“A myth is an image
in terms of which we try to make sense of the world.”
– Alan Watts
On the vast eastern shores there lived a hermit – a man who had long forgotten his own name. The man walked in ankle deep water, scooping up detritus in his oversized fishing net. It was mostly the usual haul – rotten wood, tattered cloth. No bottles today. Returning to the sunshade on the northern side of his house, he began to pick through the ocean’s dregs. Most of it went into the burn pile, except for an old fishing lure and a budding tree branch with velvet skin. The man quickly discarded the branch with its fellow scrap wood, struck his last sulphur match, and set the pile ablaze. He retreated inside and shut the windows to keep out the smoke.
He returned an hour later to hang the fishing lure from his sunshade with the others, but dropped it when he saw the smoldering remains of his burn pile. Atop the ashes sat a single, uncharred branch. The man dropped to his knees and tenderly picked up the branch between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t even warm. The rain that had been sprinkling began to pour, so the man dropped the branch without a second thought and returned inside. His fishing lure lay in the mud, forgotten.
The next day, the man awoke and went about his morning routine. He eagerly seized his fishing net and ventured again to the shore, scouring the crystalline shoals and curling, navy waves. This time the only attractive refuse was a splin-tered oar. The man returned to his sunshade and began to sort out the precious from the kindling, but stopped short when he saw the velvety sprig from the previous day. It was sticking straight up in the mud, its buds now leaves, trembling in the breeze. The man seized the branch and tried to uproot it, but it did not waver.
The man ignored the intruder and began a new burn pile several feet away. He set it alight with a tinderbox he had salvaged and retrieved an empty crate to use as a stool. Staring at the ocean, he noticed a faint silhouette on the gray horizon. Probably a trade ship, he thought. The fire burned on, and the man returned inside to sleep.
This continued for seven days, until the man awoke to find that the tree had grown to be taller than his cottage. Its once smooth skin had grown into fur-rowed, knotted bark. Originally discontented with the invasive arbor, the man now marveled at its majesty. He studied it for hours, comparing its sparse leaves to those of every known tree, but could not identify it. He decided, in merit of its origin, that he would call it the Driftwood Tree. In time, the tree ceased to grow, but not before the man was forced to remove the sunshade from his house. It was no matter; the tree worked just as well.
The days following the growth of the Driftwood Tree culminated in lazy afternoons. The man hung his menagerie of recovered fishing lures from the branches under which he spent most of his time gazing at the ocean. He saw the silhouette several more times, but only on rainy days. He decided it looked more like an island than a trade ship, but he could not conceive of how an island would be there sometimes and others not, so discounted the notion.
The next night the man was awakened by whispering. At first, he counted them as figments of his tired mind, but they continued every night. By the third night the man could piece out what the voices were saying. Ba’al… Buyan… Ba’al… Buyan… When the man could stand it no longer, he shot up and left the house, only to find that the voices had grown louder. A soft glow emanated from behind him, and he turned to see the Driftwood Tree, aglow with the light of its lambent leaves. An aura danced around the tree – a whirling filament of green light. The whispers had escalated to chants, spoken in an unfamiliar tongue.
Any other man would have run, abandoned his home and fled to the west wind, but the hermit’s terror knew a different satisfaction. The hermit, whose pounding heartbeat was now drowned out by the whispering of the tree, rushed inside and seized a rusty axe from his hoard. He flew back outside and charged the accursed tree, channeling every ounce of his strength into his swings. He chopped like every chop might have been his last, howling hysterically. Without realizing, he began to chant along with the tree, until his arms burned hotter than all the garbage he had ever fished up from the roiling sea. A haze drew over his eyes. His swings slowed. The axe hit the dirt, and so did he.
And while the man so vividly recalled collapsing in exhaustion, there he was, standing steady as a tree on the shore. But it was no shore he had ever called an acquaintance. It was the shore of a monumental island – one with mountainous slopes and rolling hills adorned with green garnishes the likes of which were softer than a feather-down bed. Nestled among the hilltops were six palatial abodes whose architecture became more extravagant along the island’s winding ascent.
