Blakeshire (Insight #9)(43)
All along the sidewalk, there were little shops or chairs set up; some were artists, others poets, and some were of arts and crafts. Musicians were here and there with crowds around them. The alluring smell of something divine was in the air.
There was something else along the sidewalk, too: what looked like a statue of a woman playing a fiddle was halfway in the ground and half above.
“That is kind of suffocating,” I said to myself as my mind rushed back to the dream I had, that feeling of sinking, a thick muscle tightening around me.
“It’s meant to be liberating,” he said as he watched me take in the detail of the halfway-buried statue. “There are seasons of heavy rain here. The first one the settlers lived through was dramatic.”
I glanced to the mountains over the buildings. “Flooding?”
“Nothing serious. What was so dramatic was that as the rain washed down the hills, homes were discovered. They realized they were not the first to find this place.”
“Like a lost city?”
“That was what they assumed, but there were no bodies or anything to date the old city. Before long, they realized that the buildings were reflecting their inner desire, creating what was on the inside on the outside.”
“You’re joking.”
“That is the myth of their history. It’s a bit altered today. The early settlers became deeply spiritual, connected to their inner selves. A lot of them became seers.”
“Like what I can do?” I asked as I found myself listening for the ghostly whispers that followed me in every dimension, with the exception of Chara. I heard none here, which led me to believe that strife was not something the souls here died with.
“They saw the future. Some only saw moments before; others, decades in the future.”
“Well, that kinda takes the excitement out of living, now doesn’t it?” I quipped. You would think with all the hell that was surrounding me, I would want to know where it ends—but for me, the paths of discovery are more valuable than the end result.
“They were wise with that insight. They never spoke of what they saw. Later, as time moved forward the elderly were always present at the birth of new souls. They witnessed their first sleep, then later just as the child turned two they would present the family with a structure or sculpture like this one,” he said, nodding to the woman that I was yearning to chisel free from the sidewalk.
“With each wet season, the structure would erode away; how quickly or slowly it eroded was symbolic of the child’s inner journey. It is said that at the end of the life, if that life was lived to its fullest potential, the structure would be completely revealed and that soul’s mark on the Earth would be in place.”
“What happens if something happens before they complete their path, like an accident or something?”
His dark eyes stared into mine for a moment before he answered. “They don’t believe in accidents. Everything is manifested by the souls that live the lives.”
He pulled me farther down the street; just as the street divided, he led me down a vast alleyway where flowers were placed in golden pots. They almost looked like they were marking a memorial.
For no reason at all, I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. I was lightheaded, and that was not making the random flashes and echoes of voices I thought I was hearing any clearer.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he ducked his head so he was eye level with me.
“A lot of energy here,” I said under my breath as I sorted out the emotions of this place; they were a mix of bliss and grief.
I glanced to the building beside us, which was four stories high. Waves and odd angles created the outer layer. The male image that was sculpted on the side was insane. His head was at the top, and his body reached all the way to the street level. At the top, the image looked like a bold leader, but as more of the stone was uncovered you could see other images connecting to this one; women, children. There were staffs in their hands, instruments at their sides, canvases here and there, even scenes of nature.
I swear I could hear this carving. It wasn’t like the sinister whispers I had always fought with; it was more like echoes…of life.
“This is one of the oldest and also one of my favorites,” Drake said as he gazed up at the stone. “When it was first eroded, it looked as if the man would stand high above, be a great, distant leader, but with each rain season his image began to connect to others.” He glanced at me. “His lover, his children, his friends, their talents and their paths merged into his. In the end, the sculpture showed that this great leader was nothing without the souls that stood with him, not beneath him. Though he did not carry the gift of a creative spirit, he carried the foresight to see that energy in others. He was a motivator, and because of his life, gifts in others were brought forth.”
“It speaks deeply,” I murmured, staring at all the details that were absent at first glance and smiling when I heard the victories of their voices in my mind.
“It teaches with what it speaks. It states that what is first seen is not the entire story—it shows how no life is solitary. This mural was created for one of the founding fathers of this town, the first conception and birth on this land.”
He took my hand. “Forgive me,” he said just before he held my hand against the stone.
As soon as my flesh met that cold stone, a jolt of energy shocked my very being. They were no longer echoes, but fast moving movies in my mind. It was like reading a thousand novels in a matter of seconds; every emotion was mine, every loss, every win, every love—I felt it all.