Island In The Mist

He stepped onto the small boat and caught his balance by lowering himself down far enough to grab hold of the two sides. The boat was a little bigger than a dugout canoe, made out of a black colored wood and propelled by poling. The old lady was about six feet in front of him and never turned to look to see if he was in. She merely stuck the pole into the surface of the fresh water lake and the boat took off. If she lifted the pole out of the water, the boat stopped. She only did that once and it seemed that she was getting her bearings because the boat turned when she returned the pole to the water. Along the way were lights that appeared out of the fog ahead on either side of the boat about six or eight feet away. Darjeeling couldn’t tell what type of light they were but guessed that they were lanterns of some sort. The fog was so thick all around them that he could only vaguely see the outline of the lanterns bobbing on the water and could see nothing ahead or behind. It hurt his eyes to strain to see where they were heading. The old woman kept to the task of guiding the boat, her body appearing and disappearing with the coming and going of the fog. Darjeeling laughed. He thought that maybe he was on the River Styx and the old woman was Charon taking him to Hell. Just then she turned to him. Her countenance was so beautiful he could hardly stand it. Her round oriental face was something he could look at forever. It was a mandala that captivated his attention. She smiled and pulled the pole out of the water. The boat stopped. Darjeeling tried to ask her a question but found that he still couldn’t speak. She circled her left hand in front of her and pointed to the fog with the pole. The fog sworled a bit and then out of it came small dancing star shaped lights like the ones he had seen before. They danced toward the boat and with them came a sound like muffled bells ringing. The old woman seemed pleased and looked at him. All he could do was smile and bow. She returned the bow and then turned back and started the boat once again. The lights accompanied them and the sound of the bells made him sleepy. He fought off the sleep but lost. It was a while later that the boat touched the shore of the island and woke him up. He was refreshed and felt wonderful. The old lady jumped out of the boat and started up a rock laid path. Darjeeling jumped out and pulled the boat up. He ran to catch up with her. Whenever he thought he was about to reach her she would amazingly appear several steps ahead again. She would turn back around from time to time and smile and beckon him on. It seemed like they followed the path for quite some time before it started its steep incline. On either side he could see trees and brush, mostly pines and a few pin oaks. He had a feeling he was on the island he had seen but couldn’t be sure. The incline of the path got a little steeper and soon he was laboring to go on. His feet slipped on the wet ground and loose rock. He caught himself with his hand more than once and his breath now labored like a racehorse making the final turn to the bell. He fell and lay there, his hot breath blowing leaves and sucking in dirt. In front of his eyes he saw the end of the old lady’s pole and beyond that her feet. He gazed at her feet as he tried to calm his breathing. They were beautiful feet, unharmed by the steep and messy climb up the hill. She touched the pole to his shoulder and his heavy breathing stopped, returning to normal, regular breaths. He felt himself rising from the ground as she used the stick to pick him up. He felt no pressure from the stick, only a gentle lifting. When he was upright, she motioned to him to hold on to the end of the stick. Then she took off at an even faster, but seemingly effortless, pace up the now steeper slope. The fog began to clear and he could see more trees and brush. Suddenly, the sun appeared and they emerged into an open area where there was a small log cabin that looked just like the one on the beach. The air was clear and sweet. He could hear the songs of birds and the humming of honeybees. He smelled the sweet fragrance of flowers that dotted the landscape and led them to the cabin. She gently “unhooked” him from the walking stick and he was able to make his own way behind her to the cabin door. She went inside and the door slammed in his face.

