Healing Room

 
Music
I awake and remember.
The dangerous shadows that clouded the full moon.
The crystal, the blood, and the light.

My eyes are slow to open, and I wonder what world I’ll see.

In a moment I adjust to the light.
And find myself still surrounded with the new world and its dream.

Slowly, I sit up.

I’m in a red, egg-shaped room, with windows that rise from floor to ceiling.
A beautiful dark wood surrounds the windows on four sides, forming a frame a few inches wide.

The curved windows face the deck.
And the small shadows tell me that the sun is nearly overhead.

The room is filled with light.
Warm and gentle.

The bed echoes the tower, with its own pillar and platform.
I sit on a thick pad that rests on the dark silver platform.

My hand reaches over the pad to touch the bright metal.
The metal greets me with both cold and warmth, and my hand tingles with the touch.

I look away from the windows toward the oval inner doorway.
It’s seven feet tall, and five feet across at its widest point.

A sparkling energy field takes the place of a door.
It blocks the way, and leaves me hidden within.

A three foot wide path of stone splits the floor and the room in two.
The stone is dark red, and perfectly smooth.
The path begins at the oval, and continues to the windows at the far end of the egg.

The rest of the floor is stone, with veins of silver metal that pass through the stone in intricate patterns.

The ceiling is red crystal, and full of light.
Soft instrumental music passes through the crystal.

I hear and feel the music, with its strong Celtic flavor.
The whole house and everyone in it is filled with the sound.

I float on the music until the sweet smell of flowers takes hold of me.
I follow the smell to flowering vines that cling tightly to the smooth ceramic walls.
The vines are dark red, and cover the top third of the walls, but leave the windows and ceiling untouched.

I take a few deep breaths, and let the light and music and sweet smells circle through me.
Then I continue to scan the room.

Some of Yagrin’s memories come to me.
Flashing through me at odd moments like bolts of lightning.

I look around at a set of small square tables, each one paired with a single chair.
And I see myself sitting there and focusing on a spinning blue cube that hovers in the air above the table.
But I can’t remember why.

Across the room, there’s a circular rug, and large cushions.
Another flash, and I’m there with others in the midst of a meditation.

I am connected with the others.
I feel all our bodies sitting on the cushions.
And some kind of energy passing through us all.

I remember opening a trap door in the floor.
And seeing a storehouse of herbs and crystals.
Protected from the strong energy and light that fills the room.

This room is for healing.

A year ago, I was here.
A group of men and women appeared suddenly, carrying a badly hurt child.

My eyes find the spot.
A ten-foot wide circle of silver metal with a red stone triangle at its center.

We call it the transport platform.
It moves healers, and those with an urgent need for healing, to this place.

 
Travelers and Old Friends
My head turns to follow the sound of footsteps.

“How do you feel?” asks Shazira, as she passes through the opening, and into the room.
The opening is clear for a few seconds, until she touches something on the wall, and the sparkling cover returns.

I look at my chest beneath the robe and see no wound, no scab, no scar.
“I’m a little weak still,” I tell her.
“But I feel good”.”

“Eat this,” she says as she hands me something dry and stiff.
“Fish,” she adds.

I chew the dried fish slowly. It’s surprisingly good.

“What happened?” I ask.

She sighs.

“This place is a Watchtower,” she tells me.
“It absorbs light from the sun during the day.”
“At night it fills the sky above the islands and the city with light. ”

“The killers are strange creatures called Krale, and they flee from this light.”
“And the tower keeps us safe.”

“But every six weeks, the moon is full, and its light weakens the watchtower.”
“Then the Krale come to attack the city.”

“You are Felerin, a master energy weaver.”
“I am a flow master.”
“Together, we dissolve an ancient crystal, and fill the sky with a heavy light that lingers the whole night.”

She gives me a strange look, a mix of affection and fear.
“You came here as a traveler, at the full moon.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t know what to do,” I tell her.
“I couldn’t make the light.”

“In the end, the light came,” she answers quietly.

“What happened to Yagrin when I came?”

“Travelers come here from other worlds and slip into a body.”
“They push out the spirit of the body they take.”

“The travelers stay for a moment, a week, or a year.”
“Then they are gone, and the spirit returns.”

She is calm on the surface, but inside her feelings are churning.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“You’re still weak,” she says.
“We’ll speak later.”

“No,” I answer.
“Tell me all of it.”

