the shocking sense of a second pocket full. I hurry about my business to complete the purchases of supplies for father. Before leaving the city I visit the house of scholars in search of a translator. A litterateur arrives at the private chamber I wait in. The urn before me is carefully revealed from beneath the veil of beloved. Using a foreign language he raises his voice as if intending for others to hear, from alarmed recognition.
An interpreter rushes in with nervous eyes shifting to the savant, the urn, and me.
The young mediator lifts his hands to the leader (muttering still) then conveys:
“You are in violation of a sanctioned treaty. This holy remnant belongs to no man. This is the urn of a god, missing from the tomb of a great Islamic prophet. Your touch has desecrated this sacred symbol. Magi Denimore demands your hands be severed from their wrists, and your body fed to the dogs.”
Panic heightens to sickened nausea. Pushing the urn toward the magi sends his hands flying into the air, his eyes roll wanting nothing to do with the relic. Gibbering another slew of incoherencies the magi storms out the chamber.
“We must hurry,” the sophist rushes. “Wrap the item and let us escape.”
Running through a back alley, I worry about the gathered supplies I’ve abandoned.
Men shout from our exit. Their tone hinders my spirit to run.
“Come. We must continue!” my guide pushes.
Beyond more turns and through dark alleys we arrive at a shadowy doorway.
“This is a trap,” I consider. “He’s led me into an ambush, where his cohorts wait to rob me.” Foolishly entering, my nerves are queasy as he barricades the way out.
“They will be here at any moment to breach this hideout.
“To achieve the desires of your heart the idol you hold must broken, then speak the words “Selly Nar Ondue.” Do as I say and we will be safe, the urn undamaged, and you will have your three wishes…by solving the Jinni’s task.” The young man’s eyes reflect familiarity.
Heavy kicks slam at the door. Wood splits and sheets of dust fall from the walls.
Fearing they’ll force entry, seize the urn, chop my hands off at the wrists, and throw me to the hyenas at the garbage pit, I follow the master’s directions.
Upon fracture a distorted sound lifts. When the attacking vibrations retreat I’m in darkness. With eyes adjusting, it’s clear I’m bottled inside a burial chamber.
A drowning claustrophobia rises. I keep above the tide, determined to figure a way out and avoid becoming forever trapped. Thoughts of my endearing maiden, Rechelle, keep my hopes up. I learn to read the wall symbols by touch. Solving the first mystery imparts lighting.
In this tomb I am never hungry or tired, and become too preoccupied with the hieroglyphs to observe pending claustrophobia. Eventually I crack the inscription’s code.
The glowing sarcophagus in the center of the room slides open. Studying the aged features of the man buried inside, I realize when his eyes open…it’s me!
He is an empty shell, with the core of his humanity lost. Pictographs summarize his pact with the prior Jinni of this prison. If I engage in conversation, it will deduct one of my wishes. Carefully I contemplate what to ask, knowing that when the bargain is made, I am granting his heartless shell the right to claim my very soul. The messages on the wall have been helpful in explaining that there is a way out without sealing my fate. But then I may never see my future wife. This I contemplate, as I stare into the torn out, hollow cavity in Janni’s throat.
The Keys to Destruction: Clothing Mother of Time
Nagini, rather than Naga, refers to the female species.
Solomon understands that because I am Nagini, of reptilian blood, his offspring will be as such. His affection is of eternal refinement smelting near purity. We subsist beyond ages for a thousand years before he delivers our son’s quintessence for my containment. Prophecy is birthed in the land of Liberty. There he is raised as most Naga are, alone, to fend for himself.
But before my beloved pronounces himself I dwell in an enclosed segment of time, in Hahventshay, The Dragon Realm, developing the art of phasing. Our species is capable of mastering abilities called “grains” which coincide with our composition and function as aptitudes needing early attention. In the adolescent years, embedded tools surface in our thoughts as lesson guides. Offspring develop true when common sense is grounded. Hastily educated, those minds shift from righteousness. Thoughts prompt Naga action. Initial impressions postpone follow-through. The darahgesent are they that react without forethought. With meager concentration they ignore the consequence of hasty decisions. A film clouds rational insight. Sharp intellect dulls. The conquest of an intolerable sub-species transpires, as I their hunter seek to gather wasted grains.
