DELUGE

Ethen wakes to a still dawn, saturated with a deep indigo. The air is heady with an electric tension, a static charge that prickles his skin and tugs at his hair. He squints at the horizon, at the leviathan silhouette encroaching upon their quiet morning.

The Deluge stretches across the farthest reaches of his sight, an ocean of churning clouds that all but swallows the world beyond, an atmospheric monolith rivaling the majesty of the earthbound Heartstone, consuming the firmament whole. It is as if a great sea was levitated to move above the land, its underbelly exposed, carried forth by an unseen hand. Lightning dances within its heart, thunder rolling out across the expanse in rhythmic intervals, a primordial drum beat heralding its arrival.

"Behold." Lukas' voice slips into their shared space. "The Deluge." His words are not his own but plucked from the sea of thoughts within his mind and given voice in the air.

Ethen nods, his fingers drumming restlessly on the pommel of his saddle. He stares increasingly skyward, mute in the face of such a spectacle. He feels a clamoring unease unfurling within him, an echo of a tempest that nearly claimed his life. His thoughts turn briefly to Clay. He tucks the dissonance away, tethers it with determination, and looks on.

As the storm draws nearer, figures emerge from its menacing form like specters given shape. They materialize, seemingly plucked from the darkness. The caravan — three ethereal horses at its helm — break free from the rain's shadow, their white bodies otherworldly against the grey backdrop, their beauty radiant and untamed. Ethen and Lukas can make out the thundering hooves, dancing within the rain and mist, like instruments commanding the rhythm of the storm.

Following in their wake, a congregation of riders appear. Coalescing from the haze, the caravan becomes visible — life amidst the swirling storm. It swells in number, a hundred souls embedded within, wrapped in a myriad of garbs of all shades of color and white, adorned with jewelry and trinkets, glistening and tinkling wetly under the overcast sky. Around them move others, the passengers, bound to the caravan by necessity or faith — the ill, the hopeful, the desperate. All brought together under the shelter of clouds, each lured into the embrace for reasons of their own.

"Look at that." Lukas utters monotone. "The lifeblood of the storm."

Even as Lukas' words still linger, a new sensation grips them. It is as though an unseen hand parts a veil draped over their minds, revealing a dimension of lost thoughts and experiences, though unsurprising in their familiarity. A rush of emotions, images, memories, and ideas flood them, like a river escaping its banks.

In the midst of this chaos, a voice resonates — the Deluge. Its words are made of the collective thoughts of all who reside within it. The Deluge is no mere weather system. It is an entity, a living, breathing superorganism shaped by the minds of the caravan's core members. Its form and consciousness is defined by the symbiosis between it and its followers. Ethen and Lukas, taken aback, cannot help but marvel at the complexity and beauty of the existence they now share.

"How...how is this possible?" Ethen asks aloud, his voice lost in the din of the storm's approach.

"Not by means the world of steel and silicon can make." An answer comes from within their shared mental space. A strange sensation; to think a sentence and then hear it, with no need for tongue, lips, or ears. "This...this is the realm of the divine. The most ancient configuration of battery and machine."

Lukas and Ethen exchange glances, their expressions a chirality of wide-eyed wonder and disbelief. A telepathic script unfolds between them, their thoughts spinning and twisting around one another. As the Deluge descends, the world adopts the hue of an undersea kingdom. Shadows cavort, prance and flirt with the spectacular lightning. Ethen and Lukas move amidst the caravan, dovetail with it, their bodies vibrating in rhythm with the cortege's pace, their thoughts seeping into the hive-mind. The touch of rain, cool and assertive on their skin, acts as the bridge between the ground and sky, the physical and intangible. The scene is surreal. Everything moves in slow motion.

Ethen initiates contact, a bold step into the ether. "Can you tell us of your beginnings?" The question, like a pebble thrown in still water, sends ripples across the collective consciousness.

"The voice of the Deluge is a melange of tones and rhythms that resonate within the psychic landscape. It is as old as the rain's memory. Its consciousness was conceived amidst desperation when life was wilting to bone and dust. As a lifeboat in the barren sea, it came into existence, and with it, the caravan, the procession of the hopeful."

Ethen and Lukas almost forcibly imagine a time when the land was a husk, a barren stretch of despair. Their minds, fertile canvases, paint vividly the scenes of desolation and eventually, deliverance. Amongst the roving crowd, a figure draws their attention. A woman, bedecked in an eclectic blend of feathers and beads, her gaze piercing, ensnaring their curiosity. Her very aura, enigmatic and magnetic, pulls them into her orbit.

