Nothing, I think, could be more comforting than to be wholly and truly atheist. I’m afraid I’m just not wired that way. I see the hands of gods and spirits in almost everything. Generally they’re just mucking things up, but their hands are there just the same.
The waters have flowed out of the heavens and made a mess of things round these parts. I had meant to gather with old friends to honour one of our own this evening, but I could not in good conscience call them out to the reservoir as things stand for it is awash in flood.
Our old haunts are gone or under water.
The wights of namahchissinwi have their own peculiar brand of magic and Mother Nature takes heed.
I’m rather fond of inclement weather, the more violent and tumultuous the better, I say. My friend was the opposite. He had no fondness for storms. He was enamoured with the sun and warm sandy beaches, boat drinks and lounge chairs, fluffy white clouds against a blue rich sky. I preferred the night sky lit up by the crackle of lightning, dark clouds and rolling thunder, pelting rain and the winds of Thor.
My friend basked in the warmth of that mythical sun, adrift on an alcohol high, carefree and content, while I stared into the gaping maw of the malefic torrent and saw the wonders of the hereafter beckoning.
My friend believed this shared grand illusion to be the prison and the grave but a portal to another world. Upon wings of light we would be unfettered from the bonds of matter and released upon the astral winds, into the mystic.
Each man slowly recognized, like a
combination of lost numbers,
That men younger than themselves had
Grown old, and were gone, who had lifted
this same earth,
Who had put in what they now took out
trying not to look
Yet seeing all: that these were the old tools
in their hands,
That the sod came up in broken strips, and
That each shaft found its own way into the
darkness. . .
— Jared Carter, “The Undertaker”