I arrive in the arid plains in the twilight between sleep and non-sleep where I am accompanied at times by a young boy whose hair matches the sand. We walk hand-in-hand to the House. There we are greeted by the Magus who hangs in perpetuity in reverse. He communicates through spectral links that manifest through the passing of his wand, a large ornate staff with three horizontal transversals. Our language is non-verbal, maybe even pre-verbal. At times, the boy, the Magus, and myself link arms to form a seal. We arrive at our connections by way of a cosmic intuition. Translating the Magus’ transmissions is an impossible task. However, what is obvious is this. He plagues me with a single spell, a curse. “You are an unwavering arrow. Your path may bend or twist, but in the name of an eternal melancholy your destination remains: Martyrdom.”
Not a religious martyrdom nor even a spiritual one.