The Lovers, the Looking, or the Lost

The drums are heavy, beating the echoing sky. The air is still. The earth is quiet. The sun bleeds into ever darkening shadows. In the growing dark, the drums seem louder. They assault the only sense you have left.

When all is painted truly black, you smile.

A girl, only seven years old, was chosen this year and she does her duty well. She strikes a match and holds it to a gasoline soaked torch. It goes up in flames, illuminating her dark eyes. She uses her torch to light another torch, which a boy standing next to her is holding. Thus the light spreads among the gathered people. The small flames hardly flicker; there is no breeze to speak of.

When all torches have been lit, a man steps forward to address the crowd.

“Citizens, will you come with me? Las Hypnas have come to San Rosa once again.”

The cries rumble as the group runs down the thoroughfare, torches in hand.

“Las Hypnas have come!”

To tell the truth would have made you an incredibly disfavored person here in San Rosa. To point out the how pagan the celebration of the self-proclaimed handmaidens of Hypnos, god of sleep and dreams, son of the Night. Or to call attention to the willingness of the people to let go of manners, inhibitions, and reality for just one night. That is truth. [But is it not also truth to say that you were out there with them?]

Let them have their night of playing with the witches. Call it a festival, a holiday. Call it rest to weary souls.

You run with them to that landscape of revelry, and you find yourself doubting none of it. Freedom makes any coward brave. Wonder makes any thinker a foolish child. [A happy child.]

Las Hypnas have set up tents of all sizes that stretch over a barren field. Dreams will grow here tonight. They are the most miraculous of colors never seen. They dazzle the eye and almost seem to provide their own light. They are stark against that blackened sky.

People pool in gaps between tents. No one sees or hears any sign of the famed witches, but in faith they know that they are here.

But one child [the same child that lit that first torch, as it so happens] decides that tonight she will not abide to wait and reaches outward. When fingers brush against silken cloth, she waits for a reaction to her boldness. None is forthcoming so she becomes bolder still. Cloth pulled aside leaves room for her to enter there and she is swallowed by hungry opulence.

The others take this as a sign to enter whichever tent has caught their fancy.

You examine the tent before you. Committing such a thing to memory is impossible and yet, still you try. Maybe Lady Luck smiles upon you, wisher of impossible on the night of the witches.

You enter waiting, longing, believing.

The air is hazy inside, as if it is full of smoke. The walls are the deepest blue and are covered in little lights that resemble stars. Looking closer you see constellations you recognize. [You reckon it is an exact replica of the sky outside.] A small round table squats in front of you. The table is plain; the wood looks old and is scarred from the years. Dents and scratches mar the table, but it is clearly loved. It has recently been polished with lemon scented oil. A crystal ball sits on the table, gleaming. The glass is completely clear. [A fortuneteller’s den this is, then.]

The ball rests on a map of the world. [Is it vaster than you remember?] You can not tell. The outside world seems so far away from here. Your finger gingerly touches the map. You trace a hard line between blue and green.

“A toucher, are you?”

You look up to see brilliant silver eyes looking back at you, amused.

“And how does the world treat the touchers?”

You smile and shrug. [How does the world treat all of us?]

La Hypna is beautiful yes, but that does not hold your attention. Only those ancient eyes, silver, purposeful, keen.

“Take a seat,” She tells you and you both do. She caresses her worn table, but keeps her eyes on you.

“Fancy yourself some knowledge of the unknown, wide beyond before you?”

“Yes,” You say simply.

La Hypna looks hard at your face.

“This won’t do at all,” She says in reference to the crystal ball. She sets it aside and sweeps her arm over the table, her wide sleeves dragging. Three cards are left in front of you when she moves her arm away.

The cards look weathered and a bit tattered but the painted faces remain stunningly beautiful. The first shows a man and a woman kissing. The second, a pair of bright blue eyes in perfect detail. The third and last shows a tear falling from a face toward a vast and unbroken lake.

La Hypna interrupts your study of the cards.

“In my life, I have only known humans to be in one of three stages, as represented by these cards. The Lovers, the Looking, and the Lost.

The Lovers are those in blessed contentment. They are those who can give and receive love in great and equal amounts.

The Looking are those in search of something or anything or sometimes nothing really at all. Whether they wish to find what they are looking for…

The Lost are those who find themselves apart and lonely. Sadness seeping from their souls. Needing light.”

You think on these groupings, pondering and awaiting the inevitable question. [The lovers, the looking, or the lost?]`

“Which are you?”

You have an answer.