There were no wise people, only decisions that worked out well due to random chance and the law of averages. Still, the line stretched for miles along the palace edifice with seekers rammed into every square meter of space between the crumbling retaining wall and the drying up moat where horrible leviathans were once said to dwell. Inching along, patrons awaited an audience with the Oracle for days on end.

The mere spectacle of this in itself was a revelation. The villagers used to have an inherent distrust of all denizens in the stone fortress, tolerating their overtures out of necessity while privately expressing righteous disdain and clear signs of being allergic to the quaffed mien of the lofty effete. Regular folk took the blows but quietly plotted elite demise.

It’s always been this way in every kingdom, most likely. Until in this particular place at this moment in time, when the sayer of soothing sonnets had appeared. No one knew where they came from; rumors abounded of divine origins and dramatic mutations, of well-cast spells and deals with demons, of gifted insight and the luck of the innocent. Whatever it was, though, it was widely agreed that the Oracle was the singular truly wise being in the realm.

This conclusion was not unfounded. Before the Oracle, the land was wracked by travails beyond even the worst biblical imaginations. Plagues and pandemics, blight and bloodshed, natural calamity and casual brutality. For scores of years, the people had lived in a state of constant terror inflicted by others, themselves, the elements, fate, and some force of retributive justice.

What had they done to merit this visitation of horrors? The question itself was taboo and could be met with brute force from even the elderly and infirm. They all knew what they had done and none dared speak of it. Truly, it was a sin to invoke the memory of that pact, the complicity they had shown in refusing to alter course, accepting the dictates of tyranny in exchange for security. They had abdicated to dark forces and tried to pass the blame onto their lords, but the fault lay not in their stars…

And then, just then, as they stood on the precipice of irreversible antipathies and self-loathing cum immolation, things changed. Subtly at first, then more tangibly, and final with fully demonstrable proof all stemming from one voice, a special soul of elusive origin and cloaked identity ensconced within the walls of a ravaged castle pillaged by grave doubts.

Who was the Oracle? It did not matter. Where did their wisdom come from? Everywhere and nowhere. What was the secret? If you tell, it won’t come true. How long would it last? Until you stopped believing in it. Can I see it for myself? Patience, child, as the line snakes ahead.

There’s more to say but it’s not my story to tell. All that can be shared is what has been cobbled together from the slips and bits of those who have been in the presence of the Oracle. Picture a veil rippling in a gentle breeze atop ten more veils of every color, light emanating deep within the source as the rippling veils reveal intermittent glimpses of something sharp and soft and stoic and animated, and … a reflective aura of you and me and all that has transpired, the shroud of the thou/not-thou, infinite tumultuous stillness, you and me and all the infinite mirrors propped up in our organic funhouses.

Shuffle forward now, please.

—

NOTE: What stories get written while clinging to the wing of a jet hurtling through turbulence while no one is watching except that guy sitting in 32A? Now you have your answer, and I hope it makes you feel better that you upgraded to an earlier boarding group and selected your own seat closer to the lavatory. Nice one. {image: pixabay}