The man, who had forsaken any faith in the idea of sense, took a single step forward. No sooner than his bare foot grazed the wet sand did a tremendous quake erupt. The ground was set quavering like an animal wrested by the hoary grip of a premature winter. The chanting began anew. It rose up around the man and swallowed him like the sea. The man was unable to hear anything besides the deafening cant which he was sure would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Ba’al… Buyan… Ba’al… Buyan…
Buyan… Buyan… Buyan…
The chanting morphed into the sound of the tide lapping at the sand. The man opened his eyes. A pale gray sky greeted him. The air was cool and damp, and the occasional droplet landed on his face. Without looking, he knew he was on his own sandy shore. He sat up and found himself on the beach, facing the ocean. A heavy fog had settled over the water, but even still the man could see the dread-ed silhouette on the horizon. It was much bigger than before… closer, even.
The man stood, incapable of feeling fear. His supply had been exhausted the previous night, leaving only a stoic curiosity. He knew what he wanted to do, though if pressed for an explanation he would have been stuck fast. He turned and marched back to his house, walked around the back thereof, and stared at his prize through stained glass eyes. An old fishing boat, faded and splintering, was propped against the wall. Its stern was firmly affixed under a layer of mud, but it was just as firmly pried away. The man dragged the boat away from the house like felled game. He brought it down to the beach and set its front half in the water. He returned to his house, for what he feared would be the last time, and retrieved the single decrepit oar he had recently salvaged.
Oar in hand, the man solemnly approached the boat. Without looking back, he shoved off from shore and began to paddle, disappearing into the mist.
For an eternity it seemed that the island was moving farther away with every paddle stroke, until the bottom of the boat suddenly stiffened to a halt. The man could feel the hull grinding against sand. The fog lifted as if by magic, and he was face to face with the island from his nightmare. All told, it was a scene that the man immediately regarded with great splendor. For a moment he was even elated that he had been called to this place. The sloping summits and windswept grass, the endless beach, and the way the sun stretched the shadows of the peaks like taffy – it would have been a heavenly place, but it was unnatural. It was not comforting. It was simply and indefatigably wrong.
This, of course, did not stop the man from taking the first step toward doing what he set out to do. He gingerly raised his foot over the side of the boat and pressed it into the wet sand. He braced for an earthquake like he had felt in the dream, but the air remained tepid and the ground slumbered on. Relieved, the man climbed fully out of the boat and set his sights on the nearest house. It was the smallest of the six, situated at the very foundation of the mountainous island, and was the first along a winding dirt path. The man wondered briefly about whether he should expect to meet someone inside, as is often the case with hous-es, and whether the inhabitants would be hospitable. He was unperturbed by the notion, having never been one to pass up a gift from the sea. He pressed on.
The man soon arrived at the doorstep of the first great house. He lifted the cast iron door knocker and let it crash into the door. Judging by the weight, it was a wonder that the door didn’t simply slide off its hinges and fall inward. A moment passed and the man went to try again, but the door swung open, leaving his hand dangling in the air. He waved it in greeting to whomever had opened the door, but there was no one there. A booming voice echoed from the interior, “Come in.”
It had been a lifetime since the hermit had known the company of his fellow man, but it had always been his habit to accept such a familiar greeting. He entered without hesitation, and was guided down the hall by the voice.
It was a simple layout. Four large hallways illuminated only by thin, frosted windows, were arranged in a square around a central chamber. The chamber’s interior was furnished with a yellowing, moth-eaten sofa and a mahogany coffee table. The sofa was home to a middle-aged man dressed in a pear-green bath-robe. A long, white beard cascaded over his barrel-chest. The eyes resting between olive wrinkles were once loving and proud, but now showed only fatigue.
“Welcome,” sighed the bearded man. “Why have you come here?” Remaining in the doorway, the hermit designed a reply. He had long forgotten the tones of his voice, and was startled at the sound.
