The Hierophant

He said he had been kissed by a witch in a previous birth and spawned by a bitch in this one, waking to the grim reality of a brand new day and wringing the changes from shadows of the setting sun. He was everyman and he was none. Left alone to his thoughts of yesterday’s dreams, he waxed melancholy until the screams from his dubious nightmares roused him from that splendid solitude and he deigned to step into this reality that enveloped him in its womb-like comfort zone. And that was good enough for him – for now – this home.

Java didn’t really know him all that well, but there was that communication in bits and bytes and the weird thing about it was that a kind of a telepathic empathy evolved over time and through space and the bond was forged. When he finally materialized Java didn’t realize who exactly it was, but thought it must be the delivery man with the special resin that he ordered an hour before, but it wasn’t. It was The Hierophant. At least that was how Java said he introduced himself.

Thaaz right maan, he just walk up to me an say:

Hey Mister Jones, I’m the one.

I take a look at dis dude – he be wearin dis peaked cap, he got dis thang in his left hand, kinda look like a cross wit two extra horizontal bars. He make dis geschure to me wit his odder hand – kinda remind me of dat old hippy peace sign an he got dis chain round his waist wit two crossed keys hangin at de end of it. I don remember seein him before, so I wonder how he be knowin my ass:

Say maaan, have we met before?

Sure we have – if not in the flesh, at least in the spirit – if you see what I’m saying.

He pulls up a chair. We are at the Bambla Restaurant, which aint really a restauran, but more of a Bar dan anyting else. It be frequented mosly by da workin class – govermen clerks after work, som truck drivers, college students, construcshun workers – full of dat workin class ambience. It have dese freaky ol marble-top wrought iron tables – full blown antiques, wit dese ol style chairs an all. No one be payin attenshun to no one else in dis place – reeeal cool it be. Now dat he be at my table an he know who I am, I tell da waiter to get him a drink. He aks fo red wine an want somting sweet – like sacramental wine, he say. Dat waiter don know nuttin bout sacramental wine an tell da man dat all he have be beer, stout, arrack, gin, rum or vodka – all local. So he settle fo water. Da waiter know he mus be som weirdo, wit his triple-cross sceptre type thang in his hand an his straaange lookin cap – like a bishop’s number. Know what I mean? Anyway, he bring da water an leave. So I’m lookin at dis dude wonderin jus what sheet I be getting myself into now, when he tell me who he is:

I’m The Hierophant – the one who has been communicating with you.

The High –ro who??? Communicatin wit me?? When?

That’s right, mine is the voice in your head – the one that guides you. Hi-er-o-fant – the ‘solver of mysteries’. When? You know how when you are ‘thinking’ and you say something to yourself in your head? Yes? Well I am the ‘other’ voice – the one that you have the dialogue with. The one that points you in the right direction, sometimes against your better judgement – your guardian angel, in a manner of speaking.

Now I be shurre dis dude is on somting heavy an be on som kinda head-trip, eider dat or he be stark starin – but den how did he know my name? An how did he find me here at Bambla? Dese be da queschuns dat I be grappling wit. But I be decidin to play it cool, so I take anodder gulp of brew and get a roll-up goin. He refuse to smoke, but gets anodder glass of water. Den, not bein able to bear it no more, I aks:

Saay maan, I be wonderin how is it yo find me here?

He say nuttin, but pull out dis lil ol pack of cards out of his pocket an get me to shuffle dem. One look an I see dey be a pack of well-worn Tarot cards – da ‘Case’ deck, not da one done by ‘Waite’ like yo have. I pass him back dat deck an he fust wipe dat marble top wit dis sash type ting he wear aroun his neck  an den he lay dose cards. He tell me dat he be usin dat ‘Celtic’ method of divinin an den he tell me to tink of any queschun dat I be curious bout. Now yo know me, right? I be leavin allowances for straange happenins but I don give much count to dis mystical sheet cos I never seen it happen maself to be beyond doubt. Anyways, I decide to humor da Hiero-man. So I tink to maself – I be tinkin who dis dude be an how he get to me. So he lays dem cards out an chooses da King of Cups to be what he call ‘Da Significator’ da card dat represents da subjec – me. Anyways, to make a long story shorter, he do dat readin an he tell me a whole load of sheet – lot of it bein appropriate, but not reealy answerin my queschun – until da very end, dat is. He start to laugh an he put out his hand an introduce hisself – an den he answer dat queschun I have in ma head.

Java had been in communication with this guy in Florida who had been responding to the blog – a pretty far-out cat who was into the esoteric – the Tarot, Mysticism, the Quabalah, Magic, Astrology, Crowley, Theosophy, Krishnamurthi – you name it. And as the cyber-relationship developed, Eric had been fascinated by Java’s pieces on the country (this one) and the characters he described and had decided to visit and check it all out. Of course the first place he visited was The Café on Bareass Boulevard. Then he met Mo. One thing led to another until he located Java at Bambla and decided to play with him a bit before blowing him away. It ended up with the two of them heading back to the Boulevard and finishing a couple of bottles of Bristol Crème they picked up on the way there – the closest they could get to the taste of that sacramental wine that Eric craved in his role of The Hierophant – synonymous with the ecclesiastical function assigned to the card as described by Waite.

Truth is surely stranger, isn’t it? Or…?