She looks at me for a few seconds before she speaks, struggling to get the words out.
“Sometimes,” she says, “a traveler can’t or won’t go back to his own body.”

“You can’t go back.”
“And Yagrin will never return.”

“No,” I protest, horrified.
“I wanted to touch another world.”

“I never wanted to stay.”
“Or kill anyone.”

“I wanted to kill you,” she says, “when I first realized you were a traveler.”
“If I could have killed your spirit, and brought back my Yagrin, I would have done it.”

“But then something moved within me, and I recognized you.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell her.

She holds a mirror to my face.
My heart beats hard and fast when I see that this body carries my own face.

“Your Yagrin looks just like me,” I tell her.
“How did you know?”

“You have a different personality.”
“And who knows what sort of a strange world you come from.”
“But you’re still him.”

“It’s difficult to understand, and it’s rare, but some travelers belong here.”
“They are twins with the one whose body they take.”
“And their spirits melt together.”

“It’s as though this world was always waiting for you to come.”

“You’re wrong,” I tell her, my strength fading.
“I have to go now,” I tell her, “and let Yagrin return.”

I’m too dizzy to stand, but still I struggle to swing my legs over the edge of the bed.
She pushes me back into the bed.

“This isn’t my world,” I protest.
“I came here in a dream.”

“And to me it’s still just a dream, a story, a game!”
“To taste for a moment, to learn, and then leave.”

She stands tall above me, her face filled with certainty.
She raises a fist, as if to strike me.

“A game?” she shouts.
“We are real.”
“And your life here is real.”

“Some travelers can go back, but not you.”
“You will never leave this place,” she says, turning away.
“And the old Yagrin will never return.”

She wipes away the tears, and faces me.
“You are Yagrin, now.”

“Shazira,” I ask, “how can you be so sure?”

“We are bonded for life,” she answers.
“A bond is more than a ceremony or a promise.”

“It’s a window into the bondmate’s spirit.”
“Your energy and mine are tied together.”

“Let your mind go quiet and you can feel what I feel.”
“Sometimes see what I see.”
“And know the subtle energies that are me, hidden behind the body, feelings, and thoughts.”

“I taste your spirit, Yagrin, as easily as I feel my own heart.”
“It’s different, and yet still the same.”

“You don’t remember your life here, but you and Yagrin are one spirit.”
“There are rare spirits such as you, with many homes, and many lives in many worlds.”

I listen to the silence, and I feel her emotions.
And I feel the energy moving through her.

“Are there other spirits here like me?” I ask at last.

“No one has met such a spirit before.”
“But the ancient writings speak of the Embu.”

“Tell me about these spirits, Shazira.”

“The writings say that you are wild and beautiful and dangerous.”
“That you have forgotten your power, and spend your days pretending to be like the rest of us.”
“That you can destroy the world or save it.”

“Do you believe it?”

“Sometimes I feel that I should kill you for sending my Yagrin away, and disrupting my life.”
“But then I touch your spirit, and I know that he is still here.”

“We call our planet Siksa,” she adds. “after the lightning storms that are common here.”
“And whether you remember it or not, this is your home.”

 
Cinnamon
“What happened the other night?” I ask her softly.

“The crystal almost killed you,” she adds, growing upset.

“When I activate the crystal, you are supposed to use the crystal to gather energy from the web, and build the light.”
“On that night, I activated it, but you didn’t know what to do.”

“You fed your own energy to the crystal to build the light and protect the city.”
“You tore holes in your pattern body (energy body).”

“The healers never saw an injury like this.”
“It took two days to heal you.”
“Then, you slept for two more days.”

“I thought you were dead.”
“I thought I’d killed you,” she says at last lowering her head.
I feel her warm tears running freely on my skin as she sits with me, and comes into my arms.

I taste the tears.
Salt and cinnamon.

I hold her hands until the tears stop.

I see blood on my hand when I let go.
Her blood.

“Your hand is bleeding,” I tell her.

“It’s nothing,” she says.
“I was preparing food for you, and I cut my hand.”

I look at her hands, and see a large, deep cut that is still bleeding.

“Don’t worry,” she says, seeing my look of concern.
“I’ll visit a healer, and the cut will be gone.”

I take her hands again between mine, and squeeze.

“You’re hurting me,” she cries, and pulls her hand away.
My hands are glowing red, and a red mist drifts off her fingertips.

