Hi all
Another McAllister’s Mates where I tell you about one of the many great writers on Substack that I have stumbled upon and become enthralled by. This week the story of how I met Jeanne Vessantra. Oh I could give the usual story about following a link to another link and stumbling upon his profile, but the truth of our first meeting is much stranger and more wonderful than that, perhaps now dear reader you are ready for that truth…
Jeanne Vessantra
The stones jutting from the lane’s ramshackle course were an irritant, but no deterrent. Just like the author’s warnings in my much loved meditation guide “The Shining Paths” they would not stay my course.
“Do NOT attempt meditation or pathworkings at ancient sacred sites, especially not at night and especially not on the ancient festivals. You have no idea what happened there or what still lingers.”
Words for the weak, cowardly, and unskilled - not for me! Here I was walking to the Hags’s Chair Dolman on Samhain night, drunk on my own perceived wisdom and power - a skilled and experienced Astralnaught.
‘The Hag’s Chair’ - arrogant upstart that I was, I had at least gathered enough true knowledge to be offended and saddened by the title. Uncouth mockery thrown by the blind and intolerant who ridicule that which would threaten their shallow and crude ‘understanding’ of the world. ‘Hags’ who wove their subtle but awe-inspiring powers with the infinitely complex rhythms of the world, Queens who held sovereignty and a lineage beyond any king on his tin throne - chair indeed!
The night air was heavy with the scents of late autumn, rotting leaves and decaying berries collapsing into mulch. Ghostly colonies of mushrooms rising like shrubbery gone insane. The Dolman stood before me, the stones gleaming in the moonlight - no marble temple stood so intimidating or beautiful.
I settled under the great stone roof and breathed deeply. I visualised a flight of stairs ten steps down ending in a great door. The image held a sharpness I was unaccustomed to, which I dismissed as my growing powers. I opened the door…
I felt my awareness split - geography a jig, latitude and longitude - notes on the lyre. I had thought myself an astral traveller. Now she’s teaching me the true meaning of “between the worlds”. Oh that first story! She who tutored the Muses! Even as my awareness split across time and space, every fibre was drenched in the beauty of her song. A million eyes cried a million tears yet I was more unified and joyful than all my years upon the earth. I was no longer of the earth, I was every sea and city and yet I was whole. I was safe and held in her arms, but listen let her voice tell you better than I ever could.
I recovered to a single point of focus, though my expanded awareness remained - the first of her gifts. She spoke (the first of the many astral beings I’ve met to speak in audible words - I WAS in deep!), I have shown you the horizon - now I will show you the depths.
A chasm opened beneath my feet and I fell - the heat came in waves. This time I was central, fixed and overwhelmed - oh to spread myself safe through those hidden cities. The fires circled into an eye then a face, the hissing and roar became a name - “Dante”! I saw the waves of heat become red roses, yellow daffodils then white lilies. Then we danced - across the moon, through the desert, under bleeding stars watched by hallucinations. Listen to Dante’s words:
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The fires cooled and the pit became an observatory, fresh cool airs steadying my racing emotions. I have shown you the horizon and the depths - now witness the heights.
I rise high into the stratosphere, this is not just an expansion of my own awareness, nor just recognition of the unknown. I rise into the sky and I fill it, yet a million more points of awareness stare back into me. The sky is anxious a million nervous miles, quivering clouds in a stair that rises into higher, stranger states I move so fast I am immobile. Still. Calm. Void.Not empty - waiting. She dances that ‘hag?’, ‘angel’ - empty words repeated, not the felt words of the poets- certainly not her words. She is before me - I am ready. Now there is hope and joy - glass and flicker, light and peace.This is the song she sings:
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I stand before the door back to my waiting body. “Child!” I turn. She stands tall before me, stern but kindly, amused yet concerned. “You were fortunate tonight. You chose this place and hour well but I am not always here and other things take advantage of my absence. Still, many are even more misguided than you in your time. I have learned many things from many worlds but now I must return to guide you. Those of you who would listen. The world is on a knife edge. Go home now. You may help me soon enough.”
My eyes snapped open. The cold bit deeply into my body, having remained still for so long. The sensation felt oddly distant though, more like a stirred memory of cold or a reciprocal shiver from seeing someone else caught in a storm. Was I still under the Dolman dreaming? Had I left some part of me there? Yes. I could still feel the cold. Touch the grass and the stones, but I seemed to be almost watching events from a distance. It felt like hearing my voice echoing back to me in a great cave. My phone buzzed with a notification. Now I had DEFINITELY switched the damn thing off - my meditation was NOT to be interrupted. I read the text “New mystical poetry from Echo of I”. I smiled. She did say she was coming back to teach us…
I hope you enjoy these beautiful works as much as I enjoyed reading and writing about them.
You can meet some of my other friends in the previous instalments: 41 40 39 38 37 36 35 34 33 32 31 30 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Substack has proven to be a treasure trove and I already have another gifted writer lined up for my next review newsletter.
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A personal favorite of mine.