Upon arrival in the staff room, located right behind the record counter, the writer found the manageress in a bit of a tizz.
‘Our casual just quit,’ she explained.
The news was like a gift from heaven and the writer could hear a crowd of voices in her head crying, ‘Yes! Take the job!’ Four hours a day, five days a week, sounded pretty damn fine.
The concerned look on the manageress’s face had tripled. ‘Well, I don’t see what you’re smiling about.’
The writer thought she’d best explain her amusement. ‘I want the job,’ she said, but what she was thinking was, The universe works swiftly, I must be on the right track.
The people at work thought she was nuts, throwing in a full-time position to go part-time when work was so hard to come by. Her family and friends even found it difficult to fathom her new spurt of enthusiasm for writing. She never went out any more and, although the writer didn’t mind the odd interruption in her writing time, once she was in writing mode it was hard to get her to emerge. Visits from people, and telephone calls, went on without the writer really heeding what was transpiring, for she was entranced by the Dark Ages. Everyone close to her was very supportive. Still, some feared that, like the five years she’d dedicated to film writing, naught would come of all her efforts.
‘What are you going to do with the manuscript once you’ve finished writing it?’ a friend asked one day, eager to help her form a strategy. ‘Will you send it to a publisher?’
The writer shrugged, having not given this much thought, but as her belief in the supernatural world grew daily, she replied, ‘By the time I am finished writing this, the right person to aid it to publication will come along.’
‘But haven’t you even considered who you’d like to publish it?’ Her friend obviously thought that the writer’s faith was a little naive.
The writer turned to peruse her reference books and finding that most of them bore the HarperCollins logo, she made her decision. ‘HarperCollins would be good. If they’re good enough for my references, that’s good enough for me.’
And that’s all the planning on that front that the writer intended to do. She would leave the minor details to the universe to sort out.
Consorting was a more apt way to describe what those concerned with the writer’s little universe were up to.
Tory was learning all about six degrees of separation: that via mutual connections, only six people separate you from any other person on the planet — the same applied to Oversouls and guides.
Astarleia and Tory had managed to track down the Oversoul of the literary agent they felt would best represent their charge. The agent was the most reclusive and influential to be found on this side of the planet, so arranging a chance meeting was not going to be easy. And before they could start scheming, the Oversoul in question had to feel kindly disposed towards the writer before the agent in her charge would feel the same.
The Oversoul they sought to impress was a beautiful dark-haired gypsy called Karmalina, tracked down via the Oversoul of an actress friend of the writer’s mother, who happened to know an author who was already in the agent’s huge stable of talent.
In the first instance, Karmalina visited Tory and Astarleia at their charge’s house, to observe the young writer at work, before deciding whether or not to plot her a path to the literary agent whose interests Karmalina safeguarded.
‘A formal introduction,’ Karmalina decided, after hours of observation. ‘But a meeting with my charge is still a way off. And will require a few leaps of faith for your girl,’ she stipulated.
‘Thank you so much,’ Tory said happily — scoring an agent would mean one of her major hurdles was out of the way.
‘What must we do?’ Astarleia prompted the fiery Oversoul, all dressed in shimmering red, black, purple and white.
‘When the manuscript is complete, your charge will give a copy to her mother, who will pass it on to her actress friend. She, in turn, will like the manuscript and suggest to her author friend that he show it to his agent.’ Karmalina held her arms out wide as if to imply she would take it from there. ‘However, the author friend is not going to know your girl from a bar of soap, and that’s where this mission is going to require a little effort on your aspirant’s part. For there will be made known to her an opportunity to meet this author, and if your girl manages to impress him, she’ll get her break and her manuscript will be passed on to my charge for perusal. I can’t guarantee my charge will take your girl on board, but at least she’ll get a look in … fair enough?’
‘Very fair,’ Astarleia nodded. ‘You’ve been most gracious.’
‘She seems like a good kid.’ Karmalina glanced back to the writer, still buried in her work. ‘I hope I see you all again soon.’ She waved and vanished to attend to her own charge.
‘So that’s how it works,’ Tory mused now that they were at leisure. ‘We can arrange these opportunities to occur for our charge, but it’s up to her to seize the moment.’
‘Exactly,’ Astarleia confirmed and Tory exhaled heavily as she considered.
‘Geez, I must have had my guides working overtime during my life,’ she concluded, and gave Astarleia something to chuckle about.
‘They still are,’ Astarleia agreed.
It took one year to complete the manuscript that was, at present, simply titled The Dark Age. Tory was a little concerned as the title wasn’t the one that the book would be published under, but Astarleia assured her that somewhere along the road to publication their writer would be encouraged to rethink the title. Once the writer’s mind was open to a change, it would not be hard to suggest the destined title. At present, however, the writer felt that every word of her manuscript was etched in stone, including the title, so there was no point trying to persuade her into changing anything until the publisher’s editing process started.
