For the first time, Fortis noticed insects. The polar island had been devoid of anything except grass. Though George had mentioned the possibility of predators, they had seen no sign of life other than themselves and the coursers. He had spotted a few sea birds while sailing, and there were just a few more randomly wheeling over the harbor. He wondered if any of flying insects would bite, but no one else seemed concerned, not even having to wave them off. They were simply there.

The man called Francis led Fortis and George through the large open doorway of the shipping warehouse. Through the gloom of the windowless open space, Fortis spied another opening on the opposite side, a rather solid gate over a doorway too wide for simple human traffic. The other side must have been somewhat open, because in the light he could see wisps of dried grass scattered on the stone floor, rather like the fodder they had given the coursers during the voyage north from the polar island. The three of them mounted an airy but solid wooden stairway up, Fortis trailing. He heard the sound of the coursers planting their heavy feet on the pavement, then watched them being led in the wide doorway as one of the young workers trotted ahead to open the gate. From this angle, over the backs of the animals he could also see the warehouse was filled ceiling to floor with racks and shelves, and broad aisles. His last glimpse was of long, thin curved planks, and what appeared to be the tip of a pontoon.

They entered the upper story almost dead center in the long building. A row of chairs backed on the railing, similar to the chairs George left packed in the wagon, but with heavier frames. The fabric was more carefully tailored to accommodate the human form, and there were armrests. The chairs faced an unpolished, but very finely crafted wooden counter, separated by a wide space of what looked like seamless ceramic flooring, buffed in the center where traffic was the heaviest, semi-reflective elsewhere. After arranging the baggage on the counter, Francis ducked behind a curtained opening into a back room.

Francis glanced out the back window over the stairs and saw a tent awning over what he took to be the corral. To his left was on open doorway and what appeared to be offices of some sort. In the other direction was a partially enclosed dining area, with an open buffet of some sort, as steam was rising from parts of the counter. Brightly colored serving handles stood at various angles just barely in line of sight. Smells of cooked food teased him. Three large tables with stools scattered about them were currently empty. Fortis estimated the evening meal was not so far off, and wondered what combination of workers or guests ate here. There was a window on the far wall. In the distance were several tents, some over frames he guessed were permanent.

His attention returned to the counter as Francis brought out first two very slender pack frames, which Fortis recognized by the curvature. There were a number of quick release straps of various widths. An assistant brought out another frame with small wheels, and a folded handle. He placed it on the floor at the end of the counter, disappeared inside the curtain only to pop back out with two slender bags, colored bright orange.

George turned to him, with one hand on the counter. Pointing to the rig where Francis was fastening the folded tent over the long orange bags, “Those are hammocks. In the forest the insects and other creatures like to climb into your warm bed if you are on the ground, or even on a raised cot. Forest rangers maintain camping spots where there are pairs of large trees spaced for tents and hammocks. The bright color is to prevent them getting lost in the half light of morning when we pack up.”

Fortis fingered the padding on one of the pack frames on which now a bedroll and a near empty pack was attached. Fortis had never been an athlete, nor had he been particularly lazy. But the extent of his physical exertions until now had been the automated training devices which stimulated the muscles while he lay quiescent, spooling yet more anthropological studies into his brain. Once or twice he had visited planets where walking was more common, but nothing like several days of hiking. He had already discovered muscles on the journey so far, and his body seemed to respond, but he was past his prime. Still, he was determined to face what ever was ahead, seeing George was obviously quite a bit older.

George responded to the unspoken question on Francis’ face, “Lance.” He turned to Fortis. “I take it you have nothing which resembles military training?”

Both is eyebrows shot up as Fortis shook his head. “Only the typical rough and tumble of boys and their wild imaginations of improbable combat skill.”

George chuckled. “In my experience, people with virtually no skill can still make reasonable use of these.” Francis laid along the length of the counter a pole made of that marvelous light wood. The center half was textured for gripping, and the diameter was a comfortable grip, indeed. One end slightly tapered, with an abrupt point. The other end smoothly tapered to a pale off-white tip. Rising back from this sharp point was a wicked trio of blades, long as an extended hand, each a half-finger width at the back, and barbed.

Fortis touched an edge lightly with his finger. It was sharp, but not like a razor. “What is this material?”

“Specialized ceramic. Only in the desert region can we produce enough heat to fuse the ingredients together, but it’s as hard as almost any metal, without being brittle.”

Fortis grasped it below the tip, leaned a little weight on it. Tilting his head toward it, “And just why is it so important I carry a weapon?”

George looked falsely pained by the implication he was hiding something from him. “Why, Fortis — there are predators in the forest.” Then he smiled slyly. “More than one kind.”

There was excited shouting from the pier. Someone was out on the end, calling back to several others in front of the first solid man-made building Fortis had seen so far. He could just make out carefully stacked stones in varying shades of gray on the lower floor, and what appeared pale yellow-brown wood on the second. The peaked roof was almost black, like slate. From inside the large open door on the bottom floor, directly facing the pier, came running several other figures. Unlike George, with his robe down below the knees, these wore uniformly shorter garments, cut just above their knees. They also had more color than George’s somber gray and brown. While the elder had small hints of red and green, these men wore various shades of blue and purple, with yellow trim. Fortis’ anthropologist frame of reference drank in the details of the scene.

