Pebbles

The Wheel Whirling Round, the Lights Flickering

There is a place, at the heart of the cooling wood. A place wandering hearts know well. In the corner of your eye, in the last moments of the dream you’re now waking from… the hints are there, for those who feel the tug.

What tug? The path.

What path? The path to the story’s end.

Except… and here’s the secret.

The story never ends.

There’s always another one, lurking behind it. The horizon always stretches further off. There’s only the setting out, and the coming back. Real and unreal, dancing there. Foot back, foot forward.

There is an octopus and a squirrel in the Place, and they are dancing too. Both longed to escape, once. Neither remembers what from. Both felt trapped on lonely paths, as the world around them swirled by, like the giant rusted wheel which now lies broken under freshly fallen snow.

They’re not the only ones dancing there, but, for the duration of that dance, it feels like they are.

Then the octopus is back in the world, breathing it in, seeing the people swirl by, like stars in the sky.

At the Place’s heart, there is a mirror. The mirror is alive. It is drinking in the joy of everything: surrounded, at the centre of endless movement, yet still content and still.

Lanterns strung from cobwebs light the edges of the wood. A face, with many fangs, and many eyes, can be seen in the shadows. She is smiling with joy to be part of it all. People will join her at the corners of the wood, exchanging nothing more substantial (nor less) than tales and kind words.

“Pebbles, you’ve done such a wonderful job!” The words are spoken many times that night; by unicorn, hedgehog siblings, jerboa and meerkat (paws firmly clasped together), kestrel and polecat and falcon. By the mirror-spirit who is the Place, and the lantern-spirit who surrounds it. By a pale raccoon and a greyer one, and a Mask who now floats happily. By a flying squirrel. And by a squirrel whose paws are planted firmly on the ground, who murmurs it during your dance.

You are there, at the centre of everything, watching the world whirl by. Around you branch all the tentacular paths down which you might wander, some other day.

The time comes for the tale-telling competition. You introduce each storyteller in turn. Ida retells the mystery of Winter and It That Hungers and their vanquishing. Ramal recounts a composite tale about a distant, lonely Spirit, who needs help to reach out to the world. Hyssop tells a tale of himself, and the lessons he’s learned. Each story is a beautiful path, down which you lose yourself.

And then it is time for the tale you and Bushy-Tail have prepared. You have consulted with the Carnival attendees about such an unorthodox idea, and, as neither of you seek the crown this year, it has been met with enthusiasm. Paw in tentacle, you begin…

The Descent, the Void, the Blazing Lamp

“There is a void,” Bushy-Tail begins, “beneath the leaves and the soil and the rock. There is a void, of questions, and uncertainties; a gnawing place, curiously questing after answers, discoveries, beautiful destinies. After the things that were forgotten, and which now return. After beginnings and endings. The void is not something to be afraid of.”

The story is passed, imperceptibly, to you, by a little paw-squeeze; it sends a current of changing colour through you.

“At the centre of the void,” you continue, “there burns a concept that was nearly snuffed out from the world. A concept that flickers with promise, like Granny’s lanterns. A concept that burns. It is a concept that we should be afraid of.”

“The two of us wandered there,” says she, “into the burning heart of the void. Into the lost labyrinthine geography, a place of old human meanings, of rushings to and fro.”

“Into the sub-conscious sub-basement of our lost purposes, which we gave away, for warmer ones, for brighter roads.”

“The descent into the under-place is a common theme, in the stories. There Spirits must be bargained with; there heroes face their crises, before rising again, like the fresh summer’s sun.”

“It’s a journey I’d wanted to make for many years,” you say, “But always procrastinated.”

“It is a journey I’d made once before,” says Bushy-Tail, “Seeking a lost friend. On my first journey, I insulted the watchmen at the door. Nevertheless, I was allowed to pass, unimpeded. As though the narrative required it.”

“The King was expecting us this time,” you say, “He had stood with me against the ravening jaws of the journey’s end, of the void that gnaws with endless hunger, tentacles lashing out from the endless depths beneath the waves, and helped us soothe Its solitude, and find a new way forth.”

Bushy’s words are becoming more rhythmic now, half-snatching a rhyme scheme. “Hastening on, we reached our end, where secrets lay to be revealed. Only to find, the queue was vast, as many waited to bring their grievances. One man, under a heavy crown; powerful, yet to all indebted. Perhaps not so different, after all, from the way our Carnival crown was intended. Except on him, solidified, a lifetime’s work, not shared with all. Perhaps the day he brought fire here, was a fleeting attempt to share out that toll.”

“On the way back, we took our time, admiring every cranny-nook. Seeking the fire did not require us to venture into that place’s heart. It burns on every brazier, on every wall. A glory long hidden in plain sight. Just as truth and beauty can be snatched from every instant. With eyes and ears open, every step can be as satisfying as reaching the end of the road.”

“So we wondered at each lamp.”

“No longer wandering, hermit-lone.”

“But together, in half-light, half-gloom.”

“Feeling each moment as a coming home.”

The Pause, as the Hearts Fill Up

The Roaring of the Crowd