“I… come when I am called,” he said. The bearded man seemed to find some humor in this, but was too tired to spare a laugh.
“I miss people like you. But the world has no place for your kind any longer.” The hermit said nothing. “Since you are here now,” said the bearded man, standing from his tattered throne, “I suppose it is only appropriate that we should exchange names.” He extended a hand. “I am Ba’al El.” The hermit accepted his hand, but remained silent. “I see,” said Ba’al El, “but it is no matter. I shall call you what you are: The Hermit.
“Since you are here, you will make the pilgrimage to the top of the mountain. You will pay your respects to each of the six Lords of Isle Buyan, and only then you will know why you were called here.”
“Then will you remove the tree?” the hermit said. Ba’al El paused for a moment, then burst into boisterous laughter. As he ran out of breath, he wheezed to a halt and wiped a tear from his eye.
“Oh, how narrow is the scope of mortal vision!” he cried, patting the hermit on the back. “Thank you for that, it has been eons. You may go, Hermit.” Before the hermit could ask for an explanation, Ba’al El was sweeping him out the back door like so much unwanted dust. The hermit found himself on the path, and started down it apprehensively. Ba’al El called to him from afar. “Before you leave, I should tell you – it was not I who called you. It was my wife, Athirat. She awaits you up the road.”
The hermit could not recall the last time he had been subjected to such a palaver. Nor could he recall the last time he was led on such a bootless errand. But it did not make much of a difference, he thought, so long as he could get someone to remove that damned Driftwood Tree from his dear home.
Soon, he arrived at the second house. Beyond the granite stoop there was no door to open, so he let himself in and found an open room whose walls were lined with velvety skinned trees. The hermit was showered with the shafts of light peeking through the treetops above. At the center of the room was a thicker, older tree under which sat a woman draped in teal-blue vestments. The hermit approached her with his arms folded. He opened his mouth to speak, but was immediately interrupted.
“You stand in the house of Ba’al Athirat,” the woman said, speaking into the middle-distance. She fixed her gaze on the hermit as if noticing him for the first time and continued, “Hello!” The hermit was surprised at this. He dropped his arms to his sides and bowed his head in greeting. There was a long silence, which the hermit decided to break, but he was again interrupted as soon as he opened his mouth. “Yes, it is I who brought you here. Did you appreciate my gift?”
Afraid to attempt to speak, the man simply shook his head. Ba’al Athirat’s brows drooped like heavy branches. “It’s always a sad affair, it is, when I hear of people like you.”
Not wanting to offend her, the hermit amended, “I liked the tree… before it started speaking to me.” Instead of cheering her, this news brought only deeper sorrow to her face.
“Oh, don’t you know that’s exactly what I mean,” she sighed. “Those who are presented fine music and are utterly unmoved – such a sad affair.”
Oh, I was moved, the hermit thought, the corners of his mouth twitching wryly.
“Yes, it would seem so.” The hermit’s smile disappeared. “No, you need not say a word. I understand that you are tasteless, and that is why you are here. Since a man like you cannot appreciate the music, perhaps you will be better con-vinced by possessing an instrument.” Ba’al Athirat reached above her and broke off a budding branch from her tree. She held it out to the hermit, who looked on it with disdain. He made no motion to take it. “You need not keep it, you pitiable creature. You were lucky to have received the one.” She pointed the branch at the southern wall. “It is for Ba’al Mot, on the other side of the island. You will take it to him.”
Before the man could protest, he again found himself being sloughed away. In a matter of moments, he had been relocated to the path behind the house. The branch had found its way into his hand. He began to walk the path, glad to move on to the next house. Ba’al Athirat called to him from afar. “Listen for the music, Hermit!”
There was no music. Only wind weaving its way through the tall grass. The last music the hermit had heard was the soft tick-tack of his fishing lures in the breeze. Indeed, that was the only music he had heard for years. He held the sprig before his face and scowled at it. It whistled as it moved through the air.
