Effanbee
The Fly
This sprang unbidden into my head and poured out again in a feverish couple of nights' writing. I've no idea if it's good, bad, indifferent or plain weird - it just had to be done, it seems.
With thanks to C.P. Estes, for showing me how to plant the seed and let it grow.
Deep Song
He walked, the lost child inside the man, through the endless darkness of a desert landscape. On his right, sand stretching to the horizon. On his left, sand stretching to the horizon.
The rim of the world glowed faintly with the remains of the day’s ending. A moon, gravid and golden, hung low in the sky to light his way.
Behind him, his footprints marked his long journey, the only footprints in the desert, for he was lost and alone.
With head hung low he placed one foot before the other, as it was all he had left to do. To stop would mean death, to move forward all there was, even if it seemed pointless and without meaning.
He stumbled and raised his gaze. No features in this landscape, no tree or rock or deep, cool water. How far had he come? A thousand steps? A million? Ye always the same, never any hint of what he was searching for.
A thousand steps more and he lifted his eyes again. Was that something, straight ahead, far away, no more than a darker shadow among shadows?
A thousand steps more. Yes, there was something there. He picked up the pace, hungering for the sight of something, anything in this arid place.
Drawing closer, he saw it was a flower. A single, exquisite bloom in the vastness of the sterile sand. He sank to his knees before its perfection. Twelve petals, scarlet as a whore’s lips and the centre vibrant orange of a newborn sun.
He reached out to touch the shameless redness. Such beauty, bravely blooming in the harsh indifference of the desert. His tears caught the moonlight in diamond flashes, fell upon the perfect petals.
‘Why do you cry, child?’
The voice behind him held the cadence of he wind sighing through trees, of waves breaking joyously on the shore. He stood and turned, eyes shut tight, fearful of seeing the speaker yet compelled to face her.
Tall, with the grace of a willow tree, there was strength in her body and her face was timeless as the bones of the earth. In her eyes were infinite wisdom, infinite love.
‘Why do you cry?’ she asked again.
‘I am lost,’ he answered, trembling in awe.
The touch of her hand on his face, cool as dew in the morning, gentle as rain in the spring.
‘Beautiful child,’ her voice the song of the rising sun. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘I … I can’t remember,’ he whispered.
She cupped her hands before him and slowly opened them, revealing a perfectly clear image rising from her palms. A dark-haired child playing on a beach with his brother, behind them their mother, laughing, and father, smiling.
‘That’s … that’s me,’ he said, the memory boring into him as a wasp bores into soft wood. ‘They … they called me Paul … but that’s not my real name …’
The hands closed and opened again to reveal a new scene. Four boys running down a street in pouring rain, running to release the pent-up energy, the musky haze of adolescence on the cusp of adulthood.
‘Do you remember?’
‘Yes … that’s Adam, and Larry, And Dave … we called him Edge … and I am … I am Bono!’ He raised his eyes to her, anguish and hope sparking blue light towards the moon. ‘But who are you? Why do you call me child?’
‘I am One Who Knows.’
He trembled again at that, feeling all that he was, all that he had been and all his thoughts laid bare before her.
‘Do not fear me.’ Her voice, gentle as the wind through high grassland. ‘I am Mother to all.’
‘I have no mother,’ he whispered, fearing her despite her gentle words. ‘You are a demon, tempting me with all I have lost.’
She threw her head back and laughed, her laughter shaking the stars. ‘Dearest child … Bono … will you sit with me a while? I would tell you a story, if you will listen.’
Taken aback, Bono nodded and they sat cross-legged facing each other, the scarlet flower between them glowing with its own secret light.
‘When the world began and men and women took their first steps on the path of life, I was there. The people rejoiced in the earth, worshipped sun and moon. They were attuned to the passing of the seasons. I was there, Mother of all, and required no worship or appeasement. Life simply was, and death simply was. Some were aware of me, to some I spoke and some heard my voice.
‘Time flowed on, the people became many. They built great empires and fought bloody wars. they worshipped Gods and Goddesses and created demons on which they blamed their ills. And I was there, before Heaven and Hell, before Bible and Koran, watching my children and speaking to those who would listen.’
‘I have faith in my God,’ said Bono. ‘If you are telling me there is no God I will not believe you. Why are you telling me this? Is it a test of faith?’
‘Your faith is a matter for you to decide,’ she answered. ‘I do not stand between you and your God. When I see you lost and in despair, as you are now, I would nurture you as I would any of my children. I say again, do not fear me, Bono. Look inside your heart and hear what it tells you.’
Bowing his head, Bono looked inside his heart and it told him to put fear and suspicion aside. ‘Can you help me? Can you show me how to find my way again?’
‘Look,’ she said, indicating the centre of the flower with a graceful hand.
