Balanced Dying

From Human Energy Systems by Jack Schwartz

“An important part of balanced living is balanced dying. As we take time out to eat and rest, we must also take out time to die—to encourage the progressive transition of ourselves through the stages of life. This is how I think of meditation. Meditation is the basic initiator of all action.”

“People long to be eternal, but they die with every day that passes. When you meet them, they’re not what you last met. In any hour, they’ll kill some part of themselves. They change, they deny, they contradict—and they call it growth. At the end, there’s nothing left, nothing unreversed or unbetrayed; as if there had never been an entity, only a succession of adjectives fading in and out of an unformed mass.” -Ayn Rand

Auguries of Innocence

Every Night and every Morn
Some to Misery are Born
Every Morn and every Night
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to sweet delight
Some are Born to Endless Night

Towards the End...

Over the past few days I've been thinking a lot about evolution and the place humans occupy in it. Repeatedly, I have come back to the fact that my last post may have ignored the one distinguishing feature that sets us apart from other species—our minds.

Historically, the very first homo sapiens came on the scene during the Ice Age. As they moved away from their ancestral home on the African savanna, they faced glacial sheets, much like the one that covers Greenland today, advancing and retreating with the seasons. Each time the sheets advanced, the humans were forced south; when the sheets receded, the humans moved north to find abundant hunting grounds in their wake.

During this period, the selective process for better brains must have been intense. Only those humans with bigger, more developed brains would be able to reproduce among the perils of new lands and harsher climates.

As evolution progressed, this trend continued. Those humans with the greatest mental capacity survived the longest. Those who used their brains in the most effective ways succeeded. Today, things have changed a bit and arguments could be made about modern medicine allowing the human genetic pool to become polluted with disease, infirmity and handicaps that would have been wiped out in earlier ages—their carriers simply would not have survived long enough to reproduce. However, it could also be argued that the sympathy—the humanity—we express through our mastery of technology and medicine are hallmarks of our evolution away from the beasts and toward something greater.

Either way, the MIND is the key. Consciousness. It is clear to me now that this truly is the central drama and purpose behind all these billions of years of evolution. Consciousness is what life has been heading for all this time. And it has manifested in us!

Can you grasp the power of that?

Think about it like this:

• 3.5 billion years ago… life on this planet began.
• 2 million years ago… apes evolved into the homo genus.
• In a single century… we've discovered and traced the evolutionary forces at work.
• In a few short decades… we've revealed the very basis of life: DNA.

It seems we are fast approaching an Omega Point, where the consciousness of all mankind works together for some grander purpose. Call me an idealist, but no one—human or alien—can doubt that our species will lead this planet and all its inhabitants into a whole new and final unification…or to its ultimate destruction.

I don't know about you but the point of all this can't just be fast cars and rock stars and bank accounts and MTV. Though our current cultural conditioning certainly seems to be pointed that way, if you have any sort of feeling beyond the basest impulses for food and self preservation, you must realize that there is more—and I'm not talking about religion per se.

I think Daniel Pinchbeck says it best:

"The possibility of establishing a radically new understanding of the psyche… threatens the underpinnings of a culture obsessed with acquiring goods, wealth, and status. If we were to discover that other aspects of reality deserved serious consideration, we would have to reconsider the thrust of our current civilization: entire lives and enormous expulsions of energy would seem misdirected or even wasted…"

Consciousness is the key. We have to avail ourselves to the possibilities life offers, whether they seem profitable or not. We must listen to our inner impulses and follow them faithfully, even if we don’t fully understand where they bringing us. What else do we have to go on?

In the beginning…

In the beginning, the Earth was cold and the seas as barren as deep space. The primordial tides rose and fell against small, lonely patches of wasteland. The oceans stretched on and on and on, and there was no sound save for the thresh of the wind and the omnipresent roll of thunder rattling in the distance…two billion years before an ear existed to hear them.

And then one day—a day like any before it, a day that seemed almost stupid with its regularity—a very peculiar thing happened. It wasn't an unheard of event exactly, it had happened in other places on other worlds, but this was the first day it happened on this planet. On that day, not far from the surface of the ocean, a microscopic single-celled organism gained the miraculous (?) ability to divide and reproduce itself. Not long after that, another single-celled organism gained the same ability. Then another, and another, and another… The conditions were perfect to permit it. Time passed, and the single-celled organisms became soft, multiple-celled organisms. These, in turn, joined with others to become larger, more complex organisms, eventually leading to the formation of primitive water-dwelling invertebrates.

These creatures were well adapted to the ancient seas, and they flourished. Over a short period of time—perhaps 1 million years or so—they multiplied so many times that hosts of mutations inevitably occurred. The most successful mutations adapted to their environment and blossomed in that place. The creatures mutated further, and again, the most successful lived on, eventually becoming a class of creatures we might today call fish. This was about 365 million years ago.

Mutation and selection worked its magic, and the fish eventually developed better fins for swimming and better jaws for catching prey. The ones we call crossopterygians developed a primitive lung in addition to their gills. By pure chance, some of these crossopterygians were born with mutated legs, which allowed them to waddle onto the land formed by the receding seas, opening up for them a whole new habitat. These creatures existed on the tiny insects flying at the edge of the water. Time passed, and they mutated further into antediluvian amphibians.

So it went that the fish begat the amphibian, the amphibian begat the reptile, the reptile begat the mammal, and from small, ambiguous mammals came the primates, from the primitive primates came the apes and monkeys, from the apes came australopithecus, homo erectus, homo habilis, the Neanderthal, Cro-Magnon man, and finally homo sapiens: The modern man was born.

Half a billion years of evolution… and at every step of the way, mutation and selection flowed through life like water through rock, carving away the useless, the inadaptable, the weak. Creatures that were not strong or ruthless enough to thrive did not get a chance to reproduce.

And now, to the surprise of many, modern man has escaped evolution. Survival of the fittest no longer applies to our species, at least not in the manner that it has in the past. Physical mutations no longer affect the carrying on of our genes to the next generation. We now have the choice of whether to reproduce or not. Sex is a leisure activity; children a financial decision. Neither hold the instinctual/survival obligation they once did.

