enough, and I’d be glad to be shut of it myself. But the only plundering we do these days is on the bottom of the sea among vessels long since sent to the depths.” He took a small bag out of his jacket and flung it across the room at me. It landed square in my groin with a jingle and despite the pain in my ribs I curled up convulsively. “Take a look. There’s not a coin in there newer than a century old. Keep it. Riches mean nothing to a dead man.”

He stalked forward and grabbed me by my collar. His face inches from mine, he roared, “Hell. Hell is a ship we can’t be quit of, a rest we are cursed to never find. Hell is sinking to the bottom of the sea and then being hauled up again and told that we can’t find rest until was save enough lives to make up for the ones we took when we were wreckers. Hell is going from fishing village to fishing village and trying to scare the slack-witted fishermen into staying ashore when there’s danger at sea. Hell is taking their bloody lobsters and clams and fish to make them think they’re too jinxed be able to fish anymore so they’ll stay ashore. Hell is never knowing if we’ll EVER be able to do enough to make up for what we did wrong in life! You want Hell, Laddie-buck, I’ll give you hell!” He threw me back down again and turned to leave the cabin.

I don’t know where the strength came from, but I leapt to my feet and raced to the door, pushing past the dead man and rushing up towards the deck. As I came out into the full force of the wind, I heard a shout. Then something hit me on the back of the head, and there was blackness.

When I came too, I could still hear and feel the wind and rain. The surface under me was rocking wildly, and there was a grating noise coming from underneath me. Something was pinching my ear. Hard. I batted at it and it pinched my finger hard enough to send me sitting bolt upright into the storm, yelling.

I found myself sitting up in my little dory, which was scraping against the sand of the harbor beach. My head hurt, my nose hurt, my ribs hurt and my groin hurt. My ear and finger didn’t feel too great, either. Still, I was alive and home and my dory – my livelihood – was intact.

My slowly awakening brain realized that I needed to get to shelter before I was swept back out to sea. I jumped out of the dory into knee-deep water and hauled her ashore and then as far up the beach as I could. Finally I looped her rope around a ring in the breakwater and turned to go ashore.

A movement in the boat caught my eye. Oh yes – the lobster. Well, he’d flavor my soup a bit. But when I reached into the boat I was in for a surprise. The small lobster was still there, but so were two huge, fat fellows. They were chasing each other around the bottom of the boat, snapping their claws at each other. Where they had come from, I had no idea.

I grabbed the small lobster and flung him back into the surf. “Grow up and you might make a good meal some day!” I called after him. Then I gathered up the two big lobsters and bound their claws with the twine I kept in my pocket for that purpose. They fought like champions; no wonder my ear and finger had been pinched so thoroughly.

Sticking one into each pocket of my coat, I fought the wind and headed for the butcher’s shop with a wiggling lobster tail sticking out of each pocket.

Inside the butcher’s shop, I found quite a few of my fellow villagers, including Mary Barnham from the dry-goods store. Everyone marveled that I was back alive; they had given me up for dead several hours ago. I told my tale as the butcher took my lobsters and handed me back a meaty beef bone and a handful of coins.

“It’s the truth, so help me, it is. The ghost ship is just trying to warn people to stay off the water for a while. It doesn’t cause the problems. It’s not a jinx. I’ve been there and heard their story and  I’ve the broken nose and cracked ribs to prove it. And the lobsters. Where else can the lobsters have come from?” My neighbors still looked askance at me. I thought again. “The grappling hooks left marks in my boat. I’ll show them to you.”

Mary put her hand on my arm gently. “Will, we’ll look after the storm. All that matters now is that you’re back safe.”

“Aye,” said one of the old men around the stove. “‘Tis quite a tale you tell, of being aboard the ghost ship and coming back to tell of it!” The old men snickered a bit.

I sagged, all my energy gone. I picked up my bone, now wrapped in brown paper for the trip home and into my stew pot, and swept my change into my hand. I reached into my trousers pocket to take out my coin purse to put them away, when my hand encountered something strange.