The writer’s best friend had been doing a fine job of tidying up the manuscript and had been just as open to Tory’s guidance as the writer had been. With every review of the text, ‘The Dark Age’ got closer and closer to reading as Tory knew it eventually would. This initial editing process would take another year to complete, as their charge couldn’t spell, was dyslexic, and had never been very good at English. Thus, the poor best friend had her hands full trying to explain why the story wasn’t flowing as well as it should and why useless bits of researched information had to go.
This was where musing was not an exact science, for although Tory conveyed the story to her charge, the writer had her own free will and thus would wander off on little creative tangents. These would later be addressed and corrected by editors who would bring the story back to its pure form, as per the completed version of the tale that Kuthumi had given Tory as a reference.
During the course of writing The Dark Age the writer had a few strange experiences of note. One that happened constantly was that words would pop into her sentences that she didn’t even know the meaning of and, after referring to a dictionary, the writer would discover the word was in the perfect context. The same kind of strange coincidences had occurred during her researching sessions. For example, placing Taliesin’s Otherworldly abode at Lynn Cerrig Bach. The writer had known this location was the last stand of the druids against the Romans — as good a place as any to stick a temple, the writer thought. Then, later on, when the writer was researching something else, she chanced across a story about an excavation team who had started digging statues of the Goddess out of the ground at Lynn Cerrig Bach and the statues dated to the same time as the temple in her story … weird! Still, as the character Miles said in the story, a little bit of Tory’s magic rubbed off on all she touched and it seemed that her creator was no exception.
Now that the story was complete, the writer made a gift of a copy of her manuscript to every member of her family — her mother included. Her mother, after reading the story and finding it thoroughly enjoyable, asked her best friend, who was an actress, to read it.
‘I d
on’t know if I am just biased, or if this story is really as good as I think it is,’ their charge’s mother explained upon passing it to her friend, who promised to read the manuscript and offer her professional opinion.
In two days’ time the actress was on the phone to the writer singing her praises of the story. ‘I have a very good friend who is an author,’ she explained to the writer, ‘and although I doubt he has time to read your story, I believe he will take my word for it and pass it on to his agent if he feels you are worth his recommendation. I am taking him to the opening of the Sydney Spring Festival of New Music, and as so many people you know are going to be there, why don’t you come down and meet him?’
And that was how the writer found herself at the promotional reception standing on the balcony overlooking Sydney. She was very nervous about meeting a real author and had no idea what she was going to say to him, not having read any of his books. The author had also written for TV, so she did stand a slim hope of not appearing to be completely ignorant, for she was familiar with this aspect of his work.
She was sucking hard on a cigarette, trying to reclaim her nerves, when she spotted her mother’s actress friend through the large glass windows, entering the reception with a couple of male friends in tow — one of whom she assumed was the author she was here to meet.
This was one of those defining moments in her life; the writer could feel destiny urging her to put out the cigarette, swallow her fear, walk inside, and introduce herself. ‘Well, here goes everything,’ she mumbled, losing the smoke and, taking a deep breath to rouse her courage, she did as her instincts prompted.
At least she was spared the embarrassment of introducing herself. Her mother’s friend gave her a sterling recommendation to the renowned author, before leaving them alone to talk.
‘So you’re the one who wrote this amazing manuscript I’ve been hearing about?’ asked the distinguished-looking gentleman politely, although the writer could plainly see that he wasn’t really very interested and she didn’t blame him — she must have seemed to be like a starstruck kid to the man.
‘I am.’ She grabbed a drink from a passing waiter’s tray.
‘So, tell me, what is your manuscript about?’ He scanned the crowd for someone he could wave over to spare him having to hear a long and drawn-out synopsis.
‘It’s about a female martial arts expert who gets transported by a merlin back to the Dark Ages to aid him to change the course of British history,’ she spat out, hoping the subject matter would interest him.
‘Really?’ He looked at her, obviously a little intrigued.
‘Yes,’ she replied enthusiastically, trying to think of something intelligent to say. ‘I find the concept of simultaneous time very interesting.’
The author chuckled. ‘Simultaneous time … what is that?’ He was suddenly content to pursue the conversation.
The writer went on to explain her theories on time travel, reincarnation, karma, dimension jumping and so forth, and was surprised to find she was really enjoying herself.
‘Goodness,’ the author stated in high spirits, once she had finished. ‘I have enough trouble keeping track of day one, day two, or day three in my scripts, let alone all the jumping backwards and forwards through time you’re talking about.’
The writer’s heart was doing backflips. She had made a good impression on him and his flattery, and interest in her — a total nobody — made a mighty impression on her too.
