The Fractured Flowing Sea
Silently, unseen, They come ashore in various places, there from Their restful lair beneath such offshore sea as hides Them. Come ashore, to especially seek out the young, the vulnerable, whom they entice to suicide, to murder, and to death, and whom they sometimes steal, alive, and breathing, for it is the acausal energy, the very animator of mortal human life, that They, these shapeshifters, need, acquire, at the very moment of human dying when such humans give up such mortal limited causal lives as makes and marks them as but temporary mundane vessels for that acausal energy that is the essence of Their very Cosmos.
Thus did some few of Them for well over a year set forth across the Bristol Channel to come ashore near Ogmore-by-Sea and thus did They entice with Their wiles, Their chants, Their sexual shapeshifting enchantments many young people, male and female, with visions of the real eternal life in the acausal world to come where all would be pleasure and joy and freedom from illness, death, and sadness. Thus did those humans, young and mostly inexperienced and sad with the problems of their lives and of the world, willingly and often almost with gladness give up their own mortal living. And thus were these acausal shapeshifters – that strange and alien race of living-acausal-beings – there at the moment of such human mortal death, stealing, snatching, containing, or imbibing, draining, the acausal life-energy that left those young and human ones in that the last moment of such mortal human causal life as made, and as marked them as, human.
For They – these visiting acausal-beings of unformed chaotic darkness – lurked not in the shadows of our world but in those hidden angles, that nexion, between where our three causal spatial dimensions met and meets our one linear dimension of a so slow and so dreary causal Time. Thus can and thus did They in one instantaneous moment of causal Time reach forth to snatch their prey, unseen, unheard, unsmelt and unfelt, by humans: by all but those few of we, the vessels, who possess that special, peculiar, that magickal, empathy: that esoteric-life which takes our mortal, human, being out away from a safe, tame, mundane and human existence; out away from the conventions of the causal into the very living-being of that limitless eternal acausal Cosmos, unseen, untouched, unvisited, unknown, except to they those few who willed or unwilled – in dreams or through a Dark and Sinister Magick – ventured forth or explored there and who never returned quite the same; if they, those venturesome vessels, ventured to return, at all.
Silent, unseen, Their own Earth-bound place of unwilling dreary rest was beneath the sea near the shore of that westward English town whose long curving sandy beaches – on sunny and not so sunny days – would often be alive and festered with living happy humans. And it was there to their lair where They these shapeshifters returned replete with victims dragged living, dead, or dying.
Thus it was by that shore where she, the strongest most determined of Her kind, was waiting – DeepSpace-dark and almost transparent – as the clear night sky shed light from a waning moon in May. Waiting, there, as the incoming tide covered those mud flats beyond that curving sandy beach and where the sea, flowing, fractured such moonlight as seeped down seaward down and briefly to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below that English tidal shore.
She: waiting, for her much needed food. Waiting, for some human unsuspecting – the younger the better for thus full, replete, with such acausal energies as gave to them those humans such causal life as ambled them along their causal-spaces. She; waiting – for someone unsuspecting to walk alone along that moonlit shore when she would and so swiftly pounce to drag her prey away; back, down, under that sandy-muddied water to where Their lair existed, waited, and where she would feed until satisfied replenished renewed replete, and sated; able thus to change, to live, to shapeshift again in those causal Spaces that had somehow trapped her, and her travelling curious if predatory shapeshifting kind.
And there would be no evidence for meddling, curious, human vessels to find. For the body, the life, of the prey would be gone, leaving no trace, as the sea would leave no trace with its flowing soundful tidal tideful ebbing. No trace, of what few marks she and her kind might have made as one more of those the half-struggling because caught was dragged down to drown where the shallow inshore sea met the deeper sea of that unseen because shapeshifted lair.
No, no evidence; no dismembered corpse to float – bloated and bitten – back at high tide. No bones, brains or flesh. Nothing ever to be returned, leaving perhaps perchance only one more disappearance, unnoticed, or perhaps always unexplained. No, there would be no evidence for those human vessels to find: for she and They would devour or use them all: every ounce of human brain, muscle, organ, flesh; every drop of plasma, fluid, blood; every inch of marrow, sinew, bone. Needed, required, as They needed the very acausal life-force that seeped out from such vessels as and while they, those humans, cried, spluttered, gurgled, and died: food, energy, to maintain such forms as formed Them, there as They schemed, plotted, lived – and dreamed as They dreamed – of how to find a way back to the home that was Their home: there, where the acausal dimensions kept them replete with Life and ageless amid that Time that was Their time.