“What did you do?” she asks.

“I don’t know.”

She shows me her hand.
The cut is gone.

 
Sparks
“You healed me,” she says.
“Yagrin had no talent for healing.”

“Where did it come from?” I ask.

“People come to the Watchtower,” she says, “to discover their talents.”
“The first time that someone walks into each room, the strength of the room touches them.”

“If there is a spark of healing or weaving or music within them, the Watchtower makes a flame from it, and gives them a glimpse into their future.”

“You are Yagrin, and yet you are new.”
“The healing room gave you its strength, and showed you your future.”

We sit and talk.

I am at home when I speak with her.
And our feelings dance together when we sit in silence.

After a few minutes, she gets up.
“You need to eat a real meal,” she says, and leaves the room.

Soon she returns, and serves me spicy fish and fruit juice.
She smiles when she sees me eating and enjoying the food.

“I can only reach a few of Yagrin’s memories,” I tell her.
“How will I take his place and guard the watchtower?”

“When you are fully recovered, we will find teachers for you.”
“Yagrin had a great talent for energy weaving.”

“The talent still lives in you.”
“You flew by instinct the first night you came here.”

“I’ll disappoint you, Shazira.”
“Yagrin is the person that I’ve always wanted to be.”
“A guardian, a warrior in a world of light.”

“But I’m not him.”
“I can’t take his place.”

“In my own world, I’m no hero.”
“I’m afraid of my strength, and afraid to do what I know I must do”

“I’ve been waiting my whole life to find another me, and another world.”
“Here’s the world, but I’m still the same.”

“You think that this life is perfect?” she asks.
“And that Yagrin is some kind of hero?”

“Yagrin is arrogant, and acts without thinking.”

“He’s brilliant, and he wants the world to know it.”
“Always trying to fix everything and everyone.”

“He can’t handle his own feelings.”
“When he’s happy, his love for me is so strong that it scares him.”
“And when we argue, he wants me to disappear.”

I frown, feeling the burden of my own weakness, and Yagrin’s.

Shazira smiles and touches my chest.
“Don’t worry,” she says.
“Your heart is clear and strong.”
“Free that strength, and you’ll find your way.”

She pauses.
“I believe that you’ve come here because we need you.”
“But I don’t know what the need is, or who you’ll become.”

“We all have a deep intelligence.”
“Let it speak to you.”

“Listen to the deep self that is older than the sky.”
“Listen to the world as it dances around you, and challenges you.”

“Face the best and the worst in the old Yagrin.”
“And the best and the worst in your old self.”

“Go hunting for that wild powerful self that’s been hiding.”
“Let yourself play and heal and be suprised.”

 
Blessing
“Let’s bind the blessings,” she says, as we finish eating.
“It will break you out of your dark mood.”

It should feel strange when she calls me by his name.
But it resonates with something deep within me.
I find it comforting.

“What does it mean to bind the blessings?” I ask her.

“It’s the way that we give thanks for the wonders of life that sustain us and help us grow.”
She takes both my hands.

Close your eyes.
Hear my words and follow along.
Feel the motion of the seas where the fish swim and live.
The water is cold and pure, and the waves crash tall and strong above, while deep beneath nothing has changed.

See the trees where the fruit grows, and the wide fields where the herbs grow.
Listen to the wind. See the night, and feel the stillness.
See the plants thirst for the light rains and bend under the heavy rains that feed the world.
Hear the rain as it dances on the plants.

“Remember, Yagrin, when you flew along the energy web, on the night that you first came here?”

“Yes.”

“What did the web look like to you?”

“I saw and felt it vibrating everywhere around me, a matrix of points filling all of space, bright and full of a soft music.”

“When you think of the rain,” she asks, “do you see the points of energy in the midst of the rain?”

“No.”
“I have to move my focus away from the rain to see the points of energy.”
“I can’t see both at once.”"

“Try this,” she suggests.

See and feel the web, and let the world float upon it like a clear crystal.
Let the oceans and their life appear and disappear before you.
Then let the land and the trees and other growing things appear and disappear the same way.

See the rains come and go.
Let the web be the background, but let all the multiplicity of life appear in its beauty.
Don’t hold onto the image of life. Let it gently come and go.

This is the binding of blessing.

For some, it is only words.
For others, the words are bound to the web of energy that supports all life.
The words are life.