Trees of Change (Review) – Robert Raymond's Blogtorium
When Life and Death Cross Tracks. Until now.
As he investigates a supposed suicide by train, he learns secrets of a murder that took place eighty years ago may directly affect his case. Free when you sign up for my newsletter here! Or, you can find it inside The Library The novel, that is. Because of reader demand, the follow-up novel to The Depot is now available for the next chapter in the life of Detective Mark Waters, along with the background on our Pennsylvania ghost. The Library. This is interesting and leads to wondering about how, exactly, Yesod governs all of Briah; most specifically, how Yesod governs the solar system of Urth and Urth itself.
Because it seems clear to me, at least that Yesod is keeping probationary control over Briah. The "heptarchs" referred to might very well be the planetary and stellar Yesodic viceroys controlling the key worlds i. Aquastor, or Aquaster, is an esoteric term coined and used by Paracelsus. It denotes an entity formed by the power of a concentrated thought. This being can obtain a life of its own and can even assume physical form. The aquastor is astral in nature and does not possess spiritual characteristics. Rather, it is controlled by the mind of the person exercising willful imagination.
If the imagination of the creator is strong, but unbalanced, the Aquastor can still come into being, but cannot be wielded. Examples of such uncontrolled Aquastors are the Succubus and the Incubus. This suggests that the story of the Student and his Son is an exemplar for the creation of an Aquastor. In ancient Greek literature, an eidolon plural: eidola or eidolons is a spirit-image of a living or dead person; a shade or phantom look-alike of the human form. Back to New Sun Universe page. Back to The Book of the New Sun main page. Search :. View Edit Discuss History Print.
Aquastors and Eidolons: A Discussion. And with that look, and that look alone, they moved the stone and let in the light. Through their unfurled wings, I could see her. I watched her fall to her knees. Watched her face grow pale and the basket held in her arm fall to the ground. I saw the spices and oils spill into the dust. The pain was there, still. Holes in my wrists where hammer had met nail and nail had torn flesh and cracked bone.
Journey to the Past
Holes in my feet. Wounds that still stung and bled where thorns had pierced and stabbed and ripped. And my back and my shoulders still wept, the skin peeled from the muscle, and the muscle no longer clinging to the bone. I wanted to weep. Life was agony. Every step was agony. Every breath was agony. I remembered you and your Darkness.
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How I took the knife to your throat and sawed deep. And how, in time, in not very much time, the blood stopped and the wound healed and it was no more. I wanted to fall into her arms and weep. I was dead, I wanted to say again. I was dead and now I walk and there is pain, so much pain, too much pain.
List of apocalyptic and post-apocalyptic fiction
Do you not see the flesh hanging from my back? And the jagged wound, here, where the spear cut my side? Do you not see the flesh cut and peeled back and bleeding again? And then I saw her again. Saw the fear in her eyes, the terror growing as she watched me stumble closer, my wounds running red. Her eyes looked at the holes in my hands and how they bled. And then at where the nails pierced my feet and how they, too, bled, the blood dripping to stain the ground where I stood. There was a scream in my throat. A howl of such rage that, were I to open my throat and give it a voice, it would tear Jerusalem in two and pierce Heaven itself.
I wanted to quiet her tongue. Grab her face in my bleeding hands and squeeze. Watch her skin blush and the panic grow in her eyes and feel her hands grip mine as she fought for release. Hear the bone crunch and feel it splinter and see the eyes pop from her skull and feel her perfect white teeth snap in her mouth as I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed. No one knew the pain I felt. If she knew the pain, she would understand my rage.
And she would forgive. I stood silent instead, tears on my cheeks, my body weeping, the wounded flesh stinging with each breath as I stood in the bright sun. I nodded.
Could she not see the angels? Did not these silent ones with their wings unfurled shock her or surprise her or cause her distress or fear or terror? She rose, her body still bowed, and then turned to start down the road, the linen flapping between her legs as the walk turned to a small run, her head looking back again and again as she grew smaller and smaller in the distance.
Yes, go, Mary, I wanted to shout. Go before the pain becomes too much and my soul breaks and I tear you limb from limb and rip your body in two. Not necessarily because of the experience the Reader will go through — they did sign up for it, though, so… — but more because of what I put the characters through.
For better or worse, I feel deeply for people who exist solely on the page. Very real. They are telling their stories.
And, for better or worse, those stories follow me. Poke into my thoughts months, years, after being told. The consequences of what I create keep me awake at night.