When seen on a scale like this, the worries of our everyday life seem utterly insignificant. Who really cares if this or that project gets done today, next week, or next century? Does it even matter? In the space of 70 years—a human lifetime; a micro-blink of the evolutionary eye—what real meaning could anyone’s life really hold? Who really cares if I do or don’t have children, go to work today or stay home, pay my bills or set fire to my credit cards, live, die, kill, be killed… do anything at all? Does it really matter?

Religion, too, takes on a strange, artificial pallor when seen through the evolutionary lens. Where is there a place for God if life is purely mutation and selection, a set of coincidental circumstances occurring with scientific regularity when the conditions permit?

I’m not the first to ponder these issues, and I’m sure I won’t be the last either. Anyone? Is anyone else out there?

Not many men will say what I'm about to reveal to the world right now. It's a confession of sorts, but I can't hold it in any more.

I LOVE AIMEE MANN!

There, I said it, OK? I feel so much better.

The soundtrack to Magnolia rules, as does her 2002 album, Lost in Space. But lately, my fave song of hers is right here. Bad video quality, but the content is classic 80s.

(BTW The guy in the vid is super familiar looking. I think he might have been a regular in 80s videos...)

Enjoy.

“As soon as strong initiative is taken to change our nature toward refinement, a new inner process begins to take place. The forces of positive accomplishment from each of our past lives begin to manifest in this one. These good deeds are vibrations in the ether substance of our memory patterns, because each of us, right now, is a sum total of all previous experience.”

-Satguru Sivaya Subramuniyaswami

I know we have all had it up to here with the Iraq war, but when I saw this article (“War Costs and Costs and Costs” by Prof. Joseph E. Stiglitz) on GlobalResearch.ca today, it made me stop and think about it again in a new way.

“The Bush administration said the war would cost $50bn. The US now spends that amount in Iraq every three months. To put that number in context: for one-sixth of the cost of the war, the US could put its social security system on a sound footing for more than a half-century, without cutting benefits or raising contributions…

The war has had only two winners: oil companies and defense contractors. The stock price of Halliburton, vice-president Dick Cheney's old company, has soared. But even as the government turned increasingly to contractors, it reduced its oversight…

The largest cost of this mismanaged war has been borne by Iraq. Half of Iraq's doctors have been killed or have left the country, unemployment stands at 25%, and, five years after the war's start, Baghdad still has less than eight hours of electricity a day. Out of Iraq's total population of around 28 million, 4 million are displaced and 2 million have fled the country.

The thousands of violent deaths have inured most westerners to what is going on: a bomb blast that kills 25 hardly seems newsworthy anymore. But statistical studies of death rates before and after the invasion tell some of the grim reality. They suggest additional deaths from a low of around 450,000 in the first 40 months of the war (150,000 of them violent deaths) to 600,000.

With so many people in Iraq suffering so much in so many ways, it may seem callous to discuss the economic costs. And it may seem particularly self-absorbed to focus on the economic costs to America, which embarked on this war in violation of international law. But the economic costs are enormous, and they go well beyond budgetary outlays.

Americans like to say that there is no such thing as a free lunch. Nor is there such a thing as a free war. The US - and the world - will be paying the price for decades to come.”

I'm not sure where I found this mandala, but I'm feeling it big time. Something about it just reaches out and grabs me. Hope you dig it, too.

All you revolutionaries out there--make sure you don't miss ZEITGEIST! You can watch it for FREE on this website or check it on Google Video here.

Zeitgeist is one of the most expansive conspiracy theory films I've ever seen. As low budget as it is, it’s both powerful and frightening, and I would recommend it to any free thinking human out there. It's way too large to describe here, so I won't even try. Suffice to say that it covers the gamut, questioning the Bible, the existence of Jesus Christ, Vietnam, 9/11, the Federal Reserve, brain implanted microchips ,and the ever advancing plans for One World Government.

Watch it with the lights on. Yikes!

An old Cherokee Chief put a hand on his son’s shoulder and led him away from the campfire. It was frigid night, and though he hated to walk away, the boy had the utmost respect for his father, and so he went without a sound. Once away from the glare of the fire, they looked up at the sky, and were silent in awe of the brilliance of the heavens.

“Inside of you, there are two wolves fighting,” the Chief said. “The first wolf is the embodiment of all that is spiteful and hateful in you—all that is lazy and arrogant and ignorant and immature and greedy and selfish. In it’s jaws it holds all your fears of tomorrow and all the failures yet to come.

“The other wolf is the embodiment of all that is good and pure in you—all that is kind and forgiving and loving and gentle and wise. In its jaws it holds all the promise of tomorrow, and of all your potential that is yet to be. These two wolves are always at one another’s throats, in a desperate struggle to get the upper hand.”

After a moment, the boy said, “But Papa, who wins?”

And the old chief looked down at his son and said, “Whichever one you feed.”

Perspectives on Levels of Consciousness

Two cool articles just popped into my life that I'd like to share. They both deal with the states of consciousness we experience and how we progress to higher states as we mature, but they look at the issue from different perspectives

The first is from the blog of my friend Adrian Cox, who runs the excellent Yoga Elements Studio in Bangkok. The Seven Levels of Consciousness deals with the different states of awareness we experience from kind of a conceptual angle. He classifies the states as waking, sleeping, dreaming, and four other states of higher awareness one can reach through meditation and yogic practices. He looks at the issue from quite an Eastern perspective.

The other article is from the speaker and writer Steve Pavlina, who does something similar in Levels of Consciousness, but approaches the topic from a perspective of our general attitudes as we progress through life. He breaks up the levels according to our general feelings: Courage, Pride, Reason, Joy, Love, Enlightenment, etc. This is quite a Western perspective.

Both authors holds that we generally stay in one to three stages most of our lives, and that to get to the next higher stage requires a good deal of discipline and conscious effort. I recommend both!

Kenneth Anger's films are amazing. Below is a short clip from "Invocation of my Demon Brother." I recently read an analysis of this film, basically saying that by "demon brother" Anger meant one's higher self, not a devil or something. This film was constructed to awaken the higher self in the viewer.