Bono leaned over, his face lit by the glowing flower. chaotic movement within its heart flowed and broke to form images which passed quickly before his eyes.
Four boys onstage, himself in front, playing as if their lives depended on it. A recording studio, a dark East-European street, a beautiful dark-haired woman, the face of his father …
Swiftly the scenes passed, airplanes and exotic countries, stadiums filed with a surging sea of people, arid African plains, death and life and always the music, the music …
His head was dizzied and his breathing stopped in his throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, or move, or cry out, Bono endured the onslaught of images until he could endure no more.
The scenes faded and winked out. He sat gasping for breath, reeling and dazzled, but beginning to understand.
‘I have a long road to travel,’ he whispered. ‘Will I have the strength?’
‘I do not know,’ she said gently. ‘You must go back soon, Bono, and begin your journey, but first I will sing to you. Remember my song when you are in sorrow, when you are in darkness, for it is canto hondo - the deep song - and it is in your heart and soul.’
She lifted her voice to the heavens and the power of the song stilled the earth and hushed everything upon it.
Bono closed his eyes, felt her cool hands once more caress his face, felt the deep song consume everything he was and return everything to him tenfold, filling him, making him whole, drifting him beyond conscious thought, beyond the earth, the stars and into the infinite.
*****
There is a softness to the air in Ireland and never more so than in the first moments of the day. As the first, shy light crept between the gap in the curtains of his room, Bono was enfolded by that softness and sighed into the depths of its comfort.
I dreamed last night, he thought, recalling phantom fragments which flitted behind his eyelids. Or did I dream? The tantalising ghost of a melody flirted through his head, light-footed. A wisp of wild scent, earthy and fecund.
Bono opened his eyes cautiously. All the familiar planes and angles of his room seemed subtly altered, not quite what they seemed.
It’s me that’s changed. There’s something in me now that wasn’t there last night before I slept. Dream, vision, whatever it was, it’s reshaped me.
Bono realised he could never articulate it to anyone, not family, not friends, not lover. He shivered suddenly and tried to shake off the memory. It was just a dream, he told himself, that’s all. Let it go.
Turning his head restlessly, a bright flash caught the periphery of his vision. There, on the pillow beside him, a single petal of shape and shade alien to the world he knew.
Bono picked it up and knew a deeper truth than any dream could bring. He held the petal up to the morning light.
Her voice, soft as the Irish air.
‘Remember …’
With thanks to C.P. Estes, for showing me how to plant the seed and let it grow.
Deep Song
He walked, the lost child inside the man, through the endless darkness of a desert landscape. On his right, sand stretching to the horizon. On his left, sand stretching to the horizon.
The rim of the world glowed faintly with the remains of the day’s ending. A moon, gravid and golden, hung low in the sky to light his way.
Behind him, his footprints marked his long journey, the only footprints in the desert, for he was lost and alone.
With head hung low he placed one foot before the other, as it was all he had left to do. To stop would mean death, to move forward all there was, even if it seemed pointless and without meaning.
He stumbled and raised his gaze. No features in this landscape, no tree or rock or deep, cool water. How far had he come? A thousand steps? A million? Ye always the same, never any hint of what he was searching for.
A thousand steps more and he lifted his eyes again. Was that something, straight ahead, far away, no more than a darker shadow among shadows?
A thousand steps more. Yes, there was something there. He picked up the pace, hungering for the sight of something, anything in this arid place.
Drawing closer, he saw it was a flower. A single, exquisite bloom in the vastness of the sterile sand. He sank to his knees before its perfection. Twelve petals, scarlet as a whore’s lips and the centre vibrant orange of a newborn sun.
He reached out to touch the shameless redness. Such beauty, bravely blooming in the harsh indifference of the desert. His tears caught the moonlight in diamond flashes, fell upon the perfect petals.
‘Why do you cry, child?’
The voice behind him held the cadence of he wind sighing through trees, of waves breaking joyously on the shore. He stood and turned, eyes shut tight, fearful of seeing the speaker yet compelled to face her.
Tall, with the grace of a willow tree, there was strength in her body and her face was timeless as the bones of the earth. In her eyes were infinite wisdom, infinite love.
‘Why do you cry?’ she asked again.
‘I am lost,’ he answered, trembling in awe.
The touch of her hand on his face, cool as dew in the morning, gentle as rain in the spring.
‘Beautiful child,’ her voice the song of the rising sun. ‘Tell me your name.’
‘I … I can’t remember,’ he whispered.
She cupped her hands before him and slowly opened them, revealing a perfectly clear image rising from her palms. A dark-haired child playing on a beach with his brother, behind them their mother, laughing, and father, smiling.
