A Sacrosanct Heart. By Keil Cas.

A Sacrosanct Heart.

Before it was carved, he stood naked by himself. 
Filled with smoke of hot ash covered stones and ancient grinds, a goat skin womb of revelation housed him for 3 long days. We watched. His shoulders rubbed against the enclosure and often he would drop, cooking his knees and shins. The skin from his face wore out and rose red from his attempt to stand, face pressed to the sides. With absent limbs one adapts with what he has. Hungry in the eve of the first day a sweating foot clamps the ration of meat raising it to his nose to absorb the aroma and swallowing it. Hot Fat drips through his lips and toes. A long white tongue cleans what remains before resetting his stance.
The visions resume. 
Two young hunters squat in moonlight before a small clay finished mound of straw and mud. Steam and smoke billow from it into the open air. The scent has changed to a pungent thickness in the dawning of the second moon over which has passed the wings of an owl. It comes to sit upon the branch of a willow with ninja aesthetics and turns its eyes toward the two who remain still in observance of the ominous apparition beneath the night sky. A far and distant wolf cry is heard, a sonorous echo cutting through the quietude. 
Precisely it penetrates. A fissure of venom causes deteriorating paralyses of tissue. The cells dry black and shrink frozen. Small icicles form in clusters weeping purple fluid from microscopic hair follicles. They appear as transparent blades of grass in a blue field coated by gliding drops of violet which rise against cool lunar effulgence and into the sky’s abyss. Chin raised, a woman stares vertical and direct into the expanse above her, body taut and bleeding from breasts and fingernails scored deep into her flesh the ancient markings of lost languages. Her feet are dry, they flake a white pigment from red and open crevasses in the skin. It builds incrementally falling upon the beasts she firmly stands upon. Toe nails abnormally curved long and inward like talons clinching the shoulder muscles of a dark eyed bear. Its crimson tongue slides against its inner paw, black and aged as leather. Blinking to the beholders attention lowering its front feet, a sombre countenance turns to a snarling ivory grin. A low rumble emerges from the beast then expels forcefully through his open throat, snout wide and pushing forward to bark thunder and instead retches out absolute silence. All vibration is muted. It too motions an equable squat firm upon the shoulders of an elder tiger white and enormous. Its musculature inflates swollen and tense with energy ready to crush planets. Eyes yellow and wide are the windows to the infection contaminating its heart with fierce insanity of hunger insatiable. Obliteration is instinct. Habitat is oblivion. Canon blasts of scorn lead its thumping heart Flared and intense, a pulsating star fed by bitter chaos in which a fetus floats motionless. Orange aura crowns the organism which floats in the pink succus of an orbed placenta wrapped in three serpents. 
Outside, the hunters get to their feet. Groaning discomfort emerges through smoke from the hut vent which alerts their curiosity. The Seer begins to stress his neurons in the sights and visions he attempts to decode and of which we present to him in this altered state. The minions of fear who move among the shadows approach nigh in hopes to execute their cruel intentions against the tribe. 
We, the Ancestors, smile upon the courage of this limbless one, our dear Seer.
The hunter attempts to ascend the mound yet falls in cramp before a foot is placed. Clutching his leg in agony he is dragged away by his acquaintance that recognizes the plight of the inconvenient spasm. Wide eyed with fear they carry one another into the bushes in haste while taking quick looks over their shoulders at the smoking mound acutely aware of distance.
Looking to the sky through the smoke hole in a starry vision he sees not the sky that is before him. In a separate cosmos where his mind dwells the eyes move beyond the eyelids to reflect his navigation and lack of mortal connection. 
A yellow mist clears to reveal the three serpents, each one a shade of green with red tipped scales. The placenta pulsates at their spherical movement tightly gripped and slithering over its soft surface of varnished appearance. They loosen a stream layer of clear lubricating ooze with each rotation of the globular vessel and one by one repeatedly regurgitating convulsive bile into the umbilical funnel. As it is fed the fetus grows into a child. The orbs transparency fogs to a density which causes the serpents to twist and split apart at the pressure of the inflating orb. Vertebrae cracks and separates allowing innards to spill forth which melt and deform the orb like acid eating the stomach of a beast. It purges the contents, child and all, into the sub temperatures of space. Solar flares interrupt the display and cook a line across the frozen face of the child. Blue Ice iris' melt away the eyelids as 13 black stripes burn across the forehead from the bridge of its nose. 
