The Story of the Storyteller’s Attar: Chapter 2

The rhythmic jostling caused me to turn around. It was a woman wrapped in a shemagh, an animal by her side carrying various equipment. She led a band of men – and the way they stopped, the way we all observed each other… it was clear that she leads the group – and there was a presence about her… hard to put a finger on. She waved for me to follow and continued on. Everyone, including me, was swept into her aura. That wave created an unyielding current and I was pleasantly helpless to follow along.

Steps and steps, miles and miles, through the sandy desert – nothing but the gentle footsteps, the rustling of materials, and the occasional gentle squeak from a little rodent friend near by – they’re talking to themselves…

We walked

And walked

And walked

And walked

And walked

And then I realize… this bland beige is a rich tapestry of monochromatic earth tones – just as beautiful and vibrant as the trees and flowers when I was with Labdanum…

And then I see it. A forest of trees, they stand tall in a clumpy dancer sort of way… still beautiful. The men start to spread out and I look around – confused. The woman pulls back her scarf, her striking eyes glimmering in the sun. She looks past me and I turn around, having not noticed the tree behind me earlier. But this tree. This tree is scarred – cut – damaged. She’s bleeding as she stands there, her beautiful pose doesn’t look composed, it looks wounded – it looks compensated. She bleeds from her cuts as she stands there, her trunk glistening in the thick resin… more blood than one should lose… I start to panic and the woman puts her hand on my shoulder. We watch as the frankincense oozes from the wounds – the deep cuts pouring out. The minor cuts just a line of wet. And through this bleeding came an odor. Like a pungent wall that permeates the nose, mouth and lungs, I felt it hit my eyes and I squinted, I tried to move away but she was there, steadfast, holding me in place. The gaseous volatile substance wrapped around us and I felt her push me deeper into it. The gaseous substance was so thick I couldn’t see – like a burning sandstorm – I tried to cover my face with one arm and feel in front of me as I went with the other. I thought she was pushing me towards the tree but what I felt wasn’t bark… it was hard, almost like a plant made glass. I could tell that’s where the smell was coming from, and as the dust began to settle I saw it – a crystalline throne grown from the tree – her wounds not disorganized, but intentionally healed. I turned around to see the woman – to see if I could sit, and in the silence I knew that’s why she pushed me there. I turned around and sat on the throne, my body heating it up, the glass started to melt and fuse to me, with me, to pull me in. The crystalline chrysalis creeped its way up and around me – encapsulating me in its resinous lattice matrix. I sat there. Unable to move, and began to relax. To melt. Through the fogged resin glass in front of my eyes I could see the woman approach but I couldn’t see what she was doing. I felt my body open – like there was more space somehow – like for once I wasn’t being crushed under the weight of my own material existence.

I could see the woman dressed in red, her movements turned into a dance, her dance turned into a battle. Fighting with swords attackers surrounded her – they want her to stop, they want to control her, to control the people, and she won’t let them. She was taught to forge her blade by the trees themselves, knowledge gifted to her as their protector. Her men come to her aid. They circle around her, knives in hand, the demons around them – but it’s her. She’s at the center, she’s holding the organization. And the battle begins. Wave after wave, she and her men fight against the torrential onslaught. They cut through the enemies blades – armor. They slice down their foe. But the battle isn’t without cost. Locked in hand to hand I saw one of her men taken down by the enemy. He was surrounded by 7 of them and they each pierced his body. He let out a painful convulsion that drove him deeper onto the knives. The demons – prideful in their feat, pulled their blades and scattered to kill the rest of her fleet. And as they did his body bled. It bled a thick red resin – a combination of blood and frankincense. It clotted when it reached the surface – all his punctures and scrapes and abrasions oozed out this resinous blood that pearled on the surface of his skin. It hardened, and his body relaxed. He awoke like he just took a nap – pulled a new blade from a fresh wound, and jumped right back into the action. He seemed almost excited to do it again – the scabs of his healed wounds falling to the ground – breaking.

And then I realized… The men – and that woman – who brought me here… they can’t die. The men go down, they rest and they get right back up. Demon after demon they slay, and when they make a mistake they fall to the ground – their wounds heal – they re-arm, and they join the fight. And then I looked over to the woman in red, and I realized, her skill in fighting, in slaughtering the enemy, isn’t to never be hit, it’s to move through the hits that will always land. I watch her take on 7 men of her own, each slice her, and stab her, and cut her, and she cuts them down. Her wounds heal while she stands, but the resinous pearls aren’t red – they’re clear. She doesn’t mix the divine with the material – she knows the boundaries. She can fight, and that fight is what causes the frankincense – the wounds are what causes the frankincense. She stands and gets cut time and time again because she knows that when she bleeds she’ll bleed pure. And that purity falls to the ground, blessing it. And the more the battle wages on the more is scattered on the floor, stepped on, broken, and the volatiles float into the air and surround the battlefield in the noxious resinous sandstorm. It gets thicker and thicker, but the woman and her men are undeterred. This is their space, this is their love, this is their divine connection. Rejuvenated and refreshed – seemingly more alive in the fog of the healing wound; they outpaced their attackers – scattering them to every direction. And as gently as they walked upon the desert floor they returned to me – reincarnated. The haze lifts to show the men kneeling behind the woman – rank and file.

I start to move, my body formed once more. First a few fingers – breaking them free from the sticky throne. My body flexes and moves, and as I liven an energy comes to lift me up, breaking me from the chrysalis – anew. I spread my wings as the broken shards dissolve to dust – the shimmering, beautiful softness – a glow against the harsh desert sun – revealed a brilliant tapestry of mosaic red.

And as I stood there – the fractal dust shimmering like a nebulous cloud around me she approached. She reached out with both hands and I look to see in her palms – a leather square with a pure tear of frankincense – taken from a wound that punctured her heart in battle – she folds the leather around it and secures it with twine. I stand, kneel, and with a bowed head and closed eyes I extend my hands together towards her. With a pregnant pause, she places the leather sachet into my palms. I feel it heavy; the weight of her sacrifice, her army, and what they’ve given to me. And when I raise my head to meet her glimmering gaze, to express to her through one look my deep seeded gratitude – but she’s gone. All I could see was the violet void of night – the only light skipping across ripples of the water.

I’m by myself. Alone.

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