The next house was upon him like a lion in wait. The door was made of an opaque glass the color of a starless, moonless night. There was no handle, so the hermit laid the weight of his hand on it, only to have it disintegrate into a thou-sand tiny particles and fly away on the breeze. Music poured out of the opening left behind.
The hermit stepped into the house and was engulfed in a torrent of drum beats, maracas, and the airy coo of a wooden flute. Tropical foliage decorated the room, the leaves of which blanketed the floor. A man dressed in a long black tailcoat was dancing around the center of the room. He sang wildly in time to the music. He howled as the flute fluttered away and chanted as the drums picked up. A furious chorus of ee-yah, ee-yah, oh-ee offered up from below and beyond, dissenting with one another in unison.
Without ceasing his gesticulations, the man bent over backwards and pierced the hermit with his silver gaze. He began to dance toward the hermit, waving his arms to the side. The music grew louder with each step, until the dancing man was upon him. Then everything was silent, and still, and the dancer was bowing before him.
“Welcome to the house of Ba’al Marqod,” he said. “You have come be-cause Lady Athirat thinks you cannot hear the music. But all you have to do is dance.” Ba’al Marqod snapped his fingers and the room became a lavish dance hall with red and white striped wallpaper and gem-encrusted walls. Marqod extended a hand to the hermit.
“I don’t dance,” the hermit said flatly, and began to walk to the exit. Ba’al Marqod suddenly appeared in front of him, blocking the door.
“We all dance,” he said. “You can’t very well help it.” Marqod offered his hand again. When the hermit made no motion to accept it, Ba’al Marqod snapped his fingers and a waltz began to emit from the walls. He seized the hermit’s hand and led him back to the center of the checkered marble floor. Despite the hermit’s struggle, Ba’al Marqod began to lead him about the room in long, sweeping movements. It was all the hermit could do to keep from fall-ing over himself. Just as he was feeling more humiliated than he ever had been, the violins swelled and he felt his breath leave him. Suddenly his care melted away, and his body melted too. He no longer felt tethered to the ground by his own weight. All he could feel was the movement of his extremities. Marqod said nothing, but the glint of his silver eyes danced with virility.
The two parted and continued to dance as the room turned back into a jungle, and the music as well. Marqod was a whirlwind of motion, upsetting the leaves on the jungle floor until they too danced. The hermit found himself jabbing at the air in all directions. He bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet and leapt into the air. Chanting swallowed him like midnight. The bodies of the voices materialized in a circle around the room. They wore tall wooden masks and flailed fern boughs, mimicking his dance in perfect unison.
They danced and danced, and the louder the music became, the closer the dancers circled. Soon everyone had crowded to the middle, and the hermit’s trance was broken. He was being pushed by the tribesmen, still flailing wildly with their master. A light appeared and obscured the trees from the hermit’s sight. It grew ever closer until it was all he could see. Then he was falling.
The music stopped. All was quiet as the hermit’s face threw up dust from the dirt road behind Ba’al Marqod’s house. His limbs blazed like limp sausages over the devil’s fireplace. But even as he stood and dusted himself off, he smiled. He noticed the wind pick up as he set off toward the fourth house, but heard only music. The fourth house had the words Ba’al Mot, Lord of Death engraved on the door. The hermit flung open the door without knocking. “Athirat, is that you?” came a voice. “Have you brought me a sprig from the Tree of Life?” The hermit entered, proudly presenting the sprig. He was glad to be rid of it. At the center of the room, which resembled Ba’al El’s house, stood a burly man with gray skin and a hairy chest. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and glistened with sweat. Ba’al Mot noticed the sprig. “Ah, yes, you can keep that for a while longer. I need only know that it is there – rather, it needs only me to be. Its place is at the top, with Moloch.” The hermit’s face revealed his disappointment.
Ba’al Mot continued, “I have no task or words of wisdom for you. I am just as you see me. But I must ask you something…” The hermit shrugged, ready for anything. “Why did you come to this place?”
Without hesitation, the hermit said, “To get rid of the tree.”