Anger actually believed that by constructing his film in a certain way, by sequencing certain symbols and images - images that that one may not understand consciously, but that one's sub-conscious would recognize - he was actually casting a spell on the viewer. By watching his films, he believed he could awaken the eternal soul in each of us - a soul that would know what its talents were and what its true direction in life should be.

Looking at the film, I can believe that a spell is being cast!

The Mariner
Chapter 6

The mariner walked back towards the waterfall, the call of tropical birds echoing in his ears. The sun-dappled jungle floor was alive with insects and tiny creatures. Such a beautiful place to be, he thought, but not against my will… Why does Murzium keep me here? Could he really be that lonely?

It was a mystery to him. Loneliness was foreign to the mariner. After his father walked out on the family when he was very young, he taught himself not to get attached to the company of others. Since then, he could only remember being lonely once in his life, and the woman who made him feel that way was in a grave not 48 hours later.

Suddenly, a sound. An animal calling so strange and beautiful, it took his breath away. It was a rhythmic, almost melodic warbling—a tone too low to be made by a bird. There, on the lower branches of a willow tree, sat a squirrel. It had a lush coat of reddish gold, like that of a fox. The hair on its head stuck up like ruddy flames in a V-shape. It made the warbling sound again, cocking his head to one side. The creature didn’t have the nervous twitch most squirrels possessed. It called out once more, then leapt across the branches and up the adjacent hill.

The mariner diverged from his path, following the enchanting creature away from the waterfall. He climbed over a rocky ridge and spied a beach he had never seen before. Unlike the one where his boat was docked, this beach was small and pebbly. Nearby were some young coconut trees, which he shimmied up and trimmed. He split the coconut the way the islanders at Yamdena taught him, then slurped the sweet, clear juice inside. When it was done, he scooped out the slippery meat. It tasted good. It had been a long time since he had a coconut.

When lunch was done, he lay in the grass beyond the beach and stared up at the sky, blue as his own two eyes. A cloud passed over that looked like a flying fish. It reminded the mariner of a time when he lived with the sea gypsies at Yamdena and they told him their legend concerning that creature.

* * *

Long ago, before Man appeared on the face of the Earth, there was a very beautiful and very proud bird called the Pulau. The Pulau was dignified and gracious and had a plume of feathers on his head that every other animal envied. But the Pulau knew his position in the hierarchy of things, only too well. He bragged relentlessly to all the other species about how he alone could fly the fastest; he alone could soar the highest; he alone possessed a coat that every other animal would kill for. And they hated him, because they knew he was right.

But there was no other family the Pulau was crueler to than the Fish. He would mock them mercilessly, flying low over the surface of the Sea everyday, displaying his stalk of feathers and calling out to the fish, “Don’t you wish you soar the skies and touch the Sun? Don’t you wish you could move as quick as the Wind and quiet as the Dawn? Don’t you wish you could feel the air rushing through a set of feathers so beautiful, so rare, even the Leopard burns in jealousy? Don’t you, hmm? Well, don’t you?”

Every living thing in the sea hated him for it. And so one day, when the Pulau was gliding low over the sea and mocking, Phlaxis, the god of the Sea, reached his arm into the air and grabbed the Pulau and pulled him deep, deep underwater and held him captive there.

When Perse, the god of the Sky, found out about the Pulau’s imprisonment, she was secretly happy the loudmouth had finally gotten his due, but at the same time she couldn’t allow for such an injustice. As was her duty, she went to meet Phalxis and plead a case for the bird.

She said, “Dear brother, you know as well as I, a bird belongs to the sky. No matter how vain he be, he cannot be kept in the sea. The Pulau must fly again—such was Creation’s intent.”

And in the fashion of many gods of that early age, Phalxis agreed… on his own terms. In accordance with his sister’s wish, he turned the Pulau into the Flying Fish, so that although he would fly again, he would never soar, and he would never glide. He would merely float a breath above the surface of the water—just enough to remember how agile he once was, and how far from grace he had fallen.

* * *

The cloud floated on, and the low, warbling sound roused the mariner from his daydream. He turned and saw the squirrel sitting on a large boulder at the edge of the jungle.

“You again?”

The squirrel voiced a reply in its squirrel language and the mariner smiled. He walked towards the boulder, and the creature disappeared into the brush. Near where the squirrel was sitting, the mariner found a very peculiar looking plant. It had long, thin leaves and red flowers with white streaks shooting from their center like lightning. Though he couldn’t put his finger on it, the plant very curious, as if it had an energy all its own... After caressing it, he smelled his fingers. Cloves.

There was an overgrown path nearby that ascended steeply into the thickest part of the jungle and stretched towards the island’s single peak. He followed it for a while, the heat of the afternoon making the concave space between his breasts moist. He pushed on, making his way hand over hand through a forest of trees with fruit that tasted like pomegranates. After hiking the arduous trail for an hour, the trees thinned out and he came to a promontory that overlooked a huge expanse of sea. To the east, there was another island that seemed smaller than the one he was on. Other than that, it was water—as far as the eye could see. He took off his damp shirt, and while hanging it from the waistband of his pants, he saw it.

Beside the side of the path, where the rainwater had turned the dirt into a thick mud, there were animal tracks. They were small at first—a four-legged creature with claws—but in a matter of paces, they grew grotesquely, becoming almost human size before disappearing into the rocks. The mariner’s blood ran cold.

“Hello, stranger,” said a voice.

The mariner jumped. Looking up, he saw a sprightly young man sitting on a thin ledge several meters above the clearing. His reddish golden hair flew strait up like horns in a V-shape, and he had strange, grey eyes. He wore dark overalls and had hairy feet ending in menacing claws.

“Welcome to the neighborhood,” it said. Then it smiled, revealing a brilliant set of fangs. “Have lunch yet?”

photo by photo landscape

The Mariner
An adventure series

Chapter 5

The mariner stood looking at the old man delicately weeding flowers on the far side of the pool. He said nothing. He had heard about spirits of the woods and waters before and their mischievous ways, how they would trap humans and keep them as slaves, but he had never run into one himself. The cool air of dusk chilled his bare skin and raised goose bumps on his flat abdomen.

“Why me?”

