“The spell binding that has been cast upon us has been broken by that light vehicle.”
—The Red Code
For there is every color which to paint the night sky, but in a land trapped away from true life, only a shell of true darkness lies flat across the heavens with no vision of Luna's twinkling stars.
They are all corrupt, they are all dominant by order of nature, they are all dominant by command of the order, they gather in great masses, they gather in far greater wealth, and they are as blind as their slaves, thinking what they are here to witness will bring about the same soul of things they witnessed while they were still human.
A single voice from eternities away screams in one great transcendent cry before admitting Hellfire. His terror is received in this land of isolation as something to be loved. Something not even to be chosen to be loved, merely it happens, for your choices are the same here.
Eternity spills into the sky from his heavenly shriek as he is admitted into this reality by The Horsemen. Four in drapes, two in colors that mock the night sky, two in colors that mock the flesh of Mother Earth.
A bagpipe cries. So the bagpipe cries, and the worshiper is reminded of the human emotions which had not been deprived from him at such a young age. So the bagpipe cries, and the hypothetical thought of living in a world unruled crawls into the mind of the worshiper, before the worshiper pushes the thought away. So the bagpipe cries, and no one understands that the beauty they witness is suffering.
God's children watch over us, reduced to lifeless and insignificant effigies.
Their eyes burn as suns.
The sounds of fluid emotion play in one perspective across the lands, yet alone to be in its prefabricated, barren, hollow, stripped perversion.
The fruits of Earth's benevolence are cloaked in strips of the hollow sky.
The cries of the savage guardians roar closest first.
"The Owl is within his...temple. Let all within The Grove be reverent before Him."
There is the distorted, inflated gravestone standing short, self-hated, intimidating and powerful against the current of blue, polluted liquid life. The dust of the admittance of the witnesses to eternity's chronicle mix in with liquid life and desecrate the already soulless feet standing there. Creatures formed with no decision, with elements of other creatures, stand farther back and to the far left or far right, rarely coming close together. Some are made of ape, some are made of bird, some are made of reptile, some are made of insect, but rest assured they all originated of man and you can see this clearly and immediately. No light aside from the Hellfire burning nature penetrates the intense cloak of nothingness.
"Lift up your heads, oh ye trees..."
Frogs, insects, birds, lizards, snakes, they cry in great volume and great intensity, for they do not understand the corruption and dehumanization that occurs in this gathering, only its immensity and importance.
"...And be ye lifted up ye everlasting spires."
A great nonexistent figure flat against the elements of reality approaches the ceremony, still with undeclared desire of escape.
"...For behold! Here is Bohemia's shrine and holy are the pillars of this house."
The bronze of manufactured importance is sounded and heard in a loud lifeless whimper by all witnesses.
"Weaving spiders come not here!"
And with a second ring, the man-beasts congregate to the center of the sand to be close.
"Hail Bohemians!...With the ripple of waters, the song of birds, such music as inspires the sinking soul, do we invite you into Midsummer's joy."
And he continued his lies.
"The sky above is blue and sewn with stars. The forest floor is heaped with fragrant grit."
The creatures detect that their names were used in lies and deceit and they grow worrisome, anxious, loud.
"The evening's cool kiss is yours."
A spire of ice and apathy penetrates the minds of the worshipers.
"The campfires glow."
The Hellfires glow.
"The birth of rosy fingered dawn...Shake off your sorrows [of] the city's dust, and cast to the winds the cares of life. But memory bring back the well-loved names of gallant friends who knew and loved this Grove."
And so the father remember the son he bore before he was removed of himself.
"Dear boon companions of long ago. Aye! Let them join us in this ritual! And not a place be empty in our midst."
So the wind blew and secluded emptiness remained without the spirits of another world.
"All of his battles to hold in this gray autumn of the world or in the springtime of your heart. Attend our tale. Gather ye forest folk, and cast your spell over these mortals! Touch their world-blind eyes with carrion, open their eyes to fancy. Follow the memories of yesterday..."
And his voice was no longer his but of a force much greater and foreboding.
"...and seal The Gates of Sorrow."
Babylon. He returned to our world.
"It is a dream, and yet, not at all a dream. Dull care in all of His works harbored it. As vanished Babylon and goodly Tyre, so shall they also vanish. But the wilding rose blows on the broken battlements of Tyre, and moss rends the stones of Babylon."
The fruit of Earth grows steadily across Moloch.
"For beauty is eternal, and we bow to beauty everlasting. For lasting happiness, we turn to one alone, as She surrounds you now. Great nature, refuge of the wary heart."
