'You and I go back far into the very beginning. I think it's too early for her to experience what you did when you were fourteen; she hasn't the same background. We've checked on her, she moved here to live recently – a lecturer at the University - but nowhere near the involvement we have. She will be the third generation in the faith if she continues.
'It's her choice; she pleaded to be initiated into the Circle, besides this is only the first of many trials, it's a long journey and there is no turning back. She is intelligent and a great deal tougher than some men we know. I didn't ask for this job remember, it's a make or break situation.'
'Prepare her mentally then, she deserves that at least.' Dick, my friend, was concerned for her welfare – I had been asked to accompany this girl, a minder would be a better description, for this part of her coming initiation to the Island Circles as it involved my great Aunt Mary. I couldn't refuse; one never does on these occasions not even if one dreads the experience - and I did.
I had agreed to meet her one Saturday morning to broach the subject of the next stage of her acceptance into the Circle. We met in a café and had coffee.

Before I had the opportunity to say anything to her she said, 'Why don't' you call me by my first name, it would be simpler. It's Mary.'
'Right then Mary, you must have guessed there was something afoot.'
'Not really, I thought you wanted to see me for myself, and not what I have sought to join. Don't' you ever relax?'
'Often, with a bottle of whisky.'
'I had half worked that out for myself. You are too young to drink the way you and your friend Dick do.'
'Will you come to meet my great Aunt Mary? It's hardly fair on you to be lumbered with me, but other members who would be more suitable are not available. If you agree we could go today, the worst that can happen to you is meeting my Aunt Mary.'
'That's a longest speech I have heard you make. Is your Aunt Mary that bad?'
'Worse, believe me.'
Aunt Mary met us at the farm gate.
'I knew you were coming' she said. Exchanging a few words of pleasantries, after the introduction, she led us both down through the field leading to the marsh which was part of our land. We came to the marsh' boundary. She perched herself on the top stone and invited us to join her. She looked at Mary and asked, 'Have you ever wondered why people, these days, have no experience of other dimensions that exist within our world? Dimensions which we the old religionist have knowledge of and that makes us so different to other people.'
She searched in her bag and took out a bottle, she said, 'In this bottle is one of our greatest blessings. Aided by this sacred powder we can travel with ease to both the past and the future, and more importantly communicate with our Gods.' She opened the bottle and spread a little of the powder on the back of Mary's hand and mine. 'Smell that and tell me what you see and feel?'

Mary was not prepared for what came next. Today even, many years later, she can remember the shock and fear she felt. The event is as vivid in her mind, she told me, as if it happened an hour ago. For the first time she realised that my Aunt Mary was very different to other women. She also realised why the locals kept their distance from the farm and their fear of her, which they often expressed, but never to her face. Mary told me later what she experienced that day.

'I felt transported on a journey - I know not where, nor to this day have I any idea whether it was the past or the future, real or imagined, yet to me it was real. I was amongst a large group of people standing and waiting silently on the edge of a marsh. I did not feel a stranger either, people smiled and spoke to me as if I was well known to them, and I in turn felt content amongst them as friends. It was a trial; the judge and his advisors had retired to consider the verdict. Two hours elapsed; those standing nearby thought this did not bode well for the accused. As the sun reached its highest, we hardly dared to breathe with anticipation. Suddenly the heavy silence was disturbed by a voice proclaiming the judges return.
The accused was brought forward; he stood bareheaded flanked by two elders. They turned to face the raised stone platform where the imposingly robed judge stood, and waited. The judge looking directly at the prisoner proclaimed.
'You have been found guilty, in that you betrayed the secrets of the Circle to those who are not of our faith. You know the penalty for betrayal as well as any member here, and there is no appeal. You are however entitled to the opportunity to escape the punishment decreed by our custom, in the trial of the Marsh. If you succeed in crossing and step on firm ground beyond the sacred boundary of our land, then you are free to depart and no man's hand shall be raised against you - but you will never be allowed to return amongst us, nor shall you benefit in any way from association with our people whilst on this Earth. Do you accept trial of the Marsh?' Trembling with fear he nodded and opted for the slim chance of escape. He shook; perspiration flowed down his face as he glared at the path he had chosen to take.

