Post after post of the Oak King will stand straight and
tall on the arcane ley line. And around
each post I will wrap a thick rope. Not
just any rope, but an unbreakable nautical line, the kind that wizened old
sailors embrace because they know the value of the line and entrust it with their
very lives. I will wrap the thick rope
around the oak posts, and even the old Oak King will bow to the rope and say,
“Aye! The best in the world has been
bested!” They will become fast
friends. And November will grow colder still
and the fence will grow longer, because that is what fences have a tendency to
do, especially in November in Maine.
And there will be an anchor as well. Yes, an anchor on the land, holding down a
fence that cannot be moved and a rope that cannot be broken. But one cannot have enough safeguards, and the
symbolism alone will be enough to frighten off all but the strongest of ley
hunters as they search for the pattern.
I will wrap the rope around the huge anchor, starting at the bottom and
going up in a spiral. And the Caduceus
of Mercury will stand in broad daylight, but no one will know because no one is
paying attention. They are on the other
side of the fence, after all, so how would they know? And besides, they have their own Double
Helix, and in the end, there is no difference.
As above, so below. But I will
not concern myself with them because it is November, and I must build my fence
quickly now.
At long last after a great deal of effort, the fence will
be finished. I will be on one side and
the world will be on the other, and we will agree that it is a fine fence, the
finest ever made, a decoration on the landscape. The secret ley line will be drawn out and
hidden in plain sight—as are all of the darkest secrets in this world—an energy
line of such power, it could burn the entire world to cinders. But in the end, it is just a map of my own
heart anyway, and there will be no burning of the world—this time. After all, one must know how to read maps,
and surely that is a disappearing talent in our modern world of clever, sterile
geniuses.
People will look at the fence and say, “It is a very fine
fence, a very safe fence. You have done
well in corralling yourself.” Then they
will return to the pasture and the true corral.
What good is a fence if you have nothing to fence in (or out)? The fence must do its job, and the world is a
willing volunteer led to the slaughter along the boundary line. Only the ley line hunter knows how to scale the
fence.
I languish in November now and it is cold and it is time
for fences again. So be it. The warmth of friendship follows the sun, and
he is nowhere to be found. They say he
went out west, but my eyes could never gaze at his brilliance anyway. I am tired.
It is a time for deep introspection within the safety of November’s
fence. No one need know the secret lying
in plain sight.