Deceit has found its dominance, few creatures survive.
"And only found Her breasts that has been bruised...She has cool hands for every fevered brow, and dreadless silence for the trouble soul. Her councils are most wise, she health well, having such ministries as calm and sleep."
Never would his men know the wonders of escaping consciousness for a mere nightfall, never would his men know the wonders of comprehension and breath.
"She is ever faithful. Other friends may fail, but seek ye Her in any quiet place. Smiling, she will rise and give to you her kiss. So must ye come as children."
The creatures have returned, but in the form of clay, void imposters.
"Little children that believe don't ever doubt Her beauty or her faith, nor deem her tenderness can change or die."
She is fleeting.
The white mark of death returns with a glowing blue shine of untruth. The sounds of chaos and gluttony are played proudly with symbols for happiness laced and overpowered atop it. A voice emanating from no life, evident of no life, speaks to us.
"Bohemians and Priests! The desperate call of heavy hearts is answered!"
Blackness does not replace.
"By the power of your fellowship, Dull Care is slain!"
The laughs and joys of flesh without minds echo.
"His body has been brought yonder to our funeral pyre to the joyous pipings of a funeral march. Our funeral pyre awaits the corpse of care!"
The sounds of sincere happiness in sacrifice flow through this dome. Over in the river closest to the sands but not where any man may stand, a beast of many shapes, large and small, pointed and round, clever and dull, but all of malice intent and all-seeing powers forms and reforms dozens of times over in a blue mist that is composed of what was once a living, feeling ocean. He appears as a sloth of confusion, as a slug of understanding, as a man of great body and no strength, an owl of stout posture and all-encompassing power, a deer of innocence, an alien of corruption, and yet through all his forms, his vessel is death. The creature swims to us and vanishes upon his awareness of sight.
"Oh Thou, thus ferried across the shadowy tide, in all the ancient majesty of death, Dull Care, ardent enemy of beauty, not for Thee the...forgiveness of the restful grave, fire shall have the will of Thee! And all the winds make merry with Thy dust! Bring fire!"
Chaos springs forward as the cries of perverted happiness burst through our mouths. The omniscient, maleficent cry of Owl and Lucifer sing in harmony indistinguishable. He calls us fools in great shouts three times, each followed by the power of lightning.
"Fools! When will ye learn, that me ye cannot slay. Year after year ye burn me in this Grove, lifting your puny shouts of triumph to the stars. When again, ye turn your faces to the marketplace, do ye not find me waiting as of old? Fools! Fools! Fools to dream ye conquer care!"
"Say Thou mocking spirit, it is not all a dream. We know Thou waiteth for us, when this our sylvan holiday has ended. We shall meet Thee and fight Thee as of old, and some of us will prevail against Thee, and some Thou shalt destroy. But this too we know: year after year in this happy Grove, our fellowship bans Thee for a space. Thine malevolence which would pursue us here has lost its power under these friendly trees. So shall we burn Thee once again this night. And with the flames that burn Thine effigy, we shall read the sign, Midsummer sets us free!"
"Ye shall burn me once again? Not with these flames, which hither ye have brought from regions where I reign. Ye fools and priests. I spit upon your fire!"
The voices are in perfect harmony, the bringer of fire is the bringer of the flaming spit that crackles in the hollow night sky. Wonder bounces through the walls of this dome.
"Oh Owl! Prince of all mortal wisdom. Owl of Bohemia we beseech thee! Grant us Thy council!"
A messenger of deceit and gluttony sings of fire extinguished above the illusions of sentiment.
Moloch appears to us through forces I cannot explain with these words.
The joyous, empty caricatures of Gods appear above Moloch.
"Oh Great Owl of Bohemia! We thank Thee for Thy adoration!"
The caricatures reveal themselves to be imposters and demons as one of the half-men slowly dredges back into the previous realm.
"Be gone detested care! Be gone! Once more, we banish thee! Be gone, Dull Care! Fire shall have its will of thee! Be gone Dull Care, and all the winds make merry with thy dust! Hail fellowship's eternal flame! Once again, Midsummer sets us free!"
And as the cackles of sluggish hyenas ensue, Moloch takes away light from the Heavens. The white, lifeless spires of Hell emerge to Earth. Firstly they burn so that the deep blue of illusion is barely visible, then they burn from Moloch and are so bright that they act as a new sun.
We enter this world guided by no reality.
Written by I, Da Cashman