Slowly, I drew it out and put it on the counter in front of me. It was a bag, and it jingled when I put it down. I carefully opened the drawstring and spilled the contents out on the worn wood of the counter.

A small river of gold and glitters poured out. There were strange coins like none I had ever seen before, and bright red, green and blue stones. One of the old men from the stove leaned over and picked up a coin.

“As I live and breath,” he whispered, “it’s a piece of eight. And these others, some are old French coins…” he flipped it over. “This is well over a century old. Where did you get this, Will?”

“This must be the bag the captain threw at me. I thought I left it on the floor of the cabin. They must have put it in my pocket…”

Mary was touching the stones gently with a forefinger, “It’s a ruby, Will, and an emerald and a sapphire. You have a small fortune  in gems here.” She looked up at me. ” Your tale must be true. Will, I, I don’t know what to say.”

The old men clustering around me looked at me with a new respect.

Then one of them said, “So the ghost ship isn’t causing our troubles, or at least not permanently. But what about the bad things that have been happening on land?”

I shook my head, doubting Will Thomas back again. “Sometimes bad luck is just that. Bad luck.” I swept everything back into the little bag and started to leave.

Then an old codger half-hidden in the corner opened his eyes and said, “Don’t be too sure of that, me laddie. I heard the ghost-coach out on the Harbor Road the other night. They say it only appears to make trouble!” A malicious smile crossed his creased face.

Later on, after Mary Barnham patched me up a bit and bound my sore ribs, I fought the wind and rain and made my way home. And on the way, I could have sworn that over the howl of the wind, I could hear hoofbeats and jingling harness – and the rumble of coach wheels passing me on the Harbor Road.

When the Mary Barnham who ran the dry-goods store told me that one winter morning after relating the latest bit of bad news – someone’s herd of goats had busted out of the pen and got into the grain store and eaten themselves sick – I finally had enough of it. “Balderdash,” I stated. “Poppycock. This is nothing but a load of superstitious nonsense, and we both know it, Mary Barnham. All this going on about ghost ships and curses. It’s just plain foolery. That, and some old man drinking too much of his own brew and seeing things.” I’d have used stronger words than balderdash and poppycock, but my ma had had very set ideas about what was proper language and what wasn’t, and her lessons along that line had stuck. I couldn’t say anything stronger than shucks and darn without the seat of my pants starting to burn with the memory of her lessons.

I set my face in a stubborn scowl and dared her to contradict me.

Instead, she sniffed. “Fine. You just go ahead and think whatever you want, Will Thomas. But you just wait and see. Those of us who know it’s true, well, we’ll be prepared. And you won’t.” She nodded at the measure of dried beans in my hand. “And that’s the last thing you’re going to be able to buy on account here until you’ve paid up what you already owe. And the butcher, he told me the same thing about you this morning. So your luck’s already turning bad. Best watch out.” She turned, marked the price of the beans in the ledger, and bustled off, ignoring me.

I sighed and took my beans home to soak overnight. The news about my accounts wasn’t good, but I still had a bit of salt pork left to cook the beans with tomorrow. That, and an onion from my root cellar and some molasses would make a meal. I could eat on the beans for several days, and by then my luck might have turned around and I’d have lobsters in my traps again and luck in the oyster beds.

The next day there was new talk – and still they managed to link it to the ghost ship. The old folks with weather-wise joints said a big blow was coming. A nor’easter – a storm that would put the hurricanes of summer to shame, they said, and it was all because of the ghost ship. I held my tongue. Nor’easters came and went each winter, regardless of ghost ships. I just went about my business, checking my empty lobster traps and re-baiting them, because something was sure eating what I put in there to lure in the lobsters. And whatever it was wasn’t getting caught in the traps. I was really hoping for a few lobsters to sell at the market, so I could pay off my accounts with the butcher and the dry-goods store and get some food that wasn’t fish or winter root vegetables to round out my diet a little bit.

But still there was nothing in my traps. I couldn’t find any clams or oysters to gather, either.