The third moon drops from the horizon as the Seer falls against the hot stones, with a shriek he stumbles, the visions stop and in awe of what is witnessed …takes a moment to breath.
He scrubs the crown of his head where it itches against the soft fur hide of his enclosure and begins to tear it down with his teeth. Passage to the field is gained in more tears than sweat. An emaciated and moist body falls sluggish to the grass.
Finally the cool air of morning greets his smokey lungs and he ingests the purity of the dew. While he lays there a nourished fulfillment calms him. 
The owl calls out thrice. It spots movement below and disappears distracted.
An awakened groan slips out. His nudity in the morning sun reddens painfully. In this he stumbles home on a path through the thick bush to a mound of mud similar to that which he has left behind but ten times the size. It hides among an expansive thicket out of view from anyone travelling the airways or by road. Inside the bearskin door he finds solace among his many collections of wood burrs and half-finished trinkets of which are all made from local woods he has collected. The Viga rafters join to meet overhead in a circular star of cross lapped supports bearing testament to the limbless carpenter’s expert craftsmanship. They form a sky hole at the centre beneath which a pile of coals and ash have burned away in the fire pit. “Aaaaah…” he sighs. “…Home, sweet home!” he sparks the fire with a swift kick of the flint and rears his toes to hook the kettle in place to boil. An elder flower tea is what he needs right now. Into the pot the flowers are parried with ballet etiquette then rolling into the ice cold water of the bathing trough to meditate over the visions that have inspired him. 
Sinking into a deep sleep he leaves his body behind and begins to walk the corridors of crystal. 
A voice beckons him deeper through the halls. Smoothed and reflective barrel vault ceilings echo his bare footed steps over and over again building a mirage of pattering. Upon entering a spherical room the sounds vibrate and connect to single harmonic invoking the form of a white pole before him. Intrigued he watches the display play out. A plane of grassland stretches out and small oval mounds like beetles erect a presence across it. People appear in miniature as if hunting and going about daily tasks. Some sing and dance near fire. Smaller beings play. There are horses and cows and groups of people in harvest. A simple way of life it seems in representation and in a moment of surprise they all turn to look at the seer. He steps back from the room, firstly looking behind him then back at the minute crowd that are all looking his way. And then, like a tsunami of fire a black and hungry cloud washes over the village and decimates it flat. There is nothing left but the white pole that stands central around which a low dark fog is settled. Taking a weary step toward it for closer examination the pole then emanates an expanding dome of light that grows and forces away the remnants of the dark tide. Within its expansion the images of people are there again in their toils as if no evidence or memory of the event prior even occurred. The pole begins to take a form of intertwining fauna that increases the domes light density and span over the people and now seems as a protective casing against the dark tide that ravages the scene once again. It crashes against the dome like a fist against glass bouncing back and crashing again and then a third time. It withers to milk that solidifies, disintegrates and vanishes. The people unscathed and content do not seem to notice. They are oblivious to the umbra that attempted murder upon them. Again they stop what they’re doing and look toward the Seer.
With a splash awakening to the chattering of an alloy lid he sits up out of the bath and vaults to the floor wet and cold to sit next to the now bubbling kettle to find warmth. Shivering and confused he tries to remember the forms he saw intertwined through the pole during the dream. These are important he notes while attempting to dry. There is obviously a force of evil seeking to destroy his people, he thinks, and this he cannot allow. The visions have revealed the nature of the force that will attack and with correct intervention he may deflect it. 
Living on the outskirts of tribal lands, the Seer was revered and feared for his gifts. He healed many who suffered the white plagues that found their place among them but in temper he has cursed those who've angered him. A great love for the ways of old and the traditions set by his ancestors were his discipline. The folly of men with small minds would often test his patience though. One who stole from his house soon the lost the sensation of his tongue and in days that followed would make noises resembling speech of a drain pipe. 
We, the watchers, did frown much upon the disdain he would smite some with yet judgement was not ours to place. Our duties were only to guide him. So in the night to come we revisit the sacred pole upon his mind and secure a hope that his people will survive the shadows that come hastily.
Sacred plants began to sing in colorful harmonies. They had mouths to speak and smile. Many of which were local to the tribe yet more intense was the vibrancy. Perfection describes the flora and to full potential they would grow. In moments the skies rolled by without ceasing and animated the living. 
