The Fountain of Neaera

To the north, near the shoreline, there is a winding path that runs along a creek, 'round a lagoon, and into a garden that is warm and bursting with life no matter the season. At the center of this immortal garden rest a fountain belonging to the nymph Neaera. And there, hidden in among the forever blooming flowers, is also an effigy of Pan who is said to frequent the garden himself to gather drops of the enchanted water.

I'm set to travel to this garden tomorrow in order to collect a vile of the same waters and bring it back to the Altar of Hera. The vile of water from the Fountain of Neaera is but one ingredient in a potion that I'll write of later.

The coming adventure is in stark contrast to the rusty, drab landscape seen when obtaining the Hammer of Hephaestus. The forested path and hidden garden are the personification of the enchantments (and dangers) of classical beauty. It is the type of place that inspires lamenting poetry, where travelers begin to dream dreams and see the apparitions of loves that never existed and almost were. The type of place that assaults the heart and lulls the soul with sweet music. Enticing one to lay down and sleep in order to dream until death. An enchanted isle of precious moments, as intoxicating and warm as the arms of a beautiful woman.

Neaera's enchantments over her fountain and the garden that surrounds them manifests as whispering voices on the breeze, hidden, illusive, as if it were the flowers themselves that were quietly singing the gentle lullaby. Makes the mind wonder of hidden mysteries and soft, delicate shadows. Makes the heart aches for hearth and home. But also awakens something much more primal deep within the soul.

Neaera's smile sets fire to the resolve of men. Burning them up from the inside out. They see her reflection in the waters of the fountain. So crisp, so pure. They feel an overwhelming need to run to her, to embrace her, to feel her warm touch. But the pool is unforgiving, unkind, cold. It breaks the apparition with icy fingers and those who have lost their hearts to fair Neaera drown in their sorrows long before they drown in the liquid crystal waters of the fountain where their dreams appeared so clearly.

No fault to fair Neaera for the weaknesses within the hearts of men.

How often are such themes repeated throughout myths and the world? The dangers of beauty and the downfalls brought forth by lust. It was even the downfall (and rise) of Great Pan who's honor and effigy I will also capture on film within these gardens. There is no heavenly light so pure, nectar so sweet, nor poision so deadly as that of a beautiful woman. That kind of undeniable beauty that invokes both passion and hatred, weakens and strengthens, offers hope and can take all hope away. It can make the souls of men immortal, their power otherworldly. And in the very next moment, can scatter them like burning leaves.

Beautiful, intoxicating, fair Neaera who's enchanted fountain is the sum of infinite kisses and the long warm embrace. Kind only to the heart that's true, honorable, worthy. Who's will is stronger than the fires of lust - to be cooled and tempered by the icy spring.

To such she grants her kiss, her blessing, her healing touch. One small measure is all that is required. Drops and nothing more to carry one through for the rest of their days. Ever remembering the dream, forever feeling the glowing warmth from within.

A nymph to be sure. Full of allure and desire, passion and love. A magical creature as is any beautiful form that inspires poetic notions and life itself to burst forth around it simply because life itself feels that same primal pull. Always hungry, always needing more, always desiring to be ever closer to that golden glow. To feel the warmth of the sun reflected off of her skin, to feel the light that radiates only from her eyes, to feel the entire world soften at her slightest touch, to know the unspeakable meaning of love - found only in a kiss.

Dangerous.
Vital.

A long embrace before the long journey to come.

For Glory

As eventful as writing this story can be, more times than not weeks will pass before there is really anything worth recounting. This is not the telling of a tale that is based on a singular experience or muse. It didn't happen "one day" or even over the course of a few months. It's been going on now for years.

But, in all of that time, I have never hesitated or lost the motivation to keep going. It's become part of normal, everyday life. Ingrained into everything from work to play. Always there, always happening bit by bit.

