Archive for the ‘Series’ Category
IN THE SHRINE OF THE MONKEY KING
Friday, September 18th, 2009
Today’s story continues from the Boon of the Monkey God
The Chinese government told me the shrines simply did not exist. But here, thousands of miles away from Costa Rica I stare into the passionate eyes of the Monkey King himself, a solemn figure carved from obsidian stone. This avatar is so different than the bright, brazen, childlike images illustrating the ancient tales. So different than the earthly, visceral persona associated with the mysterious mythological figure I had come here seeking. The statue embodied the “King” aspect of the Monkey King. Old and solemn with wisdom and introspection brimming behind his mischievous but tired countenance. I hoped I could reach this side of him. The fate of two souls and an entire country depended upon it.
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I pay the monk and share four bottles of wine with him and begin to think I would get no more than his kind entertaining presence, sketches of Chinese characters, and proclamations in broken English.
“Life Okay !”
“Life no drive you ! You drive life !”
Then he stands. His limbs contort, ape-like and he dances across the floor like a simian in the trees. The Monkey King was in him!
“Last year you granted a boon,” I say. “The wish of two souls desiring to be alone with the monkeys.”
Thanks to the Monkey King, Costa Rica was now empty of humans and higher thought, except for the two wish makers. Any person venturing there instantly devolved to their base instincts and lower selves.
“They only wished to leave the heavens behind. In a world free of sutras. Free of the shackles of reason,” says the Monkey King.
“I beseech you to end it.”
“What makes you think I can?”
“The stories say you are a creature of both earth and the heavens..”
“It was they who made it happen, so it must be they who must end. it. I can allow you to keep your mind if you go. But you must convince them.”
The monk sits, a bedraggled monarch on a throne. The smokey air swirls and an oval forms before the statue. A portal.
Through the haze I see the lush tropical Costa Rica on the other side. The Monkey King has given me a path.
Smelling the jungle I want to leave reason behind. Was I here to rescue the children and to save the country or to give in to the boon myself?
The monk promised safe passage, but I sense I might really absolve myself of the reason of the heavens like all those who came before me if I walk through.
I lift my foot. Is it wisdom or mischief I see in the old monk’s eyes? I can’t tell.
– END-
Brisneyland by Night – Part Six
Thursday, August 27th, 2009
I broke a panel of glass in the front door and let myself in. Ziggi, on lookout duty in the cab, studiously ignored my break and enter.
I crept along the long hallway to the kitchen. A door in the pantry floor was open. I guess when you’ve got a glamour around your house and you live in Ascot you think you’re bulletproof.
The stairway leading down was brightly lit. At the bottom: a large room, walls painted white. In the back corner, a round vat with a screw-down lid and pipes running into and out of it like a still. Behind that ran rows and rows of wine racks, stretching back into the shadows. The basement was much larger than the house above.
In the middle of it all a cold metal table, with Lizzie lying on it and next to the table stood a woman.
She looked like an Ascot matron. Maybe in her sixties, but her true age was concealed by a combination of cosmetics, a little glamour and a lot of Botox. She was short, a little thick around the waist, wearing an impeccable pale blue dress and elegant ash-blonde hair. Her knuckle-duster rings were probably worth more than my house.
‘Verity?’
I nodded.
She smiled. ‘You’re the reason she’s here, you know. I followed your scent – my, what a vintage you would have made when you were young! What wouldn’t I have done to take the tears from you? The wine tastes so much sweeter when it’s born of sorrow.’
‘You’re not eating them?’
‘No. If you take their tears you can’t use the meat. It’s too dry, tough. Really, it’s either wine or veal.’ She smiled.
‘Lizzie,’ I said. She didn’t stir. ‘Lizzie!’
‘She can’t hear you, dear. It’s a little sleeping spell until they go in the press. You don’t want panic; that sours things; but fear brings out the tears.’
‘Wake her,’ I said. ‘Wake her up and give her to me and we walk out of here. I tell no one about you.’
‘I knew your father – wonderful butcher. But rash, sloppy in his hunting.’
‘Bela Tepes knows I’m here,’ I lied. ‘You mess with me, you mess with him. You mess with him, you mess with the Weyrd Council.’
‘Two of my best customers are on the board, lovie,’ she said confidentially.