Murzium seemed to find it funny. “There’s no use arguing over it. If you weren’t here right now, you would be dead. You would have died right where I left you, in the middle of the ocean. If by some remote chance you made it to these shores, you would have died in the jungle. It’s that simple.”

The mariner gathered the rest of his belongings and put them on. While strapping on his belt, the haft of his dagger brushed against the skin of his hip. He paused for less than a second, then continued securing the buckle.

“You’ll get used the idea, overtime, son. The violent thoughts will cease.”

“How do you know?”

He smirked. “I know. You think you are the first?”

The mariner stood and thought about that. The next moment, he was looking at the cove from a distance and the light was different. A shirtless boy with brown hair in long, tangled curls scampered over the ridge holding a fish, still alive. He yelled to the old man and the old man emerged from behind the waterfall with a wide smile. He looked exactly the same—beard, clothes, everything. The boy cleaned the fish to the side while the man built a small fire. The flames grew and the pair chatted and laughed. Then they cooked the fish and the boy ate it.

“He was shipwrecked. Same as you, and when I first found him, much worse off. He could hardly get over the hill. But he lived here for many years. We were both very happy.”

“How do you know?”

“You think I can’t tell when a boy is happy? Children are like glass figurines—you can see right through them. They no reason to hide anything and they don’t even try. You can tell immediately when something is wrong.”

“And he never tried to leave?”

“No, he didn’t want to.”

“He never wanted to go back home?”

Murzium put his hand on his waist. “Well, of course he did. It wasn’t always easy for him. There were nights when it was all I could do to keep him from crying himself to sleep. But I was honest with him. There was no way out. It was a physical impossibility.”

“It’s not impossible.”

“It is!” The old man threw the weeds on the rocks. “For a boy like him, at least, it is. He had no boat. He arrived here on a piece of burnt timber from the ship he last crewed, the ship to which his parents sold him. He was a powder monkey, blasted out of the water by pirates two leagues from here… He lived like a slave, the poor thing. I gave him a life he could at least enjoy.”

"And then?”

“And then, what?” The old man glided to the top of a tall rock and sat there, a tired look on his face. “He… expired, several years ago. He lived a good life. We were so happy. But humans…” He shook his head. “So frail…”

The mariner bit his lower lip. He took his hands out of his pockets and walked to the highest rocks in the cove, from where he could see the ocean beyond the rock wall. The sky was heavy with clouds and all dark but for a paper-thin strip of orange melting into the sea. He stood there and watched the orange turn to grey then disappear completely, and the sea turned black.

* * *

The next morning the man woke and the sun was already up. He went to the water’s edge and drank. He splashed water on his face and neck, then ran his fingers through his dark hair. His reflection in the water looked good. He needed a shave, but other than that, he looked OK. Murzium was gone.

Walking through the jungle, the man stopped occasionally to inspect plants, eating berries as he went. The birds were quiet that morning, but it was sunny and clear.

Eventually, he came to the edge of the beach, where he could see his sloop floating in the shallows. He walked over the sand, which was not too hot yet, and stood in the water with his right hand on the boat. It bobbed up and down in the gentle surf. I could just get in this boat and push of right now, leave this cursed island and its delusional spirits. Right here, right now. It’s that easy. All I would need is a little fresh water...

He turned around and the old man was standing in the shadow of the trees on the edge of the jungle, squinting at him. He couldn’t read his expression. The mariner just stood there, defiant. All of a sudden, the wind picked up and the waves started coming in harder. The sky seemed to darken, and the boat quaked, jumping and ducking more and more violently. He put his left hand on the bow to try to steady it, then a big wave came and wrenched it from his grip, knocking him to his knees. He stayed on all fours for a minute, letting the sea wash over him, taking his time getting up. When he was standing, he looked up the beach and saw the old man turn his back and fade into the blackness of the jungle, and the surf was gentle again.

"Perhaps the reason we cry at funerals and rejoice at births is because we are not them."

- Mark Twain

The Mariner
A new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part IV

The mariner fished around the canvas bag hanging near the ship wheel and pulled from it a telescope. He put it to his eye and saw the island’s wide beach bobbing at the other end, the sand the color of dark rum. Directly behind the beach was a thick patch of trees and underbrush where no light penetrated. A settlement could easily hide in those shadows, in which case he had already been spotted—he couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. There was no time for precaution.

He unwrapped his shoulder when the sun was still high, dark lines spiraling outward from the wound like jeweled spider webs. It felt like rusted metal, the painful throb growing with every breath. It had become so sharp he wished he could give up breathing altogether. That wish, unfortunately, he knew would come true. All too soon.

He drank brackish water from the skin and cursed his luck, steering the ship towards the limestone cliff that jutted above the island’s tree line. With foliage hanging off the top and peaking around the sides of the cliff face, it looked like he was sailing closer to the open jaws of a massive sea dragon.

When the boat came close enough, the mariner weighed anchor and stepped off into the shallow water. He fell to his knees, still weak, having not eaten all day, then got up and stumbled over the beach towards the foliage. The sand was hot under his bare toes but he couldn’t move any faster. He squinted in the bright glare of the sun, the jungle vibrating like a mirage behind the heat coming off the sand. In a moment, he was in the shaded area, where he sat on a rock and rested.

Water. There was the sound of water. Not like surf crashing on the sand—more like water slapping on rocks. Fresh water. He lifted his head and looked through the jungle towards the interior of the island but could see no waterfalls, no flowing water. That was definitely where the sound was coming from, though.

He got up and made his way, step by step, deeper into the island. Vines hung between thin branches, some so low they touched the ground. Sunlight drifted across his face like panther camouflage. Silhouettes moved in higher branches, miniature monkeys in packs of four or six, swinging branch to branch, stopping to peer, imitating him loping across the landscape. Their hides were gray with tan breast patches and fleshy noses, long, loopy tails like fifth limbs, moving gracefully between saplings, eating, picking at insects, blending into the landscape. The land sloped downwards into a dry riverbed of smooth, pearly stones. His bare feet moved across them like a ghost’s.