It has made life more interesting and colorful. No where near common, never dull, never mundane, hardly meaningless. There is suffering, hardships, wounds and scars. There is the outcastishness that comes with the part. Stories for blogs and private journals. Never really fitting for idol conversation over coffee. Entertaining in one light I suppose. The Journeybook interactive page where the video series is primarily presented remains active enough. The video collection for this very story alone contains nearly 90 entries with viewers daily. They read, they watch, they remain silent.

It is a rare thing in the pagan community to see stories such as this. The ever growing number of people who lay claim to a connection with old gods. Most of them lost, confused, alone. Searching for some sign of hope in a darkening grey world. Sad, shallow, half-hearted efforts - no stories to tell.

The Spring rains have come, slowing things to a crawl, reminding me of how exhausted I am. The kind of exhaustion that only the path can bring. A kind that sleep will never resolve. A long road traveled, the end still far away. The exhaustion comes from that knowing. A constant testing - the gods asking how deep your faith goes, how boldly you might back your claims on them. Many fail the test.

They comes into this with all of the energy and passion of a renewed soul. They burn out quickly. They don't have it in them to endure, to remain focused, to stay driven. They still make there claims but there is no longer effort there. No more rituals, no more energy, nothing left to say, no will left to search. They fall silent, apathetic, forgotten.

Daily - the candles are lit, oils and incense burned, new votives offered, weapons sharpened and polished, stones carved, maps studied, pieces written, photos taken, video edited and presented to the eyes of the world. Every day, year after year, tale after tale even when there is no tale to tell. Amidst it all - time capsules, most made by and for whatever community I might find myself in. I travel to them, add in tokens, letters, pieces of this same story that will not be seen by mortal eyes again for another 200 years. Long after I am dead and gone, long after this very recounting and the video documentations cease to exist less it be recreated over and over again by the hands and voices of someone else.  But the stones were carved, tantalizing pieces locked away. Luring, enticing, full of questions and wonder. An investment into the curiosities of men. A thought that what we do today will be the myths and archeological quests of the future.

A farm boy who became a pagan king. A king who defied a God for the love of a Goddess. A journey spanning thousands of miles full of beasts, magic, mystery, unexplainable manifestations, mortal wounds, and epic victory.

Classic. Timeless. Immortal.

A life well spent. 

Even as I am writing this hundreds of new photos from this story have been sent out into the world in different places and left to the imaginations of whomever might lay eyes on them. From there they will spread out. Copied, shared, renewed over and over again with no further effort on my part. an advantage of the technological age. easy today to scatter the pieces like leaves on the wind until they encircle the entire world.

And then there is you, dear reader, who happened upon this be either chance or destiny and have read this far from whatever distant land you are in. I will show you things you have never seen before and never will again. You've discovered a tale that will never have an ending even if I were to die today. I've already traveled too far. Death would only deepen the tale.

Bound in mortality and  life, by year's end I will still hold lightning in my hands and the event will echo like thunder. I will have turned rain into wine and drink of storms from my cup. I will have put my pagan crown up against the might and will of Zeus and I will have defeated him. I will do all of this in front of a live audience who will witness and be a part of each step in the journey. I will present it to the eyes of the world in every medium. I will be filled with pride in the accomplishment.

And then, I will still have to go back to doing dishes, laundry, cleaning my house, and pretending to be a normal guy... as best I can.

Winter will come again. The months of questing over for a time. And in those dark winter months I will grow restless and begin to dream of adventures once more. This is the path and the life it brings.

Endless. Everlasting. Renewed like the seasons themselves.

A beautiful, glorious life. Too rich not to share.

The Hammer of Hephaestus

"Hard to fight the Olympian strength for strength."

Hephaestus, The Rage of Achilles, p.IXV II 

And so it was that the journey continued onward, heading first north through the valley of forges. Many of which have long since been abandoned and left to ruin. A rocky, reeking, poisoned, narrow stretch of land, stained in the blood of iron itself, going on for miles. Hard to travel, harder still to capture.

