It was so early in the pre-dawn the light could not really be referred to as silvery. It was more a dull pewter. In that dull, dim darkness a figure entered Lemuria through a forgotten and unguarded portal somewhere west of nowhere. In the Mythic Tarot deck this figure is represented by the Five of Pentacles.
In this particular instance the figure wrapped in a mendicant’s robe and scuttling so furtively through the half light had lost and given away so much she doubted even the sound of her own name. There was her worldly name of Suzanne but to her ears that name had always seemed a little formal and official. Normally she reserved it for form filling out. In the world of face to face contact and verbal communication she was usually called Sue. She’d only adopted the name Suzanne for email communication because all the variants of Sue she could think of were already taken.
Then there was the name Almurta, the Lemurian username she’d pulled out the ether when she’d first signed in. That name had become the nom de plume of an alter-ego who had joined Lemuria just prior to L’Enchanteur’s sabbatical or long service leave during 2009. Almurta had raged around a largely deserted mindscape not quite understanding just where in cyberspace she was. Last seen she’d been growing dreadlocks and pounding a hand drum in some Lemurian backwoods. A place she was best left in, the figure who now entered Lemuria decided then went on to consider that none of the above names quite covered her current existence. As the Tarot commentary made clear she was going through a time of difficulty and loss on many levels. The losses and difficulties had been exacerbated by her own nature. A reorientation on an inner level was imperative as there now appeared to be very little left of her.
For an hallucinatory moment she suddenly saw a row of jars in her old father’s work shed. They were those miniature jars that had once held miniscule amounts of jam. The kind of jars that are packaged together in fancy boxes at Christmas time and gifted by aged aunts. The labels on the jars in her father’s shed were obscured by the greasy smudges left by his hands as he grabbed them while working on some project. It was his own lettering scrawled across the original labels in black marker pen that came into her mind. She remembered herself as a child sounding out the letters until she made sense of the words. “Washers” she had read, “Brads”, “Staples” and so on down the line until she came to last jar which read “Misc”.
“What are Miscs, dad?” she asked.
Her father had laughed and launched into a detailed and pedantic explanation. Misc, it transpired, was short for the word miscellaneous (her father was a lover of words) and the jar was where he placed the left over bits that he had no obvious use for. He passed the jar down to her so that she could see what it contained. Peering in she glimpsed bone coloured plastic cogs, tiny screws from digital watches and multi coloured capacitors and transistors wrenched from defunct circuit boards. Jumbled together they had a pretty look and she told her father as much.
“Pretty useless really, I reckon,” he’d said as he placed the jar back in its position.
“That’s it,” she thought as her feet found a rough cobbled path just inside the portal. “That’s who I am right now. I’m Misc, a collection of left over bits that no one really wants.”
“Self indulgent claptrap,” said an ebullient voice behind her.
Misc spun round to see a flamboyant figure seated on a winged horse. “Who are you?” she asked in surprise.
“The Knight of Wands.” Gold armour flashed as a slither of sun rose above the eastern horizon. “I’m seeking greener pastures. Dream Seeds won’t grow in this flinty soil.”
Misc looked and around and saw only a few coarse weeds straggling up through the stony ground.
“Follow me,” said the Knight. “Better yet, climb up behind me and we’ll get to where we’re going in no time at all.”
“Where are we going then?” asked Misc as she clambered up. After all, she really had nothing much left to lose.
“We’re going to where the air is fresh,” said the Knight in an excited rush. “To the land where dreams are spun. To the place where new ideas are born on the wind. To the realm where intentions are shaped.” The winged horse pranced beneath them.
“I can take you there but it’s up to you what you do with what you find there,” said the Knight in a more serious tone. “I want you to be clear on that point. I’ve got no time for dilly dallying or nit picking around with the details of reality. I like to keep on the move.”
“Fair enough, said Misc. “I could do with some fresh air. I’ve been stuck in old stale thoughts for too long.”
The Knight let out a whoop of joy as his steed carried them up. They flew towards a mystic realm where golden gossamer clouds and wisps of pink mist swirled. Misc felt a lightness touch the core of her being. Maybe all was not lost after all.