The Ruins of Olympus

About them lay the ruins of a once great palace.
Unsurpassed. Isolated.
The room before the men was in the shape of a huge crescent.
Pillars that stood a hundred feet tall lined the outer curve, or back walls. Between the pillars massive thrones of gold, marble, silver, and carved from what appeared to be single massive gems.
One massive, central throne stood at the centre or middle back wall, braced by all the others and the pillars that separated them.
In the centre of it an image of a sun or star shining resplendent and defiant.
It was fashioned from some sort of shiny metal or alloy and stood a full half taller again than the other thrones..
No mortal man could rule from these thrones.
None had.
These were the thrones of the self styled gods of Olympus.
The Lords of the Fallen ones.
They had ruled here, hidden for epochs.
Here they had sat, looking down upon the world from this hidden place upon the peaks.
Jealously ruling over these animals called men. These lowly little things they saw as being unjustly gifted with death and thus the potential for a true immortality - true freedom.
These animals who could escape.
They who actually had purpose beyond this!This rage had been ever present in this cold, ancient place.
The walls themselves hated man and these men present.

The lords and their prince? What of them? One of the younger men had asked.
He was answered by the wisest man.
Sometimes they had stayed hidden, but known of in whispers.
For an age they had been worshipped and drank themselves drunken on rivers of sweet, innocent mortal blood. They had feasted on the scent of burnt beasts and babes. Grown strong an arrogant on the selfish wishes and curses of power hungry men and their ilk.
In other times, they had ruled like mighty kings and walked among men.
Other times again, they were hated and reviled -  seen for the craven, lovers of  death they are; but they were still greatly feared and still mighty in their influence and power.
Then came their final and most potent period, when they had, by the whiles of the their prince, convinced almost all men that they themselves did not even exist , and that men themselves were gods!
While they hid in plain sight,  they slaked their thirst for life.
They had ruled again, but invisibly - setting the world to the horrible new songs they sang.
But all that had ended.
These 'gods' knew it would.
They always did.
They had fled or been cast out when the changes had come.
They knew there was no escape, but they ran anyway.
They fled  as they had lived: In defiance of their origins.
Does a god do such things?
No.
These were not gods. That was a lie. A deception.
They were creatures.
Not mortal,
Not men.
Not gods.


Among the men in this place was a man of the ancient faith.
It was he who had spoken, it was he who had led them here.
He was the one who had been sent.
One who remembered the history of this place, of this palace.
One who remembered the lie, the blood, the corruption.
He knew the symbols and words of these mad creatures who had thought themselves above all,
He looked closely at the largest of thrones.
He examined the images about the base.
He climbed, with some help, to the seat and looked very closely at a symbol of an eye that had been covered or closed, near the pommel or hand rest.
It was a switch or trigger.
The man of the ancient book, depressed the eye. Nothing,
Then he moved it slightly to the right.
When moved the eye slid open- and so did something else!
A seem opened in the motives along the side of the throne. A thin line at first, moving down the image of a large horned animal's head and around a circular symbol. Then; Click.
A large opening, a full third the height of the main throne opened in it's side.
An arched door large enough to ride large horse through, that would require the giant prince of this throne to stoop.

This opening was the reason they had come to this forgotten place.
Hidden under the throne was a cut passage that led away to an even more secret place.
A place where the Prince of these 'gods' had come to curse and remonstrate his Father.
To justify his rebellion of pride.
To be jealous and harbour his hatred for those he felt below him.
To revel in his madness and corruption.

The passage itself was an absolutely smooth work in formed, black glass. But for the angles, it would have seen natural.
The only light came from even, clear slits reflecting the bright white of the peaks outside, and the distant blue glow of home in the eternally starlight, deepest night-blue sky of this place.

It was  long, a mile or more, but ended in a large, well lit room with a massive window out to the valleys, peaks, and massive misty craters far below.
In the top of the same window, the earth hung blue and white in the deepest blue star speckled sky.
From here the Prince could watch his prize.
In the centre of the room a dias or small table stood, the light of the windows casting shadows in the glass.
On it a single item.
The men gasped. Here it was, just as described.
What was this strange thing they looked at? A weapon?
The man of the ancient creed, smiled a small, secret smile.
This is what the King had sent them for.