Into The Fog

The elderly oriental woman walked away from the cabin, shutting the door and fastening the outside latch, a piece of leather that threaded through the door and jamb. The cabin itself was oriental with rising roof corners and extensions on the gable ends. The window screens were rice paper and the glow of the lamp inside gave them a soft yellowish hue. As the woman stepped on each stone that led to the beach, she looked directly at Stephen, smiling and reciting something in Chinese that he did not understand. He looked back at Hoyt Axton. Hoyt was standing there frozen in time, still cranking on the fishing reel, still holding his guitar and then the fog came in and covered him. Hoyt, the wall, and everything else was gone. He heard the woman’s voice and turned quickly back around. She was nearly upon him. He stepped back and looked closely at her as she continued to recite what seemed to be poetry. He was beguiled by her smile and her poem and her voice. She was probably well into her seventieth year but still had a quiet beauty about her. Her face was small and pale. She alternately wove her hands in and out from in front of her as she walked toward him her eyes latched on to his. To his surprise he noticed she had on painter white pants and a black tee shirt with the same type of sandals that he, too, now had on his feet. As she approached within three or four feet of him, she beckoned to him with her finger and slowly turned toward the fog. There was nothing else he could do but follow. He noticed the grayness of her hair and how it hung loose to her shoulders that were straight and supple, as was her back. He could see the strength in her legs as she walked, her hips like those of a much younger woman. Her feet stepped deliberately, accentuating each step as first the heel then the ball and finally the toes made contact with the sand barely leaving any trace of a step. Her eyes were dark and clear and when she came to the edge of the fog she turned them to him again. Her face was beautiful, the lines of age accentuating the natural lines of her face. There was a stark contrast between the pale beauty of her face and the menacing grayness of the fog ahead of them. He looked directly into her eyes noticing the bright points of starshaped light in the center. She motioned for him to follow her into the fog. He hesitated and reached out to touch her. Immediately he was pushed back by a star shaped light that emanated from the palm of her right hand. She was still reciting the long poem but he heard in his mind, “You cannot touch me yet, you must wait until the fog clears.” He started to speak. Another star light sealed his lips and he obediently followed her to the edge of the gray fog wall in front of them. She turned her back to him and walked forward, disappearing for a moment and then reappearing, beckoning to him once more to follow. Darjeeling needed another Mickey’s real bad. “Where’s Hoyt Axton when you really need him,” he thought, and then reluctantly took the first step into the fog.

Out Of The Fog

He floated there effortlessly. He opened his eyes. For a moment all he could see was the brilliant green light that surrounded him. Then the light directly in front of him began to fade and he could see outside of the shaft. The one thing he knew instantly was that he was no longer at home on the deck. The faded area became porthole size and he stuck out his hand. Nothing happened except that the portal expanded a little more. He stuck out his head and looked around. Just as he did so, he fell through the portal out onto a sandy beach. He had no idea where he was. He stood up and looked around. Behind him was a small cabin with a walkway to the beach. Beyond the cabin, the tops of some pine trees poked out of the fog and he could hear the sound of the waves hitting the beach. The small beach had a retaining wall separating sand from water and the water lapped against the wall. A white gull flew out past the wall and banked at the edge of the fog that obscured the lake. To the left, an island rose out of the mist, pines and oak trees floating in the grayness. Darjeeling heard something and turned to see a man sitting on the seawall. He was a large man with dark hair that was closely cut. He was dressed in a pair of blue bib overalls and a white tee-shirt. Next to him was a fishing pole laying with the butt end in the sand and the rod propped up and over the seawall directly over a “No Fishing” sign painted on top of the wall. On the other side, the fellow had a small cooler into which he was now reaching. He turned toward Darjeeling as if he had known he was there all the time. Looking at the naked Darjeeling, who still had some residual smoke coming off him made the guy laugh out loud as he got up off of the wall. Picking the fishing pole up with one hand, he deftly flipped the other and a green bottle arced its way toward Darjeeling.
“Look’s like you could use a cold Mick’s,” he said, cranking on the fishing reel. The tip of the rod bent toward the water. He seemed to be always doing more than one thing at a time. Now he was putting a straw hat on his head after combing back the jet black hair with his fingers. Darjeeling watched as the man picked up the cooler while still holding the bent pole, put the cooler under his arm and continued cranking. Darjeeling twisted the familiar cap off of the green bottle, forgetting for the moment his nakedness, the fog, and how he happened to be there. The beer tasted good and he quaffed about half before taking the bottle from his lips and using it to point toward the fisherman.
“I know you from somewhere,” Darjeeling said, “You. . . Why, you’re Hoyt Axton.” He let the green bottle drop to his side and stared as Hoyt continued to crank the reel, hold the cooler, and now reach down on the sandy beach to pick up a huge Gibson guitar with the pearl fretboard inlay that said “Hoyt Axton”.
“How’d you know?” Hoyt laughed out loud again, cranking open another Mickey’s and using it to point at Darjeeling’s nakedness. “You’d better get some clothes on boy, cause yonder comes somebody that wants to talk to you real bad and she most likely would be embarrassed to see you in your current condition.” Darjeeling quickly turned and saw the cabin door open. He couldn’t see who the person was behind the door, but taking the man seriously, he darted behind a large mugho pine to hide himself only to find that he now had on his painter whites and black tee shirt. This was an appropriate time for Darjeeling to make the following remark: “What the . . .”