"Who are you?" Lukas inquires, fascinated. Her kinetics are unique upon her mount, her movements a soaring melody standing out amidst the harmonious chorus of the hive-mind. Her voice is soothing, waltzing. "I am a Weaver. A thread in the Deluge's grand tapestry. I weave tales and songs, fictions that predict the future, splashing the storm with color and music."

Sharing a fragment of her consciousness, a song resonates with them. It tells stories of courage and fear, love and loss, of camaraderie under the desert's mantle.

The journey continues, opening gateways to more encounters. The Seer, her eyes reflecting the storm's grandeur, the Healer with hands over the travois in the herd that narrate tales of life and death, the Keeper, a silent custodian of the storm's history. Conversation flows easily, a river of thoughts guided by the steady hand of the Deluge. They speak of Bryceton, the gateway town at the foot of the Still Tides, of the divine storm that keeps the settlements alive. They learn of the nomadic life of the caravan, of the peace and serenity found within the embrace of the rainfall.

Ethen's mind touches upon the subject of their journey — Martha. Her name floats in the organism's shared axons, lashing with action potential and charged light, stirring echoes of memories and emotions.

"When did my mother, Martha, join you?" His mental voice ripples across the soaring sea. The very clouds high above seem to contort at Ethen's thought, as if reaching for a tome upon deep, hidden shelves.

The flux of gyruses and sulci carry back an answer. "Martha first sought our shelter three winters past. Her spirit was a glowing ember, a quiet defiance against the bleak chill of a world she questioned."

Lukas joins in, a new note in the symphony of shared thought. "How often did she journey with you?"

"Several passes." The Deluge hums. "Her quest was relentless, a ceaseless pilgrimage, a tireless pursuit for answers. Until she found solace in Outremer."

Ethen probes the swirling convolutions deeper, curious about his mother's transformation, no distinction between his thoughts and their delivery. "Answers? To what?"

"The Deluge reveals not. It is but a conduit. She sought, she asked, and she found. To know her path, her questions must be retraced."

Lukas posits a question, threading it with worry and concern. "Did she share with you her duty, and the teachings she was tasked with spreading here?" A tree of lightning splits the blue darkness, thunder rumbling the ground. "And her teachings after these answers, the faith she now professes, are they changed?" The questions skid in the ether, boomeranging back in short time, riding the thunder like a chariot. "She spoke not of the sanctity of unions nor the reign of a woman. Her ideas, more balanced, more humane than her dogmatic luggage."

The realization dawns on them, shedding bleak light on Martha's predicament. Lukas speaks it in a glance. "She's being hunted... for challenging the church's beliefs."

Ethen is gripped with trepidation for his mother. Her teachings have opened a chasm, a discord that could swallow her. As they dwell on this revelation, a profound sense of understanding settles within them. It is almost hope: Martha, they realize, is not just a woman lost. She has been saved. She has been found.

The caravan arrives at Alsterway, shedding Ethen and Lukas like skin. Others board where they leave off. The Deluge continues lumbering like a graceful giant, leaving in its wake a rejuvenated world and the two men forever transformed. People of the town are scampering frantically, working to collect every last drop of rain blessed unto them by the storm, the relapsing heat and blazing sun evaporating the serenity, and any droplet not sheltered in containers.

"Let's press on, Ethen." Lukas' physical, distinct voice speaks once again.

"Yes." Ethen finally states as he returns his gaze to the white-hot sands. "The Deluge will have shared information about mom with her enemies too. They know as much as we do."

Lukas chuckles and smirks as their horses begin to trot towards the new settlement. "You got it right, kid, but backwards. We now know everything they do. The playing field is more level."

"True. Except…" They fix their gaze at the small black dots, somewhere into the sister settlement of Outremer, a rifle's shot or two away. Possible footprints from those also pursuing Martha have long been swept over by the winds.

They wear their storm-gifted knowledge beneath their skin, a silent drone buzzing beneath the surface of their thoughts. Outremer, under their quiet scrutiny, takes shape, shedding its mirage-like ambiguity. It is a town caught in a yawn between days, harboring the promise of the night in the corners of its languishing streets.

The locals, wearied and sunbrowned, greet them with apprehension, their eyes flicking briefly over the strangers in their midst. "Martha?" They echo, voices strained. A few shake their heads in confusion, the name foreign and alien on their tongues. One, older than the rest, a toothless smile wrenched by time and wear, shakes his head in a mixture of shame and disappointment, his words raspy. "Aye, she was here. Look yonder, the round hut."

"Was?" Lukas probes, the word a dull thud in their hearts.