The young men on the end of the peer were waving and chattering as they lifted long poles grappling hooks. Two were holding the ends of large, tan colored straps. George manipulated the controls and the sails slipped together in stacks. Glancing down, Fortis could see the bottom was sloping gently upward into view. George pulled a lever and there was the sound of splashing under the vessel as it suddenly slowed, and they were less than a meter from the end of the pier. Once the grapplers had pulled the boat tightly alongside the dock, the straps were snaked around fixtures on the pontoons. Each was anchored in a large roll around a small, narrow drum, with a crank handle. The two men quickly cranked in the slack as the port side pontoon was pulled tighly against some sort of pale colored cushioning of a material Fortis could not identify. The ship was now solidly attached to the dock.

The chatter never slowed. Fortis recognized it as an oddly inflected version of Standard Galactic, but it was clear some of the words were being used differently, rather like slang. There were hugs and back slapping with George and each of the young workers. Finally, George freed himself, stepped back and made a formal introduction Fortis understood. “Gentlemen, I would like you all to meet Doctor Fortis Plimick, Interstellar Anthropologist.”

The men bowed half-way to waist level almost in unison. The eldest alone rose and spoke, this time in clear Galactic. “Doctor Plimick, on behalf of Clan Johnston, we welcome you to our home. Please be so kind as to tell us your slightest whims, that we may have the honor of assisting you.”

With George’s meaningful look, Fortis made a quick estimate of the situation, then bowed somewhat less than the workers had. “Men, I am grateful for your hospitality.” Then, straightening up, he assayed a joke. “For now, I believe what would serve me best is getting off this boat.”

The men laughed and cleared a path for him, as George gestured Fortis lead the way, bowing slightly himself. As he cleared the knot of men and turned toward the head of the pier, Fortis saw a trio of older men, noted their slightly longer robes, smiling broadly. While certainly more relaxed than most protocols he had seen, Fortis realized there would be a strong undercurrent of ceremony every where he went.

He was glad for the moment the odd flat topography of Misty meant the pier was at least a couple hundred meters long. Turning his face to George, just a half step behind on the left, he spotted the bow and sword hilt projecting above the shoulders again. Half smiling, “George, don’t let me make of fool of myself.”

“You’re doing fine, Fortis. The burden of flexibility falls to your hosts, and they would probably laugh at themselves before daring to think anything you said or did was silly. They’ll be relieved to find you so relaxed and friendly, because if you were a tyrant, they would be obliged to cater to your demands.”

Fortis had met such men, even in his own profession where it was such a hindrance. Behind them was the sound of men working to unload the animals and wagon, while one trailed a few paces behind them lugging George’s gear. With part of his mind, Fortis noted the forest grew within a couple of meters of the shore, but had been cleared back a bit from the small harbor. Across the way were a pair of shorter piers with a scattering of smaller boats tied up, including one which had no pontoons. It was rather long and sleek, with a ribbed hull, and a single mast for the complicated framework of the stiff curved sails used on Misty. Fortis noticed the boat when he caught out of the corner of his the movement of someone climbing over the side onto the dock, and rapidly pacing toward the head of the short pier. He was dressed more like George than anyone else Fortis could see.

Of the men waiting for them on this pier, Fortis saw two of them, of middling age, with dark blue, and patches of other colors. The other, much older, was wearing mostly mostly black, including leggings. Fortis stopped a comfortable distance away, and they bowed, bending only slightly at the waist. Fortis matched it, as George stepped forward and made the same formal introduction as before. The eldest man in black was Harbor Master Wendell Johnston. George didn’t name the other two. The Harbor Master was just as formal as the eldest worker who first greeted him, with a similar offer of hospitality. He even asked if Fortis had any personal baggage he could carry.

At this, the younger man in blue relieved the worker of George’s gear. Fortis held out empty hands, deciding humor was working well with these people. “I haven’t lacked for anything so far, but I suppose I shall have to acquire some.”

The Master chuckled, and turned to George. “Elder Manley, it’s good to know you gave proper care to our esteemed vistor. You will see Francis here about proper equipment before you travel to the city,” he said indicating the elder of the pair in blue. He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by a shout. The figure who had left the fancy boat on the other pier was striding quickly toward them. He wore colors which matched the Johnston clan banner, but with large panels of gray. Glancing back at George, he noticed the similarities of style, and decided tentatively the gray was related to their profession or relative position in society, and the other colors marked clan affiliation. It was at least partially confirmed by the greeting.

George stepped forward to intercept the man. “Elder Bradley! How nice to see you again.”

He wore large grin, and spoke with broad sarcasm. “So, you just couldn’t wait for me to come and help. You have to drag this poor visitor up here in a hurry without any of his personal baggage. What is Misty coming to?”

There was hearty laughter all around, the two men in blue stepping back a bit. The Master spoke up, “Elder Bradley, were just discussing that. Manley, do your duty.”

The ritual was familiar by now, and Fortis bowed just slightly from the shoulders, as Elder Bradley bowed from the waist about one-quarter. He decided it was really up to him to discern from the context what was the proper depth to bow.

Bradley continued, “I suppose there is no hurry now for me to chase the currents and winds to the pole, unless I just want to see the latest technology in space travel.”

George produced his electronic sheet, unrolled it, tapped and stroked the face a few times