The rock face stretched along the east side of the jungle, then cut across his path. It appeared he could go no further without scaling it—an effort he deemed too difficult in his state. He listened but could no longer hear the sound of the water. Could it have been a trick? He scanned the jungle but there was no sign of movement. His senses told him nothing. Wait… no, nothing. A bird called out and its native exclamation echoed off the jagged cliff before seeking the deeper reaches of the jungle. The man wished he could understand that language. Perhaps it would tell him something he needed to know. Do you know how to cure this poison, bird of paradise? A breeze blew, moving the humid air like a heavy blanket across his chest. The man turned around, confused about where to go. Tired. I’m so tired. I’m going to sit down and just cut off this arm and be done with it. At least then I’ll bleed to death. Maybe that would be better. Quicker. Though he was far too weak to carry out such a course of action, he pulled the dagger from the hip sheath… when the water sound appeared again.

The mariner tracked back to the dry riverbed of pearly stones. A cloud moved and they shone like diamonds across the jungle floor, illuminating a path he had not noticed before. He followed them to the foot of the cliff, where they cut a thin artery through the rock. When he could put it off no longer, he started his climb.

Panting heavily, the man grasped at a jagged boulder and pulled his body to the top of the slope with his left arm. Though it was not a difficult hike, he was extremely weak, and on reaching the apex, even closer to death’s door. It’s just a matter of time now. I’ll just wait right here and die. There’s no more I can do…but what’s this? Looking down on the other side of the ridge, he at first thought he was hallucinating. A small pool of water stretched out in a perfect oval before him, totally cut off from the sea by a wall of rock.

The pool was an iridescent sapphire, blinding in its luminescence, and fed by a waterfall streaming from high above. Patches of wildflowers sprang from ivory pebbles in sporadic bunches around the water’s edge. The grotto seemed to pulse with a psychic power. The sight completely entranced him, and in spite of his condition, the man smiled at the natural bounty.

In a few moments, he summoned the energy to stand up and walk down to the pool. With mild ecstasy, he dropped to his knees and plunged his head into the virgin waters. They tasted sweet and clean, like crystal honey. He drank deeply and the fresh water filled him. Snapping his neck back, the mariner knelt upright, feeling immeasurably better.

The pool was surrounded by a tall ring of hexagonal cylinders of stone so geometrically perfect they looked unnatural. Side by side, the cylinders abutted one another as if placed by someone to form a fence—yet they were obviously natural, probably fashioned by some singular seismic event eons before. No man possessed the power to shape stones to that degree… at least no man that he knew of. The only section of the wall that was low enough to be scaled was where he had entered. The mariner marveled at the place, kneeling in the water. He realized that if he did not arrive on that exact beach, if his ship approached the isle from any other direction, he probably would have never heard the waterfall, nor detected this spring. What peculiar luck.

The mariner stripped off his dirty clothes and waded deeper. The water welcomed him, seeping under his bandages and easing the pain in his shoulder. Just floating in it felt sublime. He closed his eyes and let his mind drift, his worries quickly becoming dim flames in the face of a spectacular star filled sky…

Swimming back to the shore, the man washed his clothes as best he could, and spread them on the rocks to dry. Then he lay down on a large boulder and closed his eyes, feeling the sun warm his naked skin.

*

When he woke, the western sun cast long shadows across the pool. The mariner felt hungry, but was surprised to find the pulsing pain had faded. Without opening his eyes, he let his left palm examine his right shoulder, passing over the wound like a cloud on a quiet battlefield. His fingers sought the edges of the damp bandages, sneaking beneath the creases to get at the skin.

Could it be?

He slowly opened his eyes. With shallow breath, he pulled the clotted bandages back and saw the new skin. What brand of trickery is this?

“It’s no trickery, young man,” said the voice.

The mariner turned onto his hands and knees, his eyes searching. A talking waterfall?

“No, son, it can’t talk.”

“Who’s there?” said the mariner, looking about.

“No one who hasn’t been here for a long, long time,” said the voice.

The mariner looked for his clothes. Ten meters away, his trousers lay on the rocks where the sun once was, his dagger underneath.

“You won’t be needing that, my boy,” said the voice, but the mariner was frightened. He made a quick move towards his dagger, but just as he reached it, it skittered farther away, as if blown by the wind.

“Come now, don’t be shy,” said the voice. “I know you better than you think. You already swam in my waters, after all.”

“Who are you?”

“I am the spirit of the waterfall, of course. I protect her. Oh, very well.”

An old man emerged from behind the stream of falling water wearing all white. From his chin sprang a white beard that ran down to his navel. On his head was a tall, round, white hat.

“I’ve taken on this form to make you feel more comfortable,” he said. “I don’t really look like this, you know.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I suspect my natural form would frighten you, so I’m appearing to you like this. Does it please you?”

Then the spirit smiled and laughed lightly. “Oh, I see. Perhaps you would enjoy this more.”

As the words came from his lips, the spirit’s form liquefied, the light of the fading sun glimmering through the translucent shape before it solidified again as a shapely young woman.

“Hmm, I can see this form does please you…”

The mariner grimaced and ran to put his pants on. “What is your name?”

“I’ve had many names over the years,” the spirit said, already changed back into the old man, “but you can call me Murzium.”

“Murzium…”

“And you are Jacob…” The old man suddenly covered his mouth with his hand. “Oh, but you do not favor that name any longer.”

“No... I mean, yes, correct,” said the mariner. He swallowed and tried to control his breathing. The spirit seemed gentle and lithe, but there was something unsettling about him. Perhaps it was his pupils… Blind men always made him feel uncomfortable.

“You… you can…”
“Read you thoughts? Why, of course. It is commonplace where I come from. And please, do not be afraid. I mean you no harm. I’m sorry if my eyes make you uncomfortable. It is… one aspect I cannot control… But, here we are. You have come to my waters and I have healed you. You would have died, you know, had I not brought you here.”

“Brought me here?”

The spirit smiled and floated across surface of the water, tending to a patch of bright pink wildflowers on the opposite shore of the pool. “There is little I can not do, at least when it comes to creatures as simple as yourself. Please, do not take offense.”

The mariner shook his head, confused. He looked around the enclosure, feeling his healed shoulder absently with his left hand. “This place is enchanted, then.”

“I supposed you could call it that.”