It was in this vile valley where there lay an island of ivy beneath a high bridge, just to the east of the river. Into the ivy a concrete stairway with crescent moon landings and there at the top, silver and shining with a gleaming black handle lay the Hammer of Hephaestus which in its hard kindness brought brilliant color to the landscape.

Why north when the ultimate goal lay far to the south? Far down the river valley, beyond that great waterfalls where the Sisters of Fate dwell, far beyond the climb and deep into the forested ancient sea bed where the earth itself was ripped apart in some ancient battle with the elements and never ending pull from the heart of the earth. Why north? Why this wretched valley of iron and waste to claim a forgotten hammer of the lame God? 

"Hard to match the Olympian strength for strength." Hephaestus said. It would take more, much more and as the journey continued Zeus himself made it a point to have his attentions felt. Conjuring up day after day of thunderstorms and hard rains. But he had manifested the tempests too late, his move was seen before he had made it. 

North, beyond the iron valley of the forges, lay a long stretch of blessed green where garden after garden, full of fountains, flowers of every kind, and ancient trees represent the great nations of the world and the many cultures that came to tame this land. It is in the stretch of life where rests a garden crafted by Greece itself. 

Two Doric columns frame the garden's entrance, opening into a plaza containing a reflecting pool, offering a perspective on a wall and pylons, which symbolize the wall of the Parthenon. Stone tablets on that wall and pylons are inscribed with the names of prominent Greek artists, philosophers, writers, and scientists: Solon, Ictinus, Callicrates, Phidias, Aristophanes, Pericles, Euripides, Sophocles, Aeschylus, Homer, Praxiteles, Zeuxis, Apelles, Myron, Lysippus, Scopas, Sappho, Socrates, Anaxagoras, Aristotle, Plato, Aristarchus, Demosthenes, Pindar, Archimedes, Herodotus, Xenophon, Thucydides, Euclid, Hippocrates, Ptolemy, Pythagoras, Polycletus, and El Greco.

Framing the symbolic wall are two paths that encircle it, leading to sandstone terraces, lavishly planted with ilex, coloneastus, myrtle, and sweetbay, with cedars and Lombardy poplars giving the impression of cypresses. 

The Hammer of Hephaestus is to be taken there. It's strength combined with the sacred waters of the fountain and a three measures of the blessed waters taken. The first measure it to be brought back to the Altar of Hera as a votive offering. The second measure is to be used in an ritual anointing - to make the flesh strong, the will - hard as iron, and award strength as fierce as the Hammer of Hephaestus itself. The final measure is to be placed in the altar room until the final journey is to be undertaken. Cool, healing waters imbued with immeasurable blessings to aid in the quest.

The journey is taking us counterclockwise around the 60 mile radius of the stone votives circle cast last year. Symbolic of traveling back in time, relearning, gathering strength, increasing endurance, making amends for the past defeat. A test of the will, a test of the heart. Long, hard, exhausting. But not so much as the long path that lay behind - the year after year of this singular theme that began with something as delicate as a feather. 

A long way left to travel with every step in defiance of Zeus, weakening his ancient bond on Hera. Zeus takes note, sends forth his storms, thunder, and lightning. And with the coming of the torrents a crystal bowl, taken from the Altar of Hera is placed in the rain. A single measure for each storm cast - taken and placed bowl by bowl, storm by storm, into a sacred vase. Once full the waters taken from Zeus's storms will be combine with the waters taken from the garden fountain, transformed, turned into golden honey wine - lightning and thunder in a bottle. Seal with blood red hard wax and presented to Hera. 

The journey, the sacrifices, the votives, the recounting of the tale for the eyes of the world to witness old Gods on new streets - Hera grows stronger with each tribute and Zeus weaker with each step of defiance. His conjurings and manifestations shrugged off, claimed, bent and twisted to advantage. Cunning, peerless, unheard of in the modern age. 

A fitting end.