‘When you have finished editing, I could send your script to my agent,’ he offered and the writer needed to use all of her restraint not to start jumping up and down screaming praises to the universe there and then. ‘Now, my agent won’t contact you unless she likes it,’ he warned in advance. He then suggested that if the writer wanted to know what was happening with the manuscript she could chase it up through the mutual friend who’d introduced them. ‘Still, my agent doesn’t usually waste much time,’ he assured her. ‘If she likes the manuscript, you’ll know fairly quickly.’
The manuscript left the writer’s possession looking like a medieval fairy tale.
There was a standard format for the layout of manuscripts — double-spacing, plain font, printed on one side of the page only. However, being a non-conformist and appalled at the thought of her story looking standard in any way, the writer completely disregarded the normal protocol. This manuscript had to enchant upon sight.
Ornate borders surrounded the text on the title page, reference pages, and each new chapter page. She had even been mused into creating a couple of maps, the like of which she’d sketched up for her own reference. As she had yet to master the paths function of the PhotoShop program on her computer, the writer’s husband got roped into doing the graphic layouts of the floor plans of Aberffraw and Degannwy, the two main strongholds of her story.
Much like the character Tory Alexander, the writer was not a very ritualised kind of girl. Still, having observed how well Tory’s little ceremony for the elements had served her in the story, the writer performed the same kind of ritual in her lounge room to ask the spirits of nature to bless her book with success.
The casting of her circle was not quite as easy as it would have been had the writer not had a young kitten sticking his little nose into everything. She tried locking Arthur out in the sunroom, but his meows of protest were not conducive to the mood she was trying to create. When she let him back in, he seemed to have comprehended his predicament, as he jumped up onto the lounge and settled himself down to let his owner get on with her summons.
What Tory and the other guides could see, that the writer could not, was all the tiny beings who gathered around her during the ceremony.
Tiny winged fairies of the air known as Sylphs, emerged from the smoke of the incense burning to the east of the writer and her manuscript. Fiery Salamanders danced in the flames of the candles burning in the south, whilst fish-like Undines splashed about in the golden goblet, filled with water, in the west. Gnomes popped their heads out from the flowers and soil in the planter pot that the writer had placed in the north to represent the earth aspect of nature. All the elementals present took the writer’s request very seriously, once she had offered each elemental group an appropriate gift.
We recognise the creativity of this aspirant and her work, one of the fiery elementals said. Those who resonate to our influence of valour and courage will read this work and adore it and remain loyal to the creator and her future works. The being cast a little ball of flame upon the manuscript in the centre of the circle. The flaming orb burst into tiny sparks of yellow, red and orange before making contact with the work, and these tiny lights then sprinkled themselves over the manuscript. Once the object to be blessed had absorbed the offering, it appeared to take on a slight etheric glow.
Next a Sylph, composed of nothing more than the sweet-smelling smoke of the incense, offered the blessings of the element of air. May your desires for this work come to fruition with the greatest of speed. Good communications will bless you. Adaptability and constant learning will make future works come together with greater ease. The little winged being looked at Tory and gave her a wink. Then the Sylph moulded a ball of smoke and blew it towards the manuscript, where it spun itself into a whirlpool spiralling down into the work, whereupon its etheric glow increased.
A small merman hung his upper body over the top of the goblet of water, as if he was in a swimming pool and very much enjoying his swim. Your work shall inspire the understanding and depth of emotion in all those souls receptive to the greater mysteries, yourself included. He splashed water over the manuscript, and each droplet produced a glistening bubble that vanished upon contact with the work and boosted the etheric field yet again.
A little gnome, who was still admiring the golden earring and coin that the writer had stuck in the soil as an offering, plonked himself down on the coin as if to guard it and said, If you continue to work as hard as you have been, much acquisition and wealth will come from your passion and thu
s your wish to be a full-time writer will be granted within the next three years. The ugly little man cast a pile of dust towards the manuscript and each granule turned into a tiny fairy light that settled and sank into the enchanted work, now illumined with the blessings of all four elements.
The writer thanked the beings for their consideration and dismissed them to go about their normal business. Perhaps her little ritual was rather silly and childish, and yet she felt empowered for her efforts and even more confident of success. ‘I have done my very best for this story. The success of it I now entrust to the universe,’ she announced, sliding it into a large envelope for postage.
‘Have no fear, my sweet,’ Astarleia assured the writer on behalf of all her guides. ‘The situation is under control.’
The writer and her husband celebrated their tenth wedding anniversary a few days later, and they were on their way out to dinner when she got THE CALL.
What the writer had discovered in the past few days was how renowned the agent reading her manuscript was, which made the event of the agent making contact so soon all the more heartstopping.
My agent won’t contact you unless she likes it.
The author’s comment flashed through the young writer’s brain as the agent introduced herself and they chatted briefly about their mutual friends.
‘Listen, my sweet,’ said the agent, becoming more businesslike. ‘I’ve just read part one of your manuscript, and if the rest of the story is as good as this, you’ve got yourself an agent.’
The Cosmic Logos Page 24