Murzium weeded the flowers, his back turned to the mariner. In the silence, a nameless dread grew in the pit of his stomach. The mariner felt an intense urge to escape, and quickly—but at the same time, he felt he owed the spirit something.

“Thank you,” the mariner said at a loss, then started to say something else but stopped himself. “Thank you very much,” he said again, this time narrowing his brow, “for helping me, I mean.”

He tried to think of some way to repay the spirit, but what could he possibly offer such a being? How does one repay a man for saving your life?

“Well, the simple answer is—you can’t,” Murzium said peering at him across the pool with a handful of weeds, “which is why you can never leave this place. Ever.”

The Mariner

A new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part III

The night ended with the light of a searing sun breaking over the eastern horizon. It woke the mariner, who had passed out lying on the quarterdeck. Too unsteady to walk, he crawled on his hands and knees to a skin hanging near the ship wheel and drank from it. Then he lay back down, the pain in his shoulder driving chills through his whole body, though it was a warm morning. For a moment, he just lay there, looking at the fair weather clouds floating high above him. He listened to the creak of the sloop’s timbers. The earth revolved under the weight of hundreds of kilometers of rock and molten lava, on top of which were dozens of kilometers of ocean, on top of which was a small, wooden ship, on top of which lay a weak, 24-year-old man, living the last few hours of his life before he joined with the eternal. God forgive me.

He struggled to the starboard edge of the boat and pulled himself up to a sitting position. There was no land, as far as the eye could see in any direction. With the use of a compass and a sextant, he could deduce his latitude, and make a decision on where to head—but what did that matter now? How much longer did he have left?

The mariner crawled below, sweating from the effort. He unlocked the drawer where he kept his captain’s journal and a quill.

February 13, 1688

Morning. Seventh hour. Coral Sea. 12th day from San Cristobal. Drifting. Sea high and wind quiet. Color of the sea dull green and bottomless. Running before the wind on a South-South-East track.

Yesterday ran into a band of islanders in a praus. They came on quick and I wounded one with musket shot. May have killed him. Sustained injury from arrow, probably poisoned. Feeling very weak and tired.

No land in sight. Will continue on present track in hopes of making New Caledonia before nightfall. Remote chance they have antidote.

The mariner stuck the quill in the waistband of his trousers, took the journal under his right arm, and dragged himself back on deck. He was so exhausted when he got back there, he passed out again.

When he awoke, his shoulder ached more sharply. It felt like something was growing in there—something evil and unpleasant. He thought he smelled something strange and then it went away. He dragged himself to the skin and wet his parched lips, then managed to get to the rim of the boat and prop himself there.

Looking out at the expanse of water stretching out in every direction, a desperation began to well up in him. This is it. This is how it all ends for me. Here. With no one to blame but myself. A loneliness appeared in him so raw that it felt like it was gnawing his insides out. He felt this kind of desperation before in the cities of the world, but never here… never out on the ocean on his own. This was always his space, where he was commander of his own destiny.

“Out here, you got the time and space to think and be alone with your thoughts,” his friend Jerome said to him long ago. They were sailing the Arafura Seas in those days, going from one isle to the next, fishing and trading and just having fun. Those were easier times. Special times. Why did I ever leave that?

“Must be running away from something” said the old woman sitting on the port side of the sloop. “That’s what I would say. A boy your age don’t find himself out on these open oceans, much less alone, unless he’s running from something.”

“Who are you?” the mariner said, frightened by her haggard appearance and drooping face. She didn’t look up from her knitting.

“Don’t look so surprised. What, you don’t recognize me? Just like your father. Left home at a young age and never looked back. Never looked back at what you did, who you left behind. Dirty rotten…”

The mariner shook his head. “You never wanted me there. I was just getting in your way. Another mouth to feed.”

“How do you know? You ever stop or think to ask? Oh no. You just up and run. That’s the only solution you have—run. Keep running, keep running… well look where it got you now. Nowhere left to run. Death caught up with you. It’s right there, over your shoulder. Ha! Made you look!” The hag started cackling, her tooth hanging like a lone bat guarding the entrance to a cave.

The mariner bit his lower lip and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the hag was gone but he could still hear her sickening laughter. He drank from the skin, tasting how foul and brackish the water was. He poured some out on the deck and it made a small yellow pool.

The sounds of a flute drifted over the boat. The mariner turned his head and saw a tall islander floating nearby on a large lily pad. He was sitting cross-legged, wearing a only a white loin cloth. Red dots were painted on his forehead, chin, between his breasts, and above his navel. On a long purple flute, he played an enchanting and disarming melody. The mariner looked around but no one else was there. No one but the two of them. The islander floated nearer, and as the music got louder, the mariner could hear a conversation between two people inside that melody.

“What do you mean?” said the boy.

“Oh come now, Jacob, you must know what I’m talking about. This is our only chance. There’s only one way out of this,” said the girl.

“I can’t. I can’t do that… I’ll be an outcast. We’ll never be able to live here. They’ll never accept me.”

“Yes they will. They are an open-minded people. You don’t give them due credit.”

“I’m not the last one to come to this island, though—you know that, right? And those who come after me… they aren’t going to be interested in just trading… you have no idea. Those people… I’m afraid what they will do. I’m afraid—”

“YES, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re scared!”

“I’m not scared.”

“Jacob, listen to yourself. You don’t want to try because you’re afraid of what some unseen men might do? It doesn’t even make sense!”

“This isn’t going to work,” the boy shouted. “It can never work!”

“I’m tired,” the mariner said, visions swirling in his head. “I’m so tired. Go away. Leave me to die in peace.”

The islander floated away into a thick, oncoming mist.

When he woke, it was noon. He looked over the side and the islander was gone. The sloop had drifted into new waters. The mariner marveled at the bright aqua shade of the water, transparent strait to the bottom, about ten meters below. A long coral reef ran there, alive with every manner of colorful fish one could imagine. The reef stretched out as far as he could see, though no land was visible. The water seemed to have a luster all its own, glowing with its own energy.

“Where are we headed?” he asked his grandfather, who stood at the ship wheel.