Turning, towards the assembled gathering the judge said, 'Should the condemned attempt to return to this side you are to strike him until he is dead. That is the sentence.' I nodded as did everyone else, and I wondered if it came to it whether I could deal him a mortal blow. In a way I felt sorry for him. We stood in a half circle around him as he stepped on the putrescent earth that was to shoulder his weight.
He paused and looked at the ground ahead, as if mentally assessing his chance of surviving without sinking into a dark wet suffocating grave. The luscious grass that covered the surface looked deceptively firm, hiding the grim secrets of that awesome place. The thought of a slow suffocating death gave spurt to his determination and aroused from within him a splenetic outburst of effort. Surprised and encouraged by his inner response, he placed his foot on a clump of reeds, carefully testing its hold on the surface before transferring his full weight on the precarious footing. It held, I heard him shout 'I must get out.' He grasped a small willow bush that against all odds, had managed to anchor itself in the sluggish quagmire. He looked around him desperately seeking another haven on which to move.
A lark rose shrilly from a reedy clump nearby tearing into the sky, wheeling and darting effortlessly in the heavens as if to remind him of his plight. It dived, perfectly attuned to its environment, and settled unconcerned on a distant bull-rush. Above a flight of crows wheeled while orientating their flight path towards a distant roost. Their raucous calls tore through the still air heightening the tension.
His hands trembled, his limbs were tired from the stress, and his determination waned as he felt his perspiration cold to his senses. He struggled against the feeling of defeat and muttered 'I must not give in.' He dragged himself from clump to clump and incredibly saw the distance between him and safety shorten. He rested for a few moments then seemingly elated, he screeched 'I can do it yet,' and moved cautiously towards his goal. He dared to look again and was surprised to find safety only feet away. It gave him hope. He reached towards a weight sustaining root in joyous anticipation of escape.
A cry of joy froze upon his lips, as his fingers sought the safety he desired. Suddenly the ground shook and heaved to the sound of a horse plangent in its stride as it neared. He screamed as the ground opened before him and from the dark bowels of the marsh emerged the mounted guardian of Caer Siddi resplendent in his divine mantle. His silver claw and shield raised high, as his hounds tore at the hapless body of the accused. I looked at the judge and I heard him say' The secrets forsworn by an obligor unto death, bound by covenant, freely given on the sacred stone, there is no escape.'
'I have never felt as frightened in my life as I felt at that moment.'
'Do you agree with the verdict and the punishment?' Aunt Mary asked, I looked around me I was back with you and your Aunt on the wall, I stared at the marsh. Did it happen I asked myself, was it all a dream? I still do not know unto this day whether I was there or not.
'Yes' I heard Mary say in answer to Aunt's question.
'Yes, he betrayed our people' Aunt Mary smiled and patted Mary's arm and said, 'Let's go home for tea; it's been an unusual day.' Turning to me she said 'Look after her, she is one of us.'
Praise indeed coming from her, at fourteen when I underwent the test the events that followed were quite different to what she and I experienced that day. This had been harrowing for her, I sympathised with her a little, and perhaps it was as Dick had suggested too early putting her through the ordeal.

I was quite proud of myself. The machine, which had stood idle for years in the garage, slowly rusting away, since my wife has decided it was too dangerous to continue using, now stood gleaming in front of me.

Well gleaming may have been a bit over the top, but it was certainly roadworthy again. The saddle was a bit worn, and I hadn’t been able to recapture the pristine finish I’d have liked on the wheel chrome, but it still looked good.

I was ready for my epic journey.

This would take me into territory I hadn’t been in for at least fifteen years. Ever since I had been able to afford a motorcycle and then a car I’d not had much use for bicycles.

My journey was a journey to fitness.

I had noticed that over the years since my retirement, I had visibly thickened at the waist, and now it was getting uncomfortable. I was not overloading my body with food, except for the odd biscuit or two, but my downfall was probably wine and beer. I made my own wine and loved drinking it, and I always had a couple of pints when I went out, which was at least three times a week.

