The Story of the Storyteller’s Attar: Chapter 6
We both looked over the table. 5 vials of oil laid. The man – waiting for them to rest. Time passed, and every moment felt as right as the last. Every moment felt as right as the next. Every moment witnessed, not just by me and by him but by the oils themselves, and through them the trees and the flowers and the grasses and the birds and bees and the animals and everything that makes everything – it was all enjoying the space, with us, in that moment.
He reached for a small glass vessel and held it up to the light. Nothing penetrated. Black as a moonless night the glass bottle rousing from its slumber – prepared for its sacred duty.
The man spoke in a gentle melody: “The ground first.”
And as if by magic the sandalwood, given by Elemi, was let pour into the glass vial. It poured in alone – the first to lay the foundation. Its clear liquid coating the glass. It settled with patience, and with patience it settled, and the parasitic mother, the host tree, the one who takes to give – was honored. He let her sit. He let her be with herself. He let her finally rest. He smiled as he let the truth wash through him. Satisfied. He placed the vial on the table.
Then he waited some more…
Every moment thick with intention. You could cut the focus with a knife, and suddenly the pressure went away. Everything opened up. And the man’s gaze relaxed as he took in the small room – and so did I.
Standing up, he took a pause from blending to get another vessel – smaller than the first – tiny in fact. He gently lifted the saffron – shimmering like something not fully formed yet – like its materials rendering between our two worlds, and he placed his hand over the top of the bottle. Between both open palms the glimmer became steady, vibrant, it grew, then it dimmed. As if to hibernate. He opened the saffron and I watched as he counted his drops. Drop by drop, the shimmering orange fell into the vial as if it were pure, rich, amber and gold light. Drop by drop he filled the tiny vessel. “The saffron crown,” he said. “For those who dare to dream,” he looked in my eyes with a smile, “even if right now it’s a nightmare.”
He leaned over to the neroli oil, and brought it to his eye, then his ear. He listened to it closely, as if receiving instructions, and anointed one drop into the saffron: “The neroli jewel upon the crown of saffron. That which adorns those who are worthy so they can dream their dreams while they’re awake; so they can walk the dreams they dream and those dreams will come true…”
He lifted the gift from the perfumer boy – the rose and jasmine; The pure white lover stained in blood red – waiting. Pulsing. Like a heart beating – visceral… Pounding. The man held the bottle still – having once known the boy who made it – he understood. “The one who deserves to wear the crown” he said assuredly with a nod. As if inviting a flower to bloom the glass vial opened. He settled the space, and with ceremonial reverence, the Jasmine rose pulled tight the saffron neroli – rightly united.
The room felt pregnant – like it had something filling it – taking up all the space pressing into each and every corner – violating it from the inside. The man lifted his head in pause and smelled it, he inhaled as if to draw the breaking wet space in – like a whale feasting on floating particles. The water column washed clean and nourished his spirit – his soul – and what felt like his belief in me. But it wasn’t his belief in me – he always saw me – it washed clean my belief in myself. One I didn’t know I let go of…
He turned his attention to the Sandalwood and gently floated the Frankincense throne atop the viscous plane. A gentle line formed – a thermoclinic blur transcended to mirror stillness; I lay under the crystalline sky – at peace, in awe and wonder. That which was above me, around me, under me, showing me nothing – and all things – are here with me now. And as I look up all I could see was nothing: all the deep blues and purples… of nothing. Smooth as glass that holds the rise and fall of time itself, I watched my reflection stare at me. Alone with myself. Forever free in the timeless space.
And as I settled into the space between spaces – where the saffron draws and the jasmine, from the birth of the parasitic dream – came crashing through the silence: the women in red.
The first drop fell.
She shattered through the glass – the sharp edges tearing her dress, slicing and gnawing her skin – her flesh ripped to the bone – her body turned to blood. No longer distinguishable from the ribboned dress she wore. I watched the blood-red touch the clear tears and begin to spiral. Galactic arms reaching out in relevé and pirouette. Fractal canon and blooming unison; layer after layer unfolded onto itself, into itself, away from itself, and back again.
Drop after drop – an army.
Crowned queens descending through the throne of tears, through the resin of the ancient tree, fighting their way to the ground – to the material mother from which they came and who they’re there to protect.
Drop after drop they shattered through the glass, each getting cut, and as they fought, and dove, and broke the glass, there was less left to cut the next – and even less after that. Until the sea was a fractal of crystal shards covered in blood.
I watched the crowned-red sacred-dreamers glimmer and float in the mosaic red liquid. As if stretching a red silk veil over the mother tree, a cloth made by their suffering to wrap the parasitic mother – to embrace her – to love her. The woman, joyful, graced by spirals as they mended. Like melting tears of sacrificial blood, they danced through the mother – tying her to the healing resins – their dance binding her story into each drop – folding her message into every molecule: the story of maternal sacrifice. They write the story as they know it – how it was told to them by the plants. They tell the story through what we share – our material. They tell us the story of love, and unity, togetherness and being alone. They tell the story of life and death, creation and destruction – of freedom and constraint. They tell the story of all the sacrifice that was made. They tell the story of what it takes to be a mother – birthed to a parasitic world she learns to use her body to sustain love, truth, and freedom, to feed the soul of spirit herself, so that we can continue to receive her gift.
And as they danced the man inverted the bottle. Not slowly. Not gently. But intentionally. A clean and swift port de bras formed a torus – forcing the oils onto itself through a deep wheel of creation and destruction – of melding and mending. The blood stained fractal glass pulled into the clear liquid, the gentle bellow that opened was pulled upwards as shattered frankincense, melted in the heat of battle, vortexed to a new beginning.
And as it settled, he held the bottle up to the light.
We sat, and I understood.
This wasn’t just a bottle of smell – it’s a potion, a medicine, an attar. It’s active. And I could see her, as if a mirage – anointing herself – the ritual adorning of the red cloak. She wraps her hands around the sword and pulls, releasing a torrent of blood that splashes along the garden floor. Flowers bloom by her feet as she writes a new path, her pen – the divine sword – cutting down the demons and freeing those who they oppress.
Tendrils of pure light dance in galactic jubilance around her – leaping and bounding and running and swimming – excited in their very existence. The oils whisper, giving her power, feeding her soul and nurturing her spirit – preparing her body and mind, guiding her through the dance.
And as the red cloak wraps around her, sword in hand, tendrils dancing, the plants begin to shimmer. Now, she lives in a garden of her own design, the new path walkable by all. She continues to cast spells, chapter by chapter – with every stroke of her pen, a dance that brings clarity to the fog.
In the room there was a glow – light in the space that didn’t have a beginning or an end. No source of emanation or absorption – just illumination… and as the light met the air it sang the story of the Storyteller herself…
“Born of parasites and tears,” he said – still holding the vial to the light, the golden red liquid glowing through the black glass. His sigh, heavy with the weight of understanding. “Only worn by those who know the cost of creation – only given to those who deserve to manifest their dreams.”
He closed the bottle and brought it to my open hands. He placed it in my palms, wrapping my fingers around it. He squeezed my hand with both of his – connecting me to the bottle.
And I knew.
“For your friend,” he said, “the one who needs to know her story matters.”