“Along the Tropic of Capricorn, where you will meet your guide. If we don’t drift into the horse latitudes, that is.” He kept his eye firmly set on the horizon. “Do you know why they call them the horse latitudes? I found out when I was just a boy, working aboard da Gama’s flagship. We left Sagres with a warship escort, but once we reached Cape Verde, it left us and we did something I thought crazy at the time. Instead of hugging the African coast as I heard so many men predict we would, the Captain swung the Sao Gabriel west, out into open ocean. Without land in sight, I was scared witless. For three weeks we sailed ahead on white flecked seas, with strong winds abeam, making the voyage pleasant. Then, without warning, we changed course towards Africa and our luck ran out. Calms beset our four caravels and we sat becalmed for weeks, sharks feeding on garbage, swarming in a long line behind the ships… In two months time, the food went rotten and the water stank, and there was too little of both to go around. The first thing jettisoned was the horses… and the sharks loved every last one.”

“How did you make it out?” the mariner said.

“Blind providence. After three months, when half the crew had started boiling the calfskin that wrapped the mainmast, we spied Africa rising out of the water in the distance. I never thought I would see such a beautiful sight. But little did I know that was only the beginning of our troubles… Before that journey was over, only 76 of the original 350 were still alive, and I was marooned with my uncle and two other men for suspicion of mutiny in the Banda Sea, not far from the island where you were born.”

The boy ran across the clearing of trees with a coconut in his arms.

“Daddy, can I open it?”

“I don’t think so. Not unless, you can handle that machete on your own.”

“I can. Watch.”

The boy picked up the machete, unsteady with its weight in his small hands.

“Whoa, whoa, I think you had better take it easy yet, son. This is a man’s instrument.”

“No, please Daddy, let me try. I can do it.”

“No, lad, you’re too young.”

“Daddy…”

“No!”

The man took the coconut and hurled it across the clearing where it disappeared under the brush.

“You never let me do anything, you bloody bastard,” the mariner said, looking at the coral at the bottom of the sea. “You were afraid of me.” He turned over and saw his father hanging from the main mast by his neck.

“You did it anyway, without me. You ran and you ran and now you will die just like I did—pathetic and alone.”

“At least I wasn’t a bloody pirate,” the mariner said.

“You’re a pirate the same as I was,” the hanged man said. “Where did you get that gold from? Where did that money come from, boy? You think those islanders wanted to give those spices? You’re a pirate, same as all the other half-breeds in this ocean. A pirate through and through, same as I was.”

“I didn’t cheat anyone. I gave them their fair share.”

“OK. Keep telling yourself that. May help your conscience eating you up from the inside, like the maggots in your fruit, heh?”

The mariner looked at the bag of fruit hanging from near the wheel. It was dripping with worms.

“Ha ha… You see it too, now, eh?”

“Leave me, infernal ghost! You’re not real. You’re dead, dead 5 years now! What more do you want from me?”

The mariner leaned over the edge of the boat and scooped cool water in his hands. He splashed it on his face and neck, then ran his hands through his hair.

Am I really going crazy? Is death too big for me to comprehend? What have I been running from all my life, on this sloop, sailing from one island to the next, the only driving force being “repeat pleasure, avoid pain.” Where do I belong in this world? Have I even given myself the chance to find out?

He looked out at the undulating waters stretched out in front of him like a field of grass the ship cut through like a scalpel. He blinked and the light refracted. He blinked again and it refracted more. A stone dropped into the dead still lake inside him, and as the ripples expanded outwards, he felt hot, wet tracks streaming down his cheeks.

What a waste. What a waste of a life. Look at all I have been given. So many things, so many beautiful things… and what have I done? I’ve chased money and women and rum and reaped nothing but deceit. And soon it will end. And then I really will have nothing.

The mariner fell on his knees.

“Is this what I was brought on this planet to do? To live a short life and die alone in the middle of this wasteland? You don’t have to do this. You don’t have to leave me to die here. Give me another chance. Please, let me try this again. That’s all I ask.”

He raided his eyes and an albatross flew overhead. He looked starboard, and saw a small island in the distance.

The Mariner
the new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part II

The mariner turned to see a small boat of islanders bearing down on him at a distance. There were six men in the dugout all told: four with oars and two stringing their bows with new arrows. The mariner took a length of rope that was tied nearby and fastened it to the wheel so the rudder stayed its current course, then he ran towards the front of the boat and yanked on the strings to raise the two foresails. In his haste, he lost his grip, and one of the ropes flew out of his hand. He swore aloud. Another arrow slammed into the starboard hull of the boat. As calmly as possible, he caught the loose rope and pulled up the remaining sail. Only then did he notice that the wind had all but died.

The islanders were gaining fast. In the elevated front portion of the dugout, the lead archer stood wearing nothing but a loincloth, his dark skin striated with tribal markings. With one leg propped on the front rim, he strung another arrow, a methodical poise in all his movements. He looked up at the mariner, judging the distance between them, then tipped his bow towards the sky, pulled back the string, and let it fly. The mariner watched as the projectile sailed in a high, elegant arch, and was forced to duck a moment before it struck the mast, exactly where his was standing. Bastard.

“Come on now, wind, blow. Blow, for Christ’s sake, BLOW!” said the mariner. But nothing blew. The wind that had the sloop moving swiftly before had just disappeared. Going the rate they were, the islanders would be on him in a matter of minutes. He ran below deck and grabbed a long dagger and his musket, swearing aloud. He rummaged through his waterproof box and found only a handful of gunpowder remained. He swore again and stomped back on deck.

Steadily the islanders closed in, and they did not look in the mood for tea. The mariner dropped his dagger on the quarterdeck and began loading his musket. May only get one shot at this, he thought as he rammed down the musket ball with a metal cylinder. Then again, even if I do kill one with this shot, five to one are still terrible odds… Come on, wind!

The man took a wooden barrel and rolled it until it stood in the far rear starboard corner of the quarterdeck, the whole time keeping an eye for incoming missiles. Then he knelt down and steadied the musket on top of the barrel as best he could.

A rower would probably be best. That would slow them down. He could duck from arrows all day long, but if they came aboard, he was finished. Unfortunately, the chances of hitting an rower, with only his head showing above the rim of the dugout, seemed less likely than his chances of hitting an archer, whose whole body was exposed. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t… The mariner decided hitting anyone would be better than missing, and so took aim at the most exposed person—the lead archer.