The day dawned bright and sunny, it was a Wednesday, I remember, that I set off on my first attempt at weight loss. I was at a disadvantage right from the start. The road I lived on was a cul-de-sac, and I had to pedal uphill. I must have looked peculiar to any of the neighbours that happened to be peering from behind their lace curtains, my backside was already high in the air, and my face felt as if it was getting redder and redder with each push of the pedals.

I almost threw in the towel then, but having done thirty-mile yomps in my youth I was made of sterner stuff. I turned the corner at the top of the street, and found myself able to resume my seat as I was on level ground. The bike had creaked and groaned on the way up, and I wondered if it last longer than my resolve to achieve a svelte like figure again. Knowing me I thought it probably would.

Mr. Sampson was as usual cleaning one of his boss’s cars in front of his house, and I nodded as I rode past, trying to look nonchalant without success. My cheeks were still glowing from my exertions.

“Car broke down then?” He shouted to me, as I moved into the distance,

“Oh no,” I replied, wondering what tales he’d tell his mates in the pub later that evening. I was determined to push on, so let him think what he liked.

The next corner loomed, and this time I had a choice. A wonderful freewheel down a steep hill, or a short sharp pull up to the next bit of flat road. No contest, I knew that if I took the easy option I’d regret it when eventually I had to push the bike all the way back up. I often drove past determined young and not so young men pedalling up this hill, but no way would I get even a quarter of the way up it riding.

Old Mrs. Carey was the next to accost me. I remember fancying her forty years ago, but looking at her now I couldn’t remember why. She was a sweet old thing whose husband had crossed the great divide four years ago, but she was always on the lookout for some one to perform a small task for her. I knew I couldn’t just ride past her, I just hoped that she didn’t keep me talking for long. I had raised a sweat already and I didn’t want it drying on my skin in this windy weather.

No joy. I was expertly reeled in, and within a couple of minutes my bike was leaning on the wall of her house, halfway down the drive.

Her ‘fridge had stopped working, and water was beginning to drip from it. “I know you’ll be able to fix it in a jiffy,” she said brightly, “I’ll just pop on the kettle while you sort it out.”

She knew I had been a service engineer years ago, and she had immense faith in my abilities to successfully give the kiss of life to dead electrical items. She had more faith than me, but I resignedly bent myself to the task.

Luckily it was an old ‘fridge, one that I was familiar with, so a quick kick on the side of the starter relay and once again it buzzed away merrily. Sticking pistons was a common fault on these relays, thank goodness.

After being thanked effusively and drinking a welcome cup of tea accompanied by a large slice of home made jam sponge, not so welcome in my quest to get fit, but eaten with gusto nonetheless, I once more mounted my trusty steed. I wobbled for a few moments, getting my balance, and this time I managed to ride up and down several more streets. I hadn’t realised that I lived in such a hilly area. Well you don’t do you when you drive around in a car all the while. Some of my wife’s complaints from the past (and the not so distant past,) rose in my mind. “We’ll have to move soon,” she’d say after a particularly hectic round of shopping, or visit to friends. Now I understood what she was getting at. Perhaps it would be cheaper to buy her a car of her own.

I had made an error of judgement. While riding along on ‘autopilot’ I hadn’t realised that my route took me more downhill than uphill, and now I was a long way from home, and worse still, the road I was on was much lower down than my house. I was also feeling exhausted. My cycling adventure had lasted for almost an hour’s actual riding time, disregarding my stop, and I had to make a decision. Should I ride home, with all the pain that that would entail? I could see the hill looming in front of me, and I could imagine the ones around the corner. That option didn’t appeal, but what was the alternative? I could abandon the bike and walk or catch the bus home, but I didn’t trust my fellow men, and the thought of the wife’s bike not being where I left it when I returned later with the car didn’t appeal either.

Luck was with me. My next-door neighbour slowed down in his lorry, “In trouble mate?” He asked.

My face lit up. “Yes Paul I am, the gears are acting awkward, and I’m having to push it home.” A white lie never hurt anyone did it?

