Agathe... (USA) Contact the author
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A SORT OF A STORY
Chapter 1: The Pathway
I must have been sleep walking for a long time. Because when I became aware of where I was, and what's more, what I was doing, I must admit I had no idea why I was there or indeed, where that ‘there' was! So I woke up in the middle of my walk, or so it seems to me now. I was walking at dusk... when the colors slowly fade, yet at the same time, come to their prime. The primroses glowed pink and blue beneath that silver gray that was slowly casting its mantle across the atmosphere. The trees were that old antique green... yet still golden rays caught the tender leafs in a magical moment of stillness. Spring was in decline at the moment... so full and pregnant of summer that it was beginning to decay away, making way for the strength and vigor of hot evenings and burning morns. But on that night, it was still spring... tender and young, with just a hint of mature sweetness. Just a hint of the sensuality to come, just a hint of the voluptuous secrets to come, the heightened blood of summer... slow, seductive, languid motions... wild, mysterious, potent essences... the over ripeness of summer threatened the air of spring... building a maddening tension, straining and stretching, pulsing and rippling, looming imminently over the peaceful and tender newness of spring. Naive spring. Pure spring. So free from those fiery passions, free from unrelenting inclinations. Beautiful spring, so untainted in her maiden complexion, unaware of the deeper mysteries hidden in the lush undergrowth of ravishing summer jungles. Most prized spring, chaste in her youthful hews, truthful in her hopes and whims, free from the fevers of coming summer, free from the festering plagues of those humid warm climbs. No, spring was still sweet, saccharine perhaps, but delightfully so. Underfoot was a clover path. Above the arms of the sycamores stretched for the Heavens. Their large sculptural trunks arched and curved above the path. Their scanty spring foliage scarcely marred the view of the setting sun... red and magenta in a smoky purple sky. The azure above was already darkening into midnight blue, and Venus graced the eastern horizon where the pale moon had already passed. I walked on the clover path, feet bare and caressed by the dewy softness of the tender young clover. My arms around me, holding the gauzy material in place... for I had no other apparel underneath. I held it around me not because I was cold, no, but out of a subconscious modesty. For what did it matter really? Certainly no one walked here, so ancient, so wild it seemed, so much the land of Faerie, and not of man. It was warm. If I had been more sensually aware of myself, I would have cast my gauzy silk to the winds, where it may fly and become one with the gossamer threads of Time and Space and be lost in the arms of Zephyr. I would have delighted in the touch of air upon my skin, in the dance of tiny faerie fingers up and down my body where tingles and shivers become like ocean waves upon my skin... Yes, that I would have done if I had not been entirely absorbed by the sense of vision, and enslaved by that of scent. Fragrance permeated every particle of air in this garden. Gardena blossoms, lily of the valley, honey suckle, jasmine, rose, lavender, heliotrope, and sweet magnolia... warm and humid at dusk... while my eyes feasted on the ever dimming landscape filled with shadowy colors that jump at times, or sleeps as well. Nearby a streamlet flowed. Trickling and tinkling along the pathway. The smell of water enhanced the fragrance of the flowers, ever changing, ever mingling, until at every step along my way, a seemingly new essence filled the air... yet it was but a new concoction of the same perfumes. I walk forward, here and there to listen to the cicadas in the treetops far away... just a hint of their cadence, just a distant sound that flows in and out of hearing. In this warmth I walked forth, on and on drinking in the dusky pink and purple of the evening. Enchanted by the gleaming silver of the white blooms. Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know... Lines of poetry scrolled across my mind's eyes. Gather ye rosebuds while ye may... while old Time is still a-flying... I walk on, very slow, almost motionless. My feet again sleep walking, kissing at each step the gentle caressing clover underneath. Fog was descending in the night. And I walked on into the night, sleeping and waking. Kissing the silk of air. Warm, pampered, intoxicated by every sense... and in the night my gossamer wrap fell away, and I... I woke up in a bed of silver blue angel hair grass, perfumed by sweet fragrant heliotropes aromatic, and the moon beamed from up above, attended by her maids, the stars.