It was a large, appeared to some as if  made of metal or perhaps some kind of  bone; beautiful in it's simplicity. It was said to have felt ancient. 
The object could have been some sort of sword, but the object before them was far more important. Much more primal. Designed for a much larger hand, by the master artificer.
It was ultimately simple and perfect; one of the original things.
It was a gift to the Prince of this place. This Palace of the Air.
A gift given an eternity ago, by the King.
It was, among many now unknown things, a tuning rod.
An instrument for setting a musical note when struck.
With such an instrument, a talented voice may train to sing in that note and all others like it.
But this rod was special.
The note it chimes is creative, potent, objective, real....
Unlike any other in reality.
This note, when sung by the right voice, in many ways was or is reality!
The keeper of the ancient code very carefully approached the dias.
His focus was singular.
He was resolute: Retrieve the rod for the King.
His eyes washed over each and every inch of the dark, glass surface below him.
He looked in it for signs of a trap, perhaps.
Maybe he expected to see some face or eyes looking up at him.
His path was clear. The glass perfect and smooth.
From behind him, he removed a sac lined with soft fur.
The rod must be returned to the King.

The singer of the old hymns knew the return of the rod would mean many things.
A father's gift had been hidden. Ingratitude had been expressed. Arrogance and abandonment.
The gift must be returned by the younger of the brothers.
By the brother known as Man.

Photographs i

The soldier was career.
Unlike the men he was meeting, he held a real rank.
Unlike them, he fought by a code and was subject to an oath.
This imbalance made the soldier nervous.
Civilians and civilian agencies made him nervous.

The old orange-red sea king shook in a kind of comforting, reassuring wave.
A common mind would perhaps fear it's coming to pieces.
But to the soldier, it was if the old aircraft had always hummed along, and always would.
The loud interior of the old helicopter was muffled by the antique looking white headset he wore.
He looked down on the landscape below.
It was twilight in the Arctic autumn afternoon. A pale pink broke into deep purple over his head, and faded into an navy, then a starry blackness to his north and east. It looked as if someone had torn half the sky away revealing a naked, bright universe beyond.
Down below was the Taiga. A dense forest of small pines that borders the edge of the vast grassy tundra. The trees were all covered in snow on their sides to the south, and it glowed a soft pinkish purple on them.

What on God's earth did these people want to meet here for?
He was two jump flights and this drop from Churchill.
Precisely in the centre of F.A. Nowhere.
The soldier was made curious.
He did not like being curious, but he was this time.
He has been serving in these capacities on leave for a few years now.
It was always strange, and often somewhere exotic - but here of all places? This assignment?

"Coming up on the marker, Sir"
The pilot crackled through the internal communications.
But there was another sound the soldier recognized. The pilot did not mention it, but there was a klaxon sounding on his panel that signified they were entering controlled or restricted air space.
An installation out here? Never heard of it.  The soldier's mind raced to think of anything he had heard. Any rumours?
Nothing.
Damn it!

The craft swung about near a large clearing on the edge of the Taiga.
As it lowered to a hover in the still, freezing air, the snow swirled below.

"You're good to go, sir! Godspeed. We'll be on stand by."
The pilot again.
The soldier grabbed his gear. Zipped up his winter kit, pulling on his neo gloves and mask so that no skin was exposed. Moments later he forced the icy door open, and dropped out into snowy clearing surrounded by the short, last woods in the world.
The old sea king swooshed up and veered away into the black. The purple began to quickly fade.
Night was fast approaching.
The soldier opened his first bag. In it were two beacons.
Two signals.
The first was to be used here and now.
It was a black and metal cylinder with a yellow line.
He slid it open and pressed a small button in the centre.
An amber light began to pulse.
Total silence. The flashing beacon.
The snow. And the stars.
So still.

The soldier looked about for a tree to create a wind shelter.
The weather can change rapidly at the edge of the world.
He was hacking away some lower branches and clearing the snow when he thought he heard movement.
Instinctively, the soldier stopped dead in his tracks.
He could hear it quite clearly now.
Whomever they were, they did not care if he or anyone else could hear them, he thought.

He stated very still and eventually two people in very civilian looking gear walked out of the woodlands into the clearing.
One of the tourists walked out, obviously unaware of the soldier.
He held up his own, identical, beacon.
"Man, he's not here. What happened?" barked the tourist with the beacon.
"He's about, just maybe off course and like homing in or something." replied the plump looking tourist in red.
Who the hell are these clowns!? thought the soldier.