Beyond my proficiency (of phasing time to my control) is the pearl cipher.
A reverent grain intertwines throughout our minds. My choice in a selective will is to improve the ability of extracting a being’s subconscious. With my target in sight, I focus to see into their mind, undetected while doing so, able to call upon the individual’s thoughts, memories, and knowledge. By way of this art I can also embed ideas that seem real.
Foolishly there comes a time when I perform these techniques while staring in the mirror. If I dwell on the knotted insanity, it unravels to form a suffocating cage threatening to bind me.
The shadow that creeps from the line of my heritage forever stalks me. An impending curse that has been cast upon all Naga is for us to slither and not walk. Admitting fault in our bloodline shifts us from our lowly state, raising us up from the existing ground dwellers.
Our province is a meager middle point for travelers who are distancing to Indisol City (the star of our range), where my father (our Vasuki) triumphs. Posted at the waypoint, I serve Haventshay disguised as a simple Nagini. The third of 3 grains (unique talents) is my independent grain (ability). It guides meaning, impels thirst, and drives my hunger as an opportunistic slayer.
My insightful thoughts are jotted on a mental page. With them I solve the riddles of life. Without the light of understanding, you may have difficulty deciphering this brief memoir:
I whisper to Solomon who shall be my Sami soon, his face touched by my hand,
“Come to me and lay inside my comfort until the chill of night has set, and our warmth is absent for us to absorb.” He is not flesh to feed on, this visitor of the inn.
Solomon’s horse creature is mounted at the stables of town’s end. Embracing his steed, I’ll set the sting. The stallion’s life slips from purpose, living on through dreams.
When my beloved Sami pierces my haze of vision, I keep still within the travelers’ abode. When I return to the past, and we reunite at his middle life, I address him as “Saul.” It’s possible his compromise will be the end to my existence. In Saul’s submission my purpose is lost. To arrive within the land of naught is where I should dwell. There, those that are the outcasts, furlough a partition. The secret divide sourcing world abolishment. Near departure, inspiration pinpoints my soul…impelling purpose.
As dust my thoughts are scattered. I will leave a message of direction for you to intervene. When the moment reaches isolation, and you can locate me, the ideal session for us to intersect becomes. This past life you believe irrelevant, will transpire portions.
While gone I try to bring you in to me using a crib of cardboard and straw. I would capture you. I would cradle you. Upon hunger place you by a nourishing source.
Among privation enters the sins of my vicar, a portion I disguise, for I wish not to share this. My struggle is departure, to have this on my own. Inside me grows a regal offspring.
You come to me with adjoining purpose. I must not fight against the trial of our life. In survival I fear I may give away my love. The dagger held in my hand while piercing my heart, shaped from your gift. There is greater power in self-sacrifice. This comes through the purging of fire.
I am forever embers, smelting sand to reflective glass.
There are lessons in this diary you’ll live on to understand. Rather than explain my life from the beginning, more sense can be made of all this, by explaining each child’s origin.
His adoptive father Sami brings us to a future time where he believes Prophecy will be safe from the Djinn. Following our son’s birth the two of us flee, returning to the era of old. Sami, and I say our goodbyes. My beloved is out of time, and must finalize a deal with the Jinni. There I rewrite Solomon’s journey by presenting the urn to him at an earlier time in his life. As a result Solomon’s character goes through change, and so I name him Saul. Cradle fulfills the agreement by watching over the urn for a certain amount of time, and also instructs young Saul on how to use it after helping him escape man’s capture.
When young Solomon enters the urn’s void of exile my body turns to dust and spreads across the desert, as the bond between our spirits is broken. But my existence does not cease to live on. In this moment of phasing I travel by way of spirit to the grove of fruitfulness, and there develop an alternate realm where the function of time is upturned. I learn to acquire a physical state in this newly created realm I name Pandora.
With knowledge gathered from the future civilizations that Sami and I visited, I cultivate a society with superior technology, and new