The nearby town, the sandy shore, the coast, even the sea, was not, of course, Their choice. But it would do – for now, as it had done, for nearly a decade after They, these travellers, had somehow in some way become sealed, trapped. Thus had they lived, but only less than half-alive, there on that water margin that somehow marked one meeting of such so different worlds; there, beneath the water where the lowest of low tides gave way Westwards to deeper sea as the mud-flats at its edge gave way, East, to that curving sandy beach, play-thing for many of that modern causal species, Homo Hubris.
Once, perhaps two hundred years or more ago, the town itself might have had much to commend it: a small fishing village of mostly small cottages built from locally quarried stone, rising above one rocky and one sandy cove. And even when the railways brought prosperity and building – with houses spreading steadily down and beachward from the rocky northern sea-front beneath that Iron Age fortified hill – there was a Victorian attractiveness, of sorts, two Piers, and a visiting still discerning almost always impeccably dressed clientèle.
But now: now as the tide of causal Time had marked and passed a new century, the town, easily accessible by hubrismobile from both motorway and road, had grown eastward and southwards to attract an entirely different cast of human vessels. Commuters, to work in the nearby larger towns and that city to the North; and young, mostly playful, things who could be found in the early evening or the night, often in large gaggling groups, thronging to and from the many Bars, Clubs, foodful places, and those dealers in drugs, which had grown, arrived, to serve then need them. And come the light of morning, some such young playful thing might be found beach-or-bench-a-sleeping – while jabbering querrelesome Gulls jabbered and jibbered – there where the mile-long promenade rose above that sandy shore. Humans, vessels, lost but found: surrounded, perhaps, as such young mortal causal beings often were, by discarded bottles, hypodermic needles, or squashed empty cans of beer. No wonder, then, that fights, and stabbings, became such a regular occurrence, so that as Dusk descended or another wearisome working day ended, regular Police patrols, a pair on foot, or cased within cars, egressed forth: pride in a stabproof vest; egressed, much as throbbing music seeping unslyly out from buildings when freshly falling night came to only half-cloak them, those vessels, for Homo Hubris, clubbing, favoured bright street-light.
But it was not only warmful night of Spring, Summer or Autumnal seasons that brought and caught them. For even the typical bleak dreary windy rainy Winter did not deter as it settled down there upon that modern haven made for Homo Hubris.
Synchronicity, or not, it was one such bleak dreary English Winter day that brought Elena and her two friendful-lovers to the town. For there had been a dream, one night, to both startle and awake her while her two lovers slept. A dream of such a mysterious, such a sensual, such a voluptuous woman as made her – there on that sandy moon-hewn beach – strain to reach out to touch and kiss her. Then she was running, after her, down toward where the flowing sea fractured such moonlight as seeped down briefly to each wave to make flashes, pulses, of almost incandescent iridescent beauty on and just below where that night of the highest of high tides only a small strip of sand was left exposed. Then she was in the water, kissing this not-quite-human woman of such beautiful beauty. Kissing, kissing, touching, fondling, entered and being entered, naked body to not-quite-human-body, fingers lips hand to moist cleft: until her lungs, her whole body, her very being, became filled with life – a stellar supra-personal un-dimensional life – and they two became, were becoming, one, there, where she became so briefly joyfully transported to that new beauteous formless living that awaits. But it was then and there as joy overcame her that the strange not-quite-human but warmful soft woman left, came out, from within around her, and a deeping sadness arrived to enter her – an uneerie, wordless, crying shrieking sadness that in its inner silence seeped in then out from her own new now strangely watery flowing fracturing body to become a part of her own weightful human feelings. A sadness so bleak – desperate – that she cried, and cried, and could not cease her crying until suddenly she awoke to lie rigid, unmoving, lest the love, the sensation, the beauty, the life, of that woman left her. And it was there as the sweat of the dream dried in the cooling breeze from her bedroom window that she sensed, knew, felt, touched and tasted the wordless straining silent longing of her new if strangeful lover: that longing to return to that wyrdful haunting acausal beauty that was her – now their – home: light-less, timeless, space-less, endless, and totally bereft of any and all denseful causal form.
Thus, and slowly, very slowly, she gently awoke the two that, with her, formed the empath that they were, so that they – her male and her female lover – would, without a need for words, see, smell, touch, feel and be what she had seen, smelt, touched, felt and been in those so fleeting moments of her just past dreaming and joyful joining. And afterwards, as they lay supine, entwined, and almost exhausted, each one of those three knew exactly what it was that they must do.
120 Year of Fayen