I am Watcher. I’m in a high place, yet remain shadowed by brooding mountains that further darken a black sky. The gale flattens a campfire in front of me, casting all warmth to the western horizon. A tent-like structure behind me flaps urgently; in danger of being swept into the darkness. The rough blanket around my shoulders offers little comfort.
I am Watcher of Myself. I peer into the darkness. Some distance below, on a grassy promontory, I see Myself begin the calling. Raising the staff, I invite the East. Then the South. Then the West.
I am Myself. Lifting the staff to the North, I see the faint glimmer of a campfire. I am not alone in the darkness. The Watcher is near. In this, I find both strength and solace. I turn again to the East.
The Watcher sees the staff rise, and, as I begin to chant the unbidden words streaming into my consciousness, the Watcher stands. What am I doing down there? I shouldn’t have both hands on the staff. I wish I could hear above this wind. Why is the opening of the Above taking so long?
Closing My eyes, I prepare to impregnate the Mother. Only the Watcher may witness.
As I thrust the staff into the Earth, a bolt of lightning strikes the antlered head, and, through the staff, enters the Mother. In a blinding moment, first staff, then Self, turn to ash and are torn Westward by the howling gale…
Watcher stands, agape; wondering: how can he explain this to his sundered Self?