A Summer Barbaric of Shenanigans
Filly extricated herself from the crowd of revelers early on, in the night. She felt the heavy hand of meditation descend upon her and knew it was far better to surrender to the call than fight it. Surrender wasn’t better because something bad might occur if she didn’t. No. Surrender to the Light was desired because Filly knew how delicious and precious a treasure it was to leave physical worries behind, and float within the divine perfection of rest.
So, she slept in her small quarters, segregated from the main crowd on Tambeaux’s private hover-craft. She didn’t hear anyone return in the early hours of dark, nor did she feel the shaking of bed sharing and coupling that often occurred when energies were high. She rested heavily in the weight of blanket quiet.
An alarm suddenly went off, loudly in her mind. Words, repeated around her soul, rattling her awake in a symphony chorus of,
“The mountain where I run, the fountain I drink from, He is my song.” *6
Filly smiled in semi-consciousness and joined in the silent singing,
“Let the King of my heart be the shadow where I hide, the ransom for my life, oh, He is my song.” *6
Gaining more sense in consciousness, Filly prayed in earnest thankfulness,
“You are good, good. Oh. You are good, good. Oh! Let the King of my heart be…” *6
Oracle Filly stretched in the quiet glow of sunrise. She tip-toed out of the sleeping craft and wandered toward an open field. Carefully dipping through the barbed wire fencing, Filly joined a small herd of local farmer’s horses. The grass was still damp, but it was warmish in the early summer sunrise, and her bare feet wiggled in delight at the connection of skin to nature.
This Fauna Energist had a double minor in flora and water. Both were a healing revitalization for her. Expressing her energies in animal communion was her first passion. But, when she wearied, or needed inner restoration, the nature of plants and moving water were her go to.
Filly sat atop the hill, facing the rising Skyling light. She continued her song out loud, praising the Creator and His Son, Who was the doorway through which all connection was most pure.
Few Trevel (or Kentari) acknowledged what they believed to be a fantasy of the Bacht history: the “HisStory” of Jesus. But, Filly always looked deeper than surface expectations. She saw a depth in the universe that allowed all such beliefs to exist, in a chaotic warring of Light Verses Dark. There was much muddling in this war.
Indeed, many who claimed to stand for the Light often proclaimed the judgements and condemnations of the Dark, in order to manipulate and control. Some who proclaimed their revels were proudly in the Dark, often held to morals and ethical standards that were obviously of the Light. Well, obvious to Filly, anyway. Her personal mission was to be the archeologist that brushed aside the confusion of duty and tradition, so that the purest origin of Light and Love might be revealed, shining through all things. This was her worship and her praise.
As she sang, the horses nuzzled nearer and snuffled her upheld hands. Filly liked to dream that they were joining her in worship, but laughed in the reality that they likely just wanted food from her. A couple of large orange cats slunk nearer too, rubbing up against her, demanding affection. In this morning joy, a sudden barking burst forth when that little schnauzer pup that belonged to one of the children, dashed across the field and pounced into her lap, insisting he was the most abused and neglected, therefore, he needed her attention more than any of the others.
Animals, humidifying dew, grass and wild flowers, song and delight: it was a lovely morning meditation.
There was another family friendly event set for the afternoon, that Tambeaux’s artisan caravan joined in with both the Ragefall and Euphoric caravans. The carnival was casual fun with music, open food stalls, and jovial distractions.
“Casual Carnival” implied there was little serious organization. In reality, it was just the three caravans joining in as one circle, doing whatever they might on a typical day, but for allowing passing crowds to observe and pay for the pleasure of joining in. Circus life was a free invitation, yet a heavy price of cash or dedicated commitment was exacted if you wanted to stay.
Filly sat to the side and painted her heart out. She expressed images of whimsy caught on a summer’s breeze and dark agony overlaid with deep joy. She conversed with many carvaneers and guests, while they all swayed and applauded the music. It played all day, bouncing back and forth between musicians and dancers.
Ionny wandered by, admiring Filly’s work. He was swathed with the typical trail of interested women tagging along in conversation. Filly smiled to herself, watching the jostling of favor among the fans. The Chancellor managed to extricate himself a moment and asked Filly if she might do a favor for him.
“Of course,” Filly eagerly offered, “what is your need?”
“I’ve bought a bit of piping,” Ionny told her, “just typical material, from a building warehouse. But, I wondered if you might decorate it for me? I want to use it as a didgeridoo.”
“I would love that.” Filly exclaimed.
It was a great honor to be considered as help, to create music.