The two men gazed at each other across the waves. The mariner squinted his left eye, setting his sights in the fading light. His right forefinger came to rest against the trigger, waiting for his best chance, holding out for the dugout to draw a little closer…

The lead archer stood in his boat, both eyes wide open, the three fingers of his right hand stretching back the drawstring further and further, waiting for the perfect shot…

Two sets of eyes locked on each other, staring from one world to another. Two men who had never met; between whom nothing stood but waves and water and air and fading sunlight and the sound of threshing oars… At the same moment, they fired.

At first, the mariner thought it was the musket kicking back that caused a zing in his right shoulder, but when he turned his head he saw an arrow impaling his skin. He confirmed it hadn’t broken through the other side, then turned over onto his back and laid flat on the quarterdeck. He felt no pain yet. Moving swiftly, he clasped the shaft of the arrow with both hands, clenched his teeth, and tugged hard. There was a sharp, hot pain, but the arrow came out clean and blood flowed freely out of his shoulder, wetting his chest and pooling under his arm. He held the projectile in his fist for a moment, the rough-hewn arrowhead dripping red with his blood, then threw it overboard. He lay still for a moment, breathing heavily through the nose and listening.

The threshing had stopped. Peeking over the edge of the sloop, the mariner could see that the lead archer was down and the rowers were attending him. He was making angry sounds and someone was responding in their native tongue. Soon the rowers began again, and the other archer took the lead position in the front of the dugout.

The mariner turned over and lay on his back again. “Blow,” he said. “Just blow. Blow now and I’ll give up grog.” He took deep breaths, trying to ignore the deep, aching pain in his shoulder. “Blow now and… I’ll… I’ll do whatever you want me to.”

A gentle breeze brushed the sails of his sloop, barely inflating them before dying once more.

“Come on!” he said pounding his fist on the deck, then immediately wincing. He got up on his elbows and peeked back at the islanders, not more than 100 meters away. He could see they all bore the same skin striations as the man he had wounded, though less elaborate. Another arrow pounded into the quarterdeck hatch. In a panic, his mind raced back to the last time he was caught in Polynesia… the fire, the screams, the pain of bamboo slats being shoved under his fingernails, expanding when they broke the skin, wet with blood…

“Blow now and I’ll forget this whole thing, OK? The gold, the girl, the god blasted jewel… everything. I’ll give it all up. Just blow. I’ll forget it all and never come back here again. I’ll never come back here. Never.”

The sound of the islanders’ oars threshing the water grew louder.

“Never.”

The wounded archer screamed an angry exclamation that sounded like a death vow. An arrow stuck into the barrel above his head. The mariner rolled over and clasped his dagger in his left hand.

“Never!” he screamed and stood up to face his enemy.

Out of nowhere, a huge gust of wind filled his sails and the sloop bucked forward, then rocked back, bridling the wind and skating across the waves. The remaining archer hastened to fire missiles off, but none reached their target. The mariner laughed aloud, his eyes widening with shock and joy. Though the islanders rowed ever harder and the wounded man continued to scream bloody murder, the wind quickly widened the distance between them. The mariner took the wheel and pointed the sloop further out into the open ocean. Before long, the dugout was just a speck blending into the landscape of black sea and navy blue sky.

Night descended and the mariner turned his attention to the wound. The aching had worsened and it was still bleeding. He felt weak and very tired, but he had to dress it properly before he slept, otherwise he was dead for sure. As carefully as possible, he did so by the light of an oil latern.

When he was finished, he walked to the main mast and pulled from it one of the islanders’ arrows. He felt the arrowhead in his hand; the hard, grooved stone cool to the touch. He noticed it was coated in a translucent substance, which made it sticky. The mariner rubbed his thumb and forefinger together and smelled them. His eyes glazed over in the light of the latern, and he tossed the arrow into the waves like a dead flower.

He knew then he had but one day left to live.

The Mariner

The new adventure series by C. Hamlin Otchy

Part I

The man rose at dusk. He came on deck. The wind picked up from the northeast and he hurried to raise the sail. No sooner was it up than it was engorged with wind, and the sloop shot off across the pink waters on a swift track into the sun.

From the ship wheel, a fine mist sprayed his face, leaving the taste of brine on his lips. In the distance he spied the first of the Apollonian Isles, looking quiet and wild. Even high on the vertical faces of the limestone cliffs, trees had somehow dug in, their roots finding purchase between the rocky slits. God knows what evil runs through that jungle in the dead of night, he thought. I hope I never find out.

But he already knew. He knew exactly what happened when you drifted too close after dark. The parting of the water, the ropes, a short raft ride then getting dragged halfway across the island so they can show the chief what they caught… They don’t want to talk. They don’t even want to trade. They only thing those heathens are interested in is hearing the high, lolling sound of your voice when they do unspeakable things to you... Christ. If it wasn’t for that Jesuit missionary, those noises would have went on for days.

The wind changed direction and the man compensated with the sails. The sky told him it would be a quiet night. In the west, the sun kissed the horizon, and the sea hemorrhaged orange and purple in a long, diffused triangle. A gull passed overhead, calling out to a ghost he couldn’t see. When it passed, he was once again alone with his thoughts and the sound of the waves lapping against the boat. Moments like this made the man wonder why he ever came back to land at all.

What the hell am I doing out here again, he said to the wind. He picked an overripe apple from the bag of fruit that hung near the wheel and took a bite, swallowing the worm with it.

“You must be a glutton for punishment,” Brooks told him in a pub the night before he set out. The old sailor thought it was his god given right to tell the man things he already knew. “You lose a goddamn eye looking for some slag, and you’re going back for more?”

Yep. But he couldn’t explain that to a moron like Brooks. Guy like that would never understand. It was more than a matter of attraction. This girl had done something to him… something unnatural. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t even pay for it. Made no sense.

He finished the last bit of his apple and tossed the core into the waves. The moon was already up, though the light hadn’t disappeared totally from the sky. The wind settled down to a light breath, just barely enough to carry the small boat on its way. Yep, it’s going to be a beautiful night.

That’s when the first arrow struck the starboard side.