“Indeed. But why?” Ba’al Mot asked. Childish curiosity gleamed beneath his furrowed brow. “It will get rid of itself, in time. Why rush?”
“It speaks,” said the hermit. He felt a twinge of guilt as he remembered the words of Ba’al Athirat.
“So, it is not as you please? And so you must destroy it?” Ba’al Mot pressed.
“Isn’t that what you do?” the hermit asked. Ba’al Mot lowered his head in disappointment. Quietly, he led the hermit to the back door and bid him farewell.
As his guest was leaving, in barely a whisper, Ba’al Mot said, “I love every thing that I grant an end.”
The hermit didn’t have time to contemplate Ba’al Mot’s words before he came upon the fifth house. The most magnificent form awaited him inside. The room was a void which seemed to stretch beyond the bounds of the house. A woman slept upright in the center of the void, clothed in pure yellow light (which to mortal eyes looked strikingly similar to nakedness). Her raven-black hair caressed her shoulder blades, streaked with deep blue. The man looked on her and knew in that moment that he was in love, though he had never known the sensation before. He was paralyzed – utterly transfixed at her slender curvature, soft creamy skin, and the way she so gently breathed.
The woman’s eyes opened, already upon the hermit, and she bade him forth. Her voice was as clear as the sea was blue. The man hesitantly stepped forward, and felt he might weep at the woman’s presence as he drew closer. His heart was desperately trying to compromise between beating itself to oblivion and stammering to a halt. His thoughts raced as he tried to fathom exactly what was so breathtaking about the goddess before him. Not once did lust come to mind, even seeing the woman’s bare figure. He knew only that, in the broadest and most concise terms, this woman was the most beautiful person he would ever lay eyes on. She was the epitome of the perfect woman – nay, the perfect being. She parted her lips to speak.
“I am Ba’al Ashe,” she said, “wife of Mot.” The words struck the hermit’s heart like a white-hot arrow. His joy wrestled with sorrow knowing that his new love was already spoken for. He frantically searched for a solution, and found himself speaking automatically.
“But death is pitiable, my lady. He is naught for your beauty to bathe.” Ba’al Ashe’s face remained solemn.
“I love you as dearly as you dream,” she said, and the hermit’s heart became intransient. “But he will always be with me, and you are fleeting.” The hermit’s heart dropped and sank in a pool of bile. Ba’al Ashe approached him and laid a hand on the side of his face. “I have a task for you, my love,” she said. “Go quickly from this place. Though you will know great sorrow, know also that nothing lasts forever. After a parting, a meeting is sure to follow. The end ensures the beginning.” She leaned forward and delicately pressed her lips against the hermit’s. The fire of a thousand stars ignited inside him, and his thoughts blurred. “But you cannot stay here. It is not the way.” Before the hermit could protest, he felt himself being pulled away from his love. He did not beg to return, and lost himself to tears. He watched her face, pure and soft, dissolve into the night.
The hermit stood like a dead tree on the path. The last of the houses was before him. He felt like he had just awoken from a dream. A weight dropped from his hand and brought him firmly back to reality. It was the sprig. He retrieved it and pressed on, shivering from a breeze that had stirred up deep within him.
The sixth house had no door. The hermit stepped inside and found the place empty. It was quiet here, absolutely so, besides the soft tapping of the hermit’s feet upon the floor. The walls were red and gold, the floor charcoal-gray. A massive face, like the wooden masks of Marqod’s dancers, was sculpted into the back wall. Its eyes were aflame. Its mouth was stretched wide, revealing nothing but darkness.
The hermit had a notion to turn back, but the entrance had vanished. All that was left was to leave the sprig. But when he approached the darkness to offer it, he found himself swallowed up. It was like he had blinked and never opened his eyes. This was not a warming void. Suddenly, a light appeared, and the her-mit ran to it. He could no longer feel his body as he fell toward the light. When he finally reached it, he was plunged into blackness.
All that was there was the Driftwood Tree, from which a single branch fell.