“Excellent.” Ionny paused seeming slightly nervous, or perhaps just thoughtful.
“It’s back in my loading trailer.” He paused again. “I could go and fetch it if you like?”
“No, no. No need to make extra effort.” Filly set her easel aside. “I can walk with you.”
“Would you? That’s kind.” He grinned with sparkling eyes.
Filly sensed a possible something behind his casual comments, but chose to ignore them. After all, there were others who had been interested in his attention long before she knew him. She didn’t want to get herself crossed in any jealous matches.
Ionny and Filly managed to walk alone together, across the park. There was a strange, mild awkwardness between them as they chatted. Filly was far too sympathetically sensitive to not notice it. She made extra effort to ease his comfort, nattering about his interests in playing the didgeridoo.
When they reached his storage quarters he quickly pulled out a plain, straight, white pipe. Yet, he didn’t hand it over immediately. Rather he held it poised, lingering in the moment.
“What does it sound like?”
Ionny smiled and played a note or two, blowing heavily through the pipe with strong breath.
“It’s tuned to a C note, I believe.” He instructed, then fumbled as he handed it out to her, “you try.”
“Oh, dear,” Filly giggled.
She felt silly trying something for the first time with an audience. She preferred to keep her dreadful practices to herself. But Ionny was generous enough to share this with her, so she returned her effort for his, shy though it was.
It sounded terrible.
“I’m quite out of practice.”
Ionny chuckled with her in good nature,
“Well, practice all you like while you have it. There’s no rush.”
He smiled in direct interest and Filly dropped her eyes, out of his penetrating gaze. He was starting to see inside her more than she typically allowed. Her nervousness rose a little.
There was a pause as they both looked about at the activity of the day.
“I can get it back to you in a week or so, if you like.” Filly suggested.
“There’s no rush. Really.” Ionny smiled in gratefulness.
“Ok.” She said. “Well, thanks for asking me.
“Thank you for saying yes!” Ionny agreed.
They hugged, a little jarringly and parted ways.
Filly breathed deeply, looking around with vain attempts at appearing casual. But the pipe in her hand felt smooth and it comforted her as a flood of creative ideas poured into her mind.
The music continued and the carnival atmosphere danced on into the night. The summer stars joined in the shenanigans and the Kentari spirit soared through the Underland caverns, seeping up into the open Bacht world above.
Only Count Marin ruffled in the flow of living. A gaggle of teens dashed about, engaged in water fights with balloons and toy rifles. They were oblivious to all else, in fervent effort to make their companions more wet than they. Marin got caught in the cross fire.
He yelled in anger, stepping out of some tent only to find himself doused in a massive wave of splashing water. He lifted his hands in defense as if to push the water away from his person, to no effect.
Filly recognized one of the teens as the young man that was with Marin when Filly first met them at Hotel Standard. The father figure in Marin and the guided boy stared at each other in horror before the younger pushed his friends away with him. The teens laughed in glee as they backed away, but the Count growled after them in genuine anger. The young warriors dashed of in guilty giggles.
Marin simmered in his dripping. He saw Filly watching him with curious and confirmed understanding. The Count saw the recognition in her eyes. He swallowed, his heart torn between furious exposure and broken devastation.
She let him stalk away on his own. It was worse than anyone thought. The Oracle’s secret mission was needed more than first believed. Count Marin Tambeaux, the self-exiled Trevel Champion Strategist and master Water Energist, couldn’t even wipe away a splash. Where had all his energy abilities gone? Was the Kentari Trevel broken beyond repair? No wonder he hid, for fear that he might be banished to the Bacht Uplands.
Filly’s heart cried for the man, her friend. What had happened to deplete his once masterful abilities? More importantly, how could Filly walk with him on a healing journey if he wanted no assistance?
Seamus caught up with her in the twilight.
“He’s why you’re here, isn’t he?” he nodded to the retreating, soaking-wet, water-Champion.
“His closest friend sent me to find him and bring him home.” Filly whispered.
“But, the king is dead.” Seamus queried, “Did the Queen commission…?”
“Death hinders not where love reaches.” Filly sighed cryptically. “But, yes, that too.”
Seamus, the disguise Leprechaun, stared at the mystical Oracle, disguised as a simple woman.
“You do beat all, don’t ya.” He admired.
Filly shrugged, then retired to her quarters, further meditating upon her task.
[*6 Lyrics of the song, “King of My Heart,” by John Mark McMillan and Sarah McMillan]
If you would like to see more of Gregga’s books and other creative projects, check out her website: Gregga J. Johnn and Story-in-the-Wings.