They were in his sites now.
"Raise your hands slowly and make no sudden moves, do you understand me?"
The soldier used his most calm and reassuring tones.
The tourists complied.
The red one with a gasp.
The soldier approached each one, assuring them he just wanted to confirm their identity.
They fumbled about and produced card ID badges.
They checked with the data kit on hand.
So far, so good.

"Sorry about that, Gentlemen. I have pretty specific orders about the explicit need for discretion."
"Oh, that's okay... er officer?" The red one muttered nervously.


"You can call me Lieutenant, if that makes it easier..."

"Well, Lieutenant we had better get into camp before night falls properly. She's dropping down real low tonight." Now the one with the beacon spoke. "I am doctor .... mmm... Smith. This is doctor ---"
"McCoy!" Interjected the fat red suit.
His goggles peered at the other two.
"Oh come on, we know the names are bullshit. What's wrong with McCoy?"
"All right, Bones" snickered the soldier.
"Yeah! Works for me." Bones exhorted.

The soldier followed the two doctors as they made their way back along the trail they had come along.
They did not need to go far.
Soon enough the thin trail they followed fell down into a small valley or depression. Here the trees grew to a slightly higher ten or twelve feet. In the far end of the valley was a sloped concrete and steel door.
The soldier was amazed.
All the way out here?

Doctor Smith, as he was to be known, walked to the right side of the door and moved his hand about.
A small panel opened and inside the Doctor pushed or pulled on something.
The steel doors cranked open; a small layer of ice shattering as they did.
The men entered the doorway to find themselves inside a kind of airlock. A plain metal room between inner and outer doors.
The seals and rivets made the room look old.
The outer door closed and sealed. The temperature began to rise and the doctors took off their kit.
He could see their faces now.
One of them was a fat kid.
The other guy looked like a slightly saner and younger version of Bill Nye.
Both of them had a decent tan.

Who on earth are these people?
What on earth would be buried out here in the middle of fucking nowhere?
Why send me?
The soldier's confusion and curiosity was only compounded when the old steel interior door slid open....

The blind painter.

A man went to the painters apartment to ask him some questions. On the freshly painted door was the word 'Artist'.
The man entered and asked the painter, 'Why do you use the word artist instead of painter?'
'For there is only one true art, and that is the painting of images. Do you wish your image preserved?'
The man thought for a moment and asked, 'What about sculptures and busts?'
The painter replied, 'There is no real or true sculpture, only carvings in rock. These rock carvers are no artists, they do not understand how to properly preserve an image. They make idols and stones for temples well enough, but they cannot make art. They do not paint.  How can you see colour in a rock? Men who believe in true sculpture are deluded and live in an illusion.'
The man nodded politely and smiled, but not he did not quite agree.
He somehow felt restricted by these ideas.
The man crossed the studio and looked at the remarkable detail in the paintings hanging on the wall.
He spoke before he could think better, '...and what of the poet?'
'HA!' said the painter, who looked as if the idea upset him.
Red faced he spat, 'Those fools? They would not recognize art it if was their own mother! They simply mix words and make pretty sounds like birds. They cannot preserve your image, as I can.'
This last thing was true, thought the man.
He agreed to the fee and paid the painter with silver coins.
Afterwards the man observed the painting. It was extremely accurate and absolutely normal looking. It looked as if he had seen it many times before. It looked almost real, but it wasn't.
'Now THAT is art!' Said the painter with pride.
The man gave his thanks, and left.
As he stood in the front of the apartments looking at his painting he wondered to himself.
He could see no fault in the works of the painter. It looked as if he stared into a mirror.
But there was something lacking.
He began to wonder of the painter had somehow missed something.  Something a sculptor may have given form to, or a poet may have felt and sung. Some aspect of the soul that could only be perceived as a whole, by an artist - not merely a technician of great skill.
The man looked back to the painters door and the word 'Artist'.
Now that he looked closely he could see that there was words below those words; covered up in a  coat of fresh paint were older titles. Layers of them.
He could not make out much of it, but some words were clear enough to read beneath the pigment.

Positivist.
Monist.
And in large letters, but much worn down: Atheist.
The man now understood.
The painter was blind.

P. S. G.,Fr Veritas
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