With the guidance of the old man, they ride toward the indicated hut, its once cheerful exterior mocking their sinking hopes. The door hangs off its hinges, revealing an interior ravaged by brutal hands. Debris scattered across the floor, remnants of life and moments. Here, a fragment of pottery; there, a shred of fabric. The walls bear the angry lashes of swords, spent gunpowder dusting the floor; scars and blisters of the violence that had unfolded within.

Yet, amidst the wreckage, there is an absence. A gaping hole in the narrative where red should have stained. Lukas, ever the observer, points it out. "No blood." His tone is hesitant. "They took her cleanly."

Ethen dismounted. "But where?"

Shattered keepsakes lie strewn across the floor, and among them, they find remnants of Martha. A necklace, its chain twisted, lies nestled between splintered pieces of furniture. The sacred texts of the Church of Oedipus lie discarded, pages crinkled, passages struckthrough with lines like ink spears, their dogma banished into a void. And there, under the carnage, a photograph. A younger Ethen smiles up at them, the boy untouched by the grim reality that now clouds his gaze.

Amidst the ruin, a parchment — a beacon of hope. Scrawled in a hand both familiar and foreign, the header sends a jolt through them — "Jocasta's Gospel." These are Martha's beliefs, her dissenting voice against the Church's dogma, etched in tears and blood. These were meant for distribution. Maybe they already were.

They need to move, but the Deluge is far out of sight. The wreckage seeps into their souls.

...

"Jocasta's Gospel"

by Martha Merriview

"To keep from a fall into love is to be strung up by a noose."

What drives you to seek Her?

A craving for comfort, counsel, or perhaps an inherent pull toward the roots? The voyage might fit the imprint for nurture, for protection, particularly if found lacking. The journey's end could be self-discovery, a reckoning with your own being.

What if your hidden longing for the Mother impels you to journey toward her?

Unearth those ensnared yearnings, embrace them; no shame, no judgment. The quest for the Mother might be a voyage to your own heart, to pieces of you left fallow.

An Oedipal soul often thrills at thoughts of the Mother.

Spiritually, this is holy. Physically, in a world of sin, this is a danger. The cryptic allure, the forgotten desires, find release in this safe play & ground of the mind. Fear not to traverse these fields, but avoid the lure to seek the Mother's semblance in me. I am a priestess; propriety and dignity are my garb and veil. Delve into why you find pleasure in her image, unravel the knot of your desires.

The Church of Oedipus — our sanctuary for lost souls to unchain their Oedipal thoughts.

Bothersome? Assuredly. Natural and human? Absolutely. Needed? Desperately. The priestess stands as a beacon, a port in a storm, guiding you through this exploration. Fantasies are commonplace among the Oedipal, but should they bring discomfort, distress, seek guidance. Our Church — a sanctuary for you to brave these tempests.

We champion those willing to confront the Oedipus within.

Embrace this shadow; celebrate it. The Church of Oedipus aims to be a healing balm on the path to acceptance and overcoming. But remember, the journey is your own. Seek not the priestess's body for healing; take ownership of your pilgrimage to an integrated son. An equal, age-appropriate partner is the key to harmonious relationships. Such an Oedipus — one reconciled with the desires and beyond them in triumph, meeting them head-on and not after a brood of ignorance — is at peace, free from guilt, living harmoniously. His eyes are not blinded by the dress-pins of his hidden desires, but open, returning them to fasten modesty upon his Mother, and keep her garments from becoming a gallows.

We honor all equally, regardless of their standing or past.

The Church strives to be an inclusive haven for every soul. Our doors open to a symphony of masculine and feminine energies, celebrating the maternal but acknowledging the importance of male figures in life's grand tapestry.

Oedipus as a safe harbor to act vicarious parent-child dynamics.

We see it as a natural rhythm of human growth, to be understood, transcended with nurturing guidance. No one should be ashamed, shocked, repulsed, least of all the beauty of the Mother. Our Church, first named after the cautionary and tragic soul of Oedipus, stands testament to his tale—an echo of our own narrative. Jocasta, his mother, a symbol in our teachings, representing the sacred Mother, echoing the tale of forbidden love and its aftermath: a poignant reminder of the Mother's power and significance, and of hidden movements gone unawares, of clear-enough signs and biases unheeded.

The Church regards the Mother as sacred, but not divine.

Only the Mother-Goddess herself, kept in the abstract, never to be pained by the physical, kept from me; we would have it no other way. We celebrate the deistic maternal, yet acknowledge its human fallibility.

So, within the enigma of Oedipus, Jocasta's honor, her sorrow, the heart of a Mother, and the nurturing chambers of the Church, we decipher the cosmic riddle — the Mother-Goddess, in her infiniteness, births and re-births love and longing into the womb of the soul.

To keep from a fall is to be strung up.

If this message speaks to you, see Martha Merriview, found in Outremer.