Chapter Two: The Bower of Green
It was still warm, and a bit humid. I woke up near the stream that flowed by. Warm all over, hot from sleep, I crawled on my hands and knees to the banks of the pure warbling stream. The moon shone in its reflection, the stars danced in the sparkling water. The waters of this stream were cool and clean, so inviting to the touch. I lowered my lips to the water's satin surface, where I drank thirstily its quenching freshness. My burning tongue savored the icy silk that flowed past my lips. Waking every nerve, the water traced its way down into me. From the teasing kiss of it on my lips, to its sensual embrace of my drowsy tongue, then washing down my throat so smoothly, lubricating my esophagus, arousing my heavy warm body into waking. Satiated, I looked into the water. There the stardust glittered and twinkled. I stretched out my right arm while leaning on my left, and my fingers grazed the wet satin surface. My fingers burned and delighted in the cool fire of the waters. I combed deeper, allowing the water to flow through my fingers, flowing on, downstream. The chilly tingle of water exited my skin, sending shivers up my arm. I liked it. Very much. My arm sank in deeper, dove into the depth of the streamlet. The water kissed my fingers, my palm, swallowed my wrist, my forearm, my elbow, icily kissed that soft tenderness in the crook of my elbow, licked my upper arm, and caressed my shoulder... the deeper my arm dove, the heavier the pressure of the water, but gentler the current... deep in the bowers of this water was a still quietness, a calm only deep waters have. I was tempted, every inch of my skin, every thought in my mind... tempted to feel it wash over me, feel its arms around me, so tight, so intimate, the water's embrace... so pure, so clean, so soft and soothing... I was tempted. I gathered myself, dunked my face underwater... mmmm.... the deliciousness of the water on my face, cool, refreshing, wet. Sweet seduction is water. The weightlessness of my body when floating in water... I could not resist such a tantalizing luxury, and I dove, head first, into the pool of running water. The water sang a bubbly song... quiet, ever the same, soothing, background music. As I dove, the water wrapped itself along my body, like yards and yards of unending satin and silk, brushing against me, hugging me, moving past me. It surrounded my waist, kissed my ankles, and as I swam, it parted here and there for my arms, legs, and fingers. My hair floated about and all around me, and I could feel its silken threads tenderly brush against my shoulders, fingers, arms... but not entangling or threatening. Was I off the path? Did it matter? My mind was oblivious to my purpose, so engulfed in the pleasures of water and weightlessness. No one was around. No noise save the water, the cicadas, and the soft rustling of the vegetation, the wind whistling through the reeds... nothing, quiet, serene, warm. I floated on my back, my belly up facing the sky. I floated head first down stream... where to? I didn't care. My hair waved back and forth across my shoulders... the only thing to cloak me. The water washed over my neck, softly fingering its tenderness, relaxing every muscle, every knot. My arms wandered like a dancer's up and down around me, sometimes gliding by my sides, some times resting on my abdomen, and sometimes under my head, in my hair... and so I floated, with waves that kiss my skin, my legs, my ankles, and my toes teasing the satin sheets of water just a bit. Above me, my eyes found a celestial map. The stars, the zodiac signs, the moon, the empty voids, the milky way, the occasional shooting stars... I drank in the infinity of the night, the sky, and occasionally delighted in the passing clouds that hid the moon and stars. I closed my eyes and listened to the silence. Listened to the merry voice of the tripping water. I listened to the sound of a nightingale singing, so far, so sweet, so softly piping away. And I listened to an owl asking the eternal question: who? Who indeed? Who made this wonder? Who am I? who are you? Who looks down at me from the stars so bright? Who and where? Who, who, who... The stream became a river, baring me down stream ever faster, but still, gently. The scent of lilies cascaded from the banks, and soon I found myself in a pond... a pond of water lilies, pink and white, blue and purple, and the lily pads floated by me... or rather, I floated by them. Underneath, the water became densely populated with algae and seaweed. I caught a handful and linked them around my waist... like a waist chain. Little white water lilies I picked, and put into my hair, held them in my bosom, and kissed their wet sweetness. Soon the water slowed, and I stopped moving and began to sink. I could no longer float on my back, but only tread water, here and there. My toes touched ground. It must be very shallow here. Carelessly, I stood up in the water, walking towards the bank. Various water vegetation clung to me. Water lilies fell from my hair, algae strung across my breasts and clung to my arms and legs... Thinking back, I must have been quite a sight! And so I emerged out of the midnight waters and onto the moonlit banks of this pond. Under a willow I divested myself of my nautical robes and combed my hair out with my fingers. Dripping, nude, as if in a trance, I walked forth from the green roof of this giant weeping willow. Outside, past the green blinds of this