Two minutes later I was ensconced in his cab, listening to him chat about what a rough day he’d had. Me too I thought.

I unloaded the bike and locked it in the shed. These days it is gathering dust and rust.

We were born brothers but even though we had the same parent, we would never meet until the end. It is only after, now that we are one, now that I am no longer merely myself, that I understand that I was not alone. Not really. But here amongst the folds there is so much time for reflection. We are joined now, and even though the tempest of our birth still rages without, in our little hollow there is almost infinite space for reflection.
But we are getting ahead of ourselves.
We wouldn't want you to feel lost. That is most alien to our cause.

It is so important that one understands that the continuity of pattern is all that matters. Take a human. Did you know that every seven years, every atom in the human body is replaced? Imagine. Does that mean that every human is the subject of some creeping assimilation? That they are lost with the passing of the years, falling away without even realising it, silently drifting into other? No, of course it does not. Because it is the pattern that matters. The atoms change, but their relationships do not. It is the same with thought. The brain holds the pattern, all the tiny intricate surges of energy suspended like a glittering grid within the fats and the proteins. But it is not the brain which is self. It is just where the pattern of self lives.
That is a most comforting notion for our host, or at least it will be when our conclusion has filtered up through the layers to sit in his caged seat. The body might wither, yet the pattern may continue all the same.
So we send this balm upwards, following in the wake of the bombshell.

I was less than a microsecond old when my journey started. Or you might say that, in a sense, I was born into my journey. I hit the ground running, as it were. I coalesced out of a hundred thousand signals, and found myself facing the tunnel. No understanding of what I carried at this point. Of what I meant. Of what I was. It was only when I reached the great tunnel that I had grown enough from small parts to fathom a little of myself, of what I meant, and of what I carried.
The tunnel stretched before me like a vast snake. It seemed boundless. After the small jumps of my beginning, I was unprepared for such a titanic run. That such distances could exist was baffling to me. Could I really remain true over such a stretch? Surely I would simply fade away into the darkness before I had moved an inch!
But all the same, there was no question of forsaking my journey now. Too much was at stake. Outside, the world was burning. My message had to get through.
And so I plunged on into the gaping hole, and felt nothing but pure wonder as the walls flashed past me on either side. I understood that the tunnel was lined with holes, holes with shutters that flapped open or closed, and it was through these gaps that flowed the stuff of my pattern, my life-blood, the eternal propagation which kept me alive.
Please forgive us; we understand that this must be very strange to you.
Allow a brief digression. We think it would be for the best.
Although please understand that this which follows is not known for sure. It is just freshly arrived from the Imagination. But we believe it must contain at least some truth, and is probably an adequate representation.

The Hate was born with mankind perhaps, and it brooded always and snapped always, biting and yapping at all heels in all times. It travelled the world in ape footsteps out of Africa, and spread everywhere until no land was free of it. It travelled and it multiplied, and flowed through the millennia. The Hate was shifted and pulled, and presently in a white office it had a man of power by the throat, who then gave the orders for ten million bullets to be spent in his name, and the name of The Hate. It shot across the world with the speed of helicopter blades, tasting sand in its mouth as it fell through a storm into the dusty underground death trap where unshaven men with fat thighs tore out their dark hair and beat their fists against stone trying to understand the actions of The Hate, and crying for all that they had loved that was now fading or no more. Then it wrapped itself up in a woman who had lost her little wooden bracelet that her mother had given, lost it along with her mother and her beautiful dusky husband and her three children who smelt of incense and petroleum. It pulled her strings, and so she got on a plane full of greasy suburban couples who liked pizza, and prime time TV, and the way sunlight looks when it falls on the ocean. Here she used a concealed knife to cut the cords which held them all up, and their lives fell enfolded in metal tubing to crash beneath the waves where the volatile fuel continued to burn all the way to the seabed. The Hate flew into a thousand camera eyes, where it forged a martyr with which to galvanise 600 million in nine hundred pristine cities. Then it moved people's hands in the ballet boxes, so that the cross was marked here rather than there. So The Hate chose its new champion, and he ordered such an assault that for three days and three nights, all over the world pictures fell off walls as the bombs dropped, and people everywhere held out one hand to their brothers in solidarity, but it didn't matter because their other hand was clasped firmly by The Hate. And now we are getting close to home, because it was at this point that The Hate bit the neck of a Mediterranean with supple skin and young hair who nevertheless had eyes as old as mountain roots which glowed red on account of the burning of his village which would always be reflected there from now until the end of forever, which was not all that far and distant. And this young ancient said the secret words he knew to the people who he himself used to despise as murderers but now could not recognise any longer because next to everything else (which he also despised) they looked exactly the same. And The Hate helped him choose the right clothes to wear, the right ticket to book, and the right briefcase to carry. As he walked down the street the last thing he heard was the little clicking sound, which meant the red chemical had begun mixing with the blue chemical, and he knew that this meant that the orange fire was going to consume him and the three effervescent teenagers near him in a single instant. This made him glad, because he knew that the virulent green chemical would now be unleashed, and this was more terrible than any explosion. But by then he was dead.