I checked with the dry-goods store and the butcher, but neither one was relenting. “It’s not just you, Will,” they both said. “We’ve done the same thing to anyone with outstanding balances on their accounts. No one’s catching much of anything these days, and we need some cash ourselves to pay our bills.” I couldn’t fault them for that, but my belly sure wasn’t happy to hear it.

The next morning the blow hadn’t hit yet, and I decided to go out early to check my traps one last time before the storm began. Maybe there’d be a lobster there this time, and I could get enough money for a beef bone to stick in a stew – something to cook on the back of my stove throughout the storm. The sky was just starting to turn light as I got to the harbor and my boat, and the light was red. That was a bad weather sign, sure enough. “Red sky at morning, sailors take warning,” I repeated to myself as I jumped into my dory and untied it from the wharf. Every child learned that little ditty as soon as they could talk, and as near as I could figure, it was true.

I pulled on my heavy wool mittens, felted by salt water and hard work into a dense fabric of wool that would keep my hands warm even in the winter’s icy waters. The oars were old friends in my hands as I pulled out into the waters of the harbor.

There were a few other boats leaving the wharf when I did, but most of them remained silent and still. Their owners were too scared of the coming blow – that coupled with the sighting of the ghost ship – to leave the safety of their homes today. They’d go along the shore and look for clams and oysters, and do other things closer to home. Only a few of us were desperate enough to take to the water today.

The wind was already whipping up a bit, and the sky was hung with a heavy layer of dark clouds. The reddish light was eerie, sure enough. But eerie-looking didn’t fill my coin purse or larder, and I rowed purposefully for the buoy marking the first of my traps.

Once more, each of them was empty, even of the bait I had put in them. I bit my tongue on some words that my ma would have tanned me for, sure enough. There was one trap left. I hadn’t intended to check it, because it was farther out in the harbor than the others, all the way around a little headland, and the wind was picking up, but now I didn’t have a choice. I turned the boat and rowed around the headland for the last trap.

This one did have something in it. It was an undersized, runty little lobster that wouldn’t even make a child’s meal. I almost threw it back to grow up some more, but stopped. I had to eat something other than potatoes during the storm, and at least I could make a lobster bisque with that and the milk from my goat. It would have more flavor that nothing.

Sighing, I put the lobster away and re-baited the trap, then turned my boat towards shore. The light was dim as though the sun couldn’t find its way through the heavy layer of clouds, and the wind was stronger and cold as an icicle. I rowed as hard as I could, knowing I probably had little time left before the full fury of the  storm hit. I had just rounded the headland when I rowed into something with a solid “THUNK.”

Slowly, I shipped my oars and turned to see what I could possibly have run into out here in the harbor on a day when only the desperate had boats out.

I saw a weathered, slimy green wall of boards going up and up. My eyes followed it and suddenly there was no spit left in my mouth at all. It was as dry as if I had stuffed it with cotton wool, and try as I might, I couldn’t even swallow. For what I saw was a ship, looking like it had just risen out of the depths of the sea, covered with sea weed and kelp and glowing with St. Elmo’s fire. It was the ghost ship.

To Be Continued…

-She Wolf (c)2009

Off Starboard

Still fuming from my unexpected encounter with Albion, I decided to take a few strong walking laps around the promenade deck to work off my head of steam.     As I came around the starboard side, I noticed a group of a dozen or more passengers and crew standing at the railing.  They were staring at something in the distance.    One of the officers had field glasses.

As I approached I could pick up snippets of excited conversation.

“Unbelievable!”  —  “Where do you think it came from?” — “It looks so old!”

I slowed my stride and worked my way over to the group.

On the horizon, several miles away, I could make out what appeared to be a tall-masted ship, something from centuries ago.  It sails were hoisted but I could make out no activity aboard.

“Excuse me.”    Another officer worked his way to through the crowd.  It was the First Officer known to us only as “H.J.”.    He approached the officer with the field glasses and motioned for them.    He took one look and said tersely to the officer.  “Inform the Captain.”

“Uh, sir…. Captain Diabolito is away hunting shape-shifting werewolves on the lower decks.  She won’t be back for a couple of days, sir….”