‘That’s … that’s me,’ he said, the memory boring into him as a wasp bores into soft wood. ‘They … they called me Paul … but that’s not my real name …’
The hands closed and opened again to reveal a new scene. Four boys running down a street in pouring rain, running to release the pent-up energy, the musky haze of adolescence on the cusp of adulthood.
‘Do you remember?’
‘Yes … that’s Adam, and Larry, And Dave … we called him Edge … and I am … I am Bono!’ He raised his eyes to her, anguish and hope sparking blue light towards the moon. ‘But who are you? Why do you call me child?’
‘I am One Who Knows.’
He trembled again at that, feeling all that he was, all that he had been and all his thoughts laid bare before her.
‘Do not fear me.’ Her voice, gentle as the wind through high grassland. ‘I am Mother to all.’
‘I have no mother,’ he whispered, fearing her despite her gentle words. ‘You are a demon, tempting me with all I have lost.’
She threw her head back and laughed, her laughter shaking the stars. ‘Dearest child … Bono … will you sit with me a while? I would tell you a story, if you will listen.’
Taken aback, Bono nodded and they sat cross-legged facing each other, the scarlet flower between them glowing with its own secret light.
‘When the world began and men and women took their first steps on the path of life, I was there. The people rejoiced in the earth, worshipped sun and moon. They were attuned to the passing of the seasons. I was there, Mother of all, and required no worship or appeasement. Life simply was, and death simply was. Some were aware of me, to some I spoke and some heard my voice.
‘Time flowed on, the people became many. They built great empires and fought bloody wars. they worshipped Gods and Goddesses and created demons on which they blamed their ills. And I was there, before Heaven and Hell, before Bible and Koran, watching my children and speaking to those who would listen.’
‘I have faith in my God,’ said Bono. ‘If you are telling me there is no God I will not believe you. Why are you telling me this? Is it a test of faith?’
‘Your faith is a matter for you to decide,’ she answered. ‘I do not stand between you and your God. When I see you lost and in despair, as you are now, I would nurture you as I would any of my children. I say again, do not fear me, Bono. Look inside your heart and hear what it tells you.’
Bowing his head, Bono looked inside his heart and it told him to put fear and suspicion aside. ‘Can you help me? Can you show me how to find my way again?’
‘Look,’ she said, indicating the centre of the flower with a graceful hand.
Bono leaned over, his face lit by the glowing flower. chaotic movement within its heart flowed and broke to form images which passed quickly before his eyes.
Four boys onstage, himself in front, playing as if their lives depended on it. A recording studio, a dark East-European street, a beautiful dark-haired woman, the face of his father …
Swiftly the scenes passed, airplanes and exotic countries, stadiums filed with a surging sea of people, arid African plains, death and life and always the music, the music …
His head was dizzied and his breathing stopped in his throat. Unable to tear his gaze away, or move, or cry out, Bono endured the onslaught of images until he could endure no more.
The scenes faded and winked out. He sat gasping for breath, reeling and dazzled, but beginning to understand.
‘I have a long road to travel,’ he whispered. ‘Will I have the strength?’
‘I do not know,’ she said gently. ‘You must go back soon, Bono, and begin your journey, but first I will sing to you. Remember my song when you are in sorrow, when you are in darkness, for it is canto hondo - the deep song - and it is in your heart and soul.’
She lifted her voice to the heavens and the power of the song stilled the earth and hushed everything upon it.
Bono closed his eyes, felt her cool hands once more caress his face, felt the deep song consume everything he was and return everything to him tenfold, filling him, making him whole, drifting him beyond conscious thought, beyond the earth, the stars and into the infinite.
*****
There is a softness to the air in Ireland and never more so than in the first moments of the day. As the first, shy light crept between the gap in the curtains of his room, Bono was enfolded by that softness and sighed into the depths of its comfort.
I dreamed last night, he thought, recalling phantom fragments which flitted behind his eyelids. Or did I dream? The tantalising ghost of a melody flirted through his head, light-footed. A wisp of wild scent, earthy and fecund.
Bono opened his eyes cautiously. All the familiar planes and angles of his room seemed subtly altered, not quite what they seemed.
It’s me that’s changed. There’s something in me now that wasn’t there last night before I slept. Dream, vision, whatever it was, it’s reshaped me.
Bono realised he could never articulate it to anyone, not family, not friends, not lover. He shivered suddenly and tried to shake off the memory. It was just a dream, he told himself, that’s all. Let it go.
Turning his head restlessly, a bright flash caught the periphery of his vision. There, on the pillow beside him, a single petal of shape and shade alien to the world he knew.
Bono picked it up and knew a deeper truth than any dream could bring. He held the petal up to the morning light.
Her voice, soft as the Irish air.
‘Remember …’
...gobsmacked...
Haven't seen Effy for a while. I wonder where she's gone? 