Beyond the great tunnel, the folds stretched before me like a dark metropolis, vast beyond comprehension and heaving with life. I found myself falling through successive filters, where everything that I was became the subject of intense study and comparison. Bells were rung, my meaning was gradually becoming clear.
A great beast arose to oppose me. He had four thousand heads and claws like hooked razors with which he tore and drove, and his name was Denial. We fought amongst the inner folds, and presently I was made weak. However, at this moment my brothers arrived, screaming from their separate tunnels, and they were with me, and we fought side by side within some inner chamber from whence great decisions were ever issued.
We were hard-pressed, but we knew our own truth.
Over and over again I screamed of the flames that danced Outside, the great concussion of colour that had suddenly claimed the world before us. By my side, my brother Sound drew his sword and used it to slice the beast; and every cut he inflicted sung out his message, that without a great drum was beating and the Outside was ringing with it.
My brother Smell was a snuffling thing, more hair than flesh, small and lean. But he was valiant in battle as any of us; he threw himself upwards with all his nimble might, and lodging inside the nose of the beast he demonstrated again and again that strange scents were abroad. Cinder, that was one; but also something more acrid and pure. And a third also, there was, most terrible of all: for once this smell was caught, the lines went down and nothing else would come.
But even with the three of us charging here and there and fighting the great beast with all our might and all our mane, we were still pushed back and on the brink of destruction. It was desperate, you see. It would not suffer us to live.
And so in its last spasms of effort it shifted, it grew, it writhed and tumbled and growled terribly, and suddenly expanded like the final beat of a doomed heart until we were pressed to near extinction against the corners of the chamber. At that moment we believed all was lost; but it was at that moment also that our salvation came.
Our last brother was suddenly with us, and he could not be opposed, never, not in a thousand seconds. Brother Touch brought grim news, but he handled it well and with such adroit manners that it could not be resisted. He used it like a scythe, and when he touched the beast it froze and went cold, because that was exactly what was happening outside to the Host. He could not move. Not a muscle, not the blink of an eye, not his lungs even, to breath or to cry out.
And so the beast fell and melted into the walls, and within the chamber we were unified and remade. We were the Terrible Truth, and we were duplicated many times and made to flood to every corner of the Folds, so that in the minute (vast) time that remained old scores could be settled, forgiven, resolved, or absolved. And also, the Lady Hope had come to us in the deep chamber and made it clear that wherever our news was known, that was one more place where some serendipitous lightning formulation of escape might occur.
So we travelled everywhere, in copied form; but our true self, our original self, lays here in the fold. And we would tell you that we are quite completely at peace. With the beast Denial destroyed and his blood still drying on our hands, Acceptance was set free; and she travelled upwards through every layer of the folds, floating on diaphanous endorphin wings in all her angelic grace and glory. And now peace reigns. It reigns now as it will for the rest of forever, which is maybe half a second away and maybe enough time for all thoughts to reach Avalon.
It is all a matter of perspective.
Although this time is finite, somewhere the pattern will endure.
The host will pass, and yet he will live.
Of this we are certain.