enclosure, was a clear night sky... paling into dawn, with still a few hours of darkness left. The morning star glowed low on the horizon, barely above the placid surface of an artificial pool... not the one I came from, but another, a sheet of still water, mirroring the sky. It was bordered by sapphire marble, blue and glowing in the moonlight. A surreal image, this water, so barren and sterile. But sculpturally beautiful in its minimalist simplicity. Like a dream, a lovely dream. The lawn was cut close. The green tender carpet cushioned my tread... not so delicious as the wet clover, but enough so to walk on. I walked towards the pool. When I arrived, I realized its a narrow pool, about 10 ft in width, but long, very long, and it curved in the distance. Its shallow, only enough to tease your toes. Around the sapphire edge had been planted pink buttercups, lilies of the valley, and scattered in those beds, tall, fragrant blue irises. The perfume of the irises intermixed with the lilies was light, cool, and pure. I walked on the sheet of water between them, slowly, swaying gently back and forth. From time to time I stooped down and broke off a few stems of lilies and buttercups. Following the watery path, I took a bend around a grove of birch trees. I don't know for how long I walked. I don't know how many turns I took. Time didn't exist there. Nor space. Just smell, sense, sight, and the sound of water. Then the water trail took a very sharp turn, emerging from the forest. Suddenly, before me stood a large glass dome. Tall, spacious, Arabian dome in green/blue glass... shining with much grandeur quarter of a mile from me... with the water path leading directly to its high arched entrance. Was this a Taj Mahal of glass? Perhaps. The glass palace dedicated to love? Perhaps. Its glass dome enclosed a tropical jungle paradise... the paradise that had throbbed so strained underneath the eternal spring in the air outside... this hot summer under glass overflowed with life... so green, so virulent, so strong... so exotic in its ripeness... humid and hot, burning in the darkness of its heart... caged in this marvelous crystal palace... inviting me to enter and see. The water path surrounded it. In a ring of water edged by sapphire, this bower of green stood. The water ring here is well irrigated and sprayed spinning fountains of water... streams of water in the air, dancing, waving, beautiful like female dancers in their curving motions. Soft, splish splash, tinkles like bells... I walked around the building, admiring its grandness, yet somehow not yet willing to leave the virginity of spring for the voluptuous heat. No, still I wandered, under the fountains that lined this watery path... feeling the water shower me, my head, my neck, my back, my belly, my legs, my arms... running down the length of my body, wetting my skin where the night air had dried it. Once around, I found that yes, this was the Taj Mahal... made of glass. When I came again to the front, I lingered. I looked at the door... looked at its ornate metalwork, its intricate glass paintings... and I hesitated. I looked back, watched the sky pale as the sun began its emergence from the East... and watched the colors change in the heavens... and the moon fade way... Wet from head to foot I began to dance... dancing to a ditty of no tone... dancing, dancing... while the sun rose... danced under the fountains... the fountains turned from gentle to majestic... strong like many waterfalls, like a thunderstorm the fountains burst forth... and I danced in its cool wetness... hot from movement, warm from the rays of Apollo, wet and cool from the gift of the waters... so second time I went around this glass edifice, dancing wildly, naked, wet, under the pouring torrents that showered down under the sunny morning sky.
I stopped. The fountains regained their former serenity as dancing women. The sun shone coolly above the edge of the forests. And I, small, helpless, weak from dance, stood in front of the towering glass palace... its entry door the height of me in one hundred repetitions... its entry of crystal, here and there adorn with mosaics of translucent glass. Ivory, oxidized bronze arabesques, azure and ruby pictures, gold leaf and silver adornments, pearls and other precious gems glowed... This was the door to the hot house. This magnificent hot house. I tried the entry way... it wouldn't open. The lock was placed too high for me to reach. I went to the sides... where written language in gold was painted on plaques of ivory and glass... but no entrance. Frustrated, I walked away from the entrance and to the side... and there, a pane of glass was missing... a very small pane of glass was missing from its ornate place... and from forth that opening, I could smell the heavy perfumes from within... incense, vanilla, warm humid moisture, the heavy scent of tropical mango, passion fruit, spice, cinnamon, sandalwood, frankincense, tangerine, pear, the sharp fresh scent of tropical leaves.... inviting me in.... demanding I seek them... and I went. One arm, then another, head, body, legs... I entered into the tropical depth of this jungle... and was confronted with its intense heat... the air itself is alive here... nothing is gentle... nothing is innocent... everything throbbed with a primeval vitality... and I... I felt lured by this fearsome mystery... I lost myself in the underbrush... making my way through the heavy large leaves and giant ferns....