The Green Light

Darjeeling stepped into the small octagon at the center of the deck. He turned, facing North and placing his hands at his sides, palms open and facing to the North. Shirtless, he felt the twinge of cold envelope the upper part of his body. The thin, white cotton painter pants did little to warm him but coldness was part of the formula he was following. He watched his breath as he centered his weight evenly and lowered his center of gravity a little, pulling his tail bone in straightening the spinal column. He tucked in his chin and elongated his neck, further straightening the spinal column and opening up the bai hui channel at the top of his head and the ming men channel between the kidneys, allowing the energy from the Earth below him to flow through his body. Breath in . . . breath out . . . breath in . . . breath out. He regulated and slowed his breathing as the flux lines of energy began to flow through him. The sound of the dogs barking and the chirping of birds ceased and were replaced by the low pitched hum of an jing, the quiet energy. With all of these he was familiar, but he had no idea about what was to come. He remembered the words he was to recite. Looking slightly left at the Moon then right at the Sun, he determined that the instant was upon him. Lifting his arms slowly with palms up, he began the recitation. He finished with arms out to each side at shoulder level, palms facing the sun and moon.

“Oor chor chochar ls chteeoor ytol sheol otam,
Kodaiin cthy qokeey sol,
Daiin shor qodaiin ckhey sal.”

1.“o-or/ chore/ cho’kar/ lees/ ch’tear/ tole/ sh’ol/ tam”
One must unite both channels (in order) to ignite them,
2.“ko die’in/ tie/ q'uo-kee’/ sol”
Bring together rising Sun,
3.“die’in/ shore/ q'uo-die’in/ kuh-hey’/ sal”
Now reaching setting full Moon. [Page f52v]

He thought he heard a freight train off in the distance, its low, muffled whistle cutting the cold air. He felt a tugging sensation on his arms and warmth building up in the center of his palms. Then, in an amazing burst of energy, the green shaft of light exploded from the center of the octagon, piercing him from bottom to top, through the energy channel and out the top of his head. He started to fall but the beam held him up. His hands were blazing, flames of fire engulfing them as the green shaft of light now emerged from each palm and propagated toward the Sun and the Moon. He hung there limply in the cross of the emerald green beam, his clothes burned from his body, his eyes closed. He heard the deafening hum in his ears, the low bass vibration shaking his body until he thought he could take no more. His arms felt like they were dislocated at the shoulders and his hands smoked, the hair singed off and the skin red from the flames. In fact, there was no hair left on his body, all of it had been burned off by the flames that engulfed him, purifying him in the shaft of green light that now expanded into a three foot diameter column that reached above him, lost in the blue sky of the early morning.

Crypto-Quote No. 5

The Voynich Manuscript is extraterrestrial in origin.
---S. Darjeeling