“Well,”  he snapped, “inform the Admiral then! This is not good.”   The other officer rushed off.   H.J. continued to stare through the glasses.  His jaw was clenched.   ”Not good at all.”

“Commander,” I whispered.  “May I take a look?”    He handed me the glasses and I put them to my eyes.

I gasped.   “It’s Cetea’s Revenge!”

Images and text:   L. Gloyd © 2009

E’s Coracle

Heart Coracle

Visible here there should be a picture of me sitting happily in the walnut shell. Just wanted to warn people that just before I jumped into the little ship I was wearing black jeans and a t-shirt. So be prepared for a change of sorts. Still the craft is cool. With a single oar, one must stir the water in front in the shape of a figure 8. This way you draw yourself along.  Its not fast. Its not stable. But it is pure joy. Perhaps this means that any emergency we meet on this cruise will not be escaped from in a hurry. There is a knack.

The View From My Window
By Celtic Sea

A curtain of fog lifts as the sun breaks onto the morning stage
Revealing sprite-like figures dancing on the crests of the waves.
Sensing intrusion into their covert recital,
The spirits flit beneath the waters,
Vanishing like a good dream.

Was this my imagination?
My muse incarnate?
Or, just wishful thinking?
Did anyone else witness this daybreak performance?

A Cabin Mate

A strange thing happened to me my first night on board the Vulcania. I had spent the day getting my cabin in order. I had unpacked my boarding trunk and hung my clothes neatly in the wardrobe. A deck steward who seemed magically to know that I was done came and whisked my now empty trunk into storage.

The compact bookcase/computer desk combination I had brought with me fitted well into the cabin décor. It was secured so that it wouldn’t move should we encounter rough seas. My books, several small volumes of Mary Oliver’s poetry, A Trail Through Leaves by Hannah Hinchman, WatercolorPencil Magic by Cathy Johnson, and Into your Digital Darkroom by Peter Cope, had been stowed and strapped in place so they would not come sliding out in the aforementioned heavy seas. My laptop fitted snugly into its compartment. To the right of it, there was room enough for my journal, colored pens and pencils, and other assorted paraphernalia.

I was tired after a full day of arrival and preparation so I slipped early into my bunk style bed. My body seemed to float beneath the colorful down quilt. The design was that of pale blue, tropical waters…a sea with silky wavelets where a myriad of small tropical fish left rainbows in their tiny wakes.

It didn’t take long for me to fall asleep. When I awakened it was dark, except for the moon spotlighting a path through the porthole and onto my pillow. I could not tell what had awakened me except that I thought I heard a voice, one that I could not identify. Out of habit, I looked for my watch but remembered that L’Enchanteur had suggested we leave all time pieces ashore. We would be sailing, she said, by Lemurian time; timeless time is the way she described it. An interesting concept to say the least.

I heard the voice again, or I thought I did. “Who is there?” Looking around, I saw nothing except a diffused green glow on the foot of my bed. I sat up quickly pulling the quilt with me and causing the glow to tumble off the bunk and onto the deck.

“Hey, watch out,” the voice said, “I’m not so young any more and my arthritis…well, it’s been a cold winter, even in Arizona.

What the heck? I was by this time getting a little nervous and beginning to question my sanity.

from Sail Away

Island of Temple People Prepare for Vulcania’s Arrival

This island of the Temple People is a part of the Lemurian Archipelago and, like the Isle of Ancestors is regularly visited by the SS Vulcania who brings a fascinating human cargo to its shores. The island is shrouded in mystery and the initiated are able to participate in special fertility rituals here. Carnival is celebrated on the Island of the Temple People regularly.  The celebration continues to grow with the arrival of new pilgrims, some of whom choose to take up permanent residence on the island.   Colourful artistic floats, grotesque masks and dance companies of all ages and sexes parade the streets of the town and the main villages throughout the five days.  A spontaneous carnival is organised after sunset in the villages.  Hundreds of people walk up and down the main street dressed in comically distorted figures and the most imaginative and creative costumes and masks to conceal their identity.

If you are planning disembark make sure to let le Enchanteur know and have yourself added to the Island of the Temple People blog so that you can post some of your impressions there.