Animals glide through the lands where carpets of grass swayed thickly and reached for the heavens like crowds in prayer. Trees walked mighty their heads full of hair and the flying creatures darted in and out gently swooping through green abundance. 
The Eagle came to sit upon the mountain. The sun hallowed its crown. Outstretched across the clouds its wings moved with freedom. The ancient Hart took its place beneath the great bird; its antlers were heavy and long and spiraled through aeons. Branches of stability and wisdom the Eagle then perched upon them. The mountain shakes, its boulders crumble and fall at each step of the approaching colossus. Two undulant horns pierce the atmosphere long and sharp to the tip. They lead a snout respiring steam at each thunderous breath along which a dark eye looking forward into the ethereal future. A Bull with a cranium of skeletal diamond lifts a godlike hoof and launches atomic fire into its step leveling the mountain to ashes. Its horns now low gauging ravines in the land and lifting a billowed blow out of ice flames its hind cropped and stomps again braced and angered. Above which the other mighty beasts mount as a fortification of Titans.
The sky tears apart to reveal space beyond and stars begin to fall against invisible shields. They explode with glowing and fiery particulates, an umbrella supernova above the Lords.
With a crash the ancient cedar hits the forest floor in slow motion. So too does the axe harness he unclips from his waist, hips aching from the labor of swinging. A similar harness is used to carve the thing. Four large steeds carry the prize to the shelter where it is set to work. Around his waist cling straps of leather and a long thick and dark chisel protrudes from his pelvis as he climbs to mount the great timber and begins in thrusts of passion to reveal the shapes within it. Knees pointing wide apart and outward the base of his feet grip the trunk with enough elevation to pivot his waist. His legs muscles tense with strain pressing the steel shaft through soft and subtle layers of fiber. Immediate arousal encourages the labor of love. His soul injected deep within the sanctity of creation. Days pass until the pole trunk transforms into Totem. Among the tribe rumors gain momentum of fear and excitement until the pole is erected in the communal circle. 
All eyes are fixed. All mouths are silenced. All work ceases and people gather in awe. The figure of a man stands beside his masterpiece with hair long and white from head and face. Finally as the progression is settled he begins to speak and hesitates. 
Looking up to the sky clears his throat and addresses the people before him. 
“The voices of our ancestors have spoken of an imminent threat to this tribe. And I have seen the devastation that will befall you all. Many of you have turned from your teachings because you covet that which our homeland cannot provide. Yet, you are mistaken in your desire, for we have been here for many times upon time and still we are here. And for this folly the danger approaches to test you. Be warned! I care little for those of you who mock me behind walls. You contaminate what little purity we have left. I despise the ones who walk among us with forked tongue and heavy wanting. But trust in your elder before you. It is not I who need wish for your well being. I stand here with this gift divine and true. Gather here with me. Bring your fire. Bring your children. By this Totem you will find protection. It is a gift from your ancestors which I have carved out”
A moment of silence ensues beyond his closing words. His lips pressed together he takes a deep breath and then eases his stance. 
A woman begins to giggle. So then her child does too. A young man mutters and more laughter breaks out. Men and woman both buckle and chant ecstatically. A piece of corn is thrown to which the limbless freak ducks. Disrespectfully they hurl other items with ill repute. As he dodges and shifts in safety a blow is taken to the neck with a
putrid splatter. Several others hit to the body surrendering pride to his pain. Before long the amusement fades and an old man sits low, Conquered and weary. The great circle is silent. 
In the trees two large Yellow eyes blink. There is a bustle in the bushes below but this time the owl decides to stay. Over head the moon is yellow. Its glow is tired and dull. A long dark cloud slowly creeps through the air and smothers the stars. An icy breeze whispers to the trees to avert their gaze. The owl pretends not to notice.
A muddling cluster falls from the cheek of the drooping man. 
Looking around a shadow catches his attention. It seems to smile at him and vanish then reappears in another spot. 
It peers out from its hiding place then vanishes again. 
A crack of a whip echoes through the skies and a black rain begins to fall lightly. 
Again he sees it slowly shifting among the darkness. 
It stops and smiles toward him. 
He hesitates.
Then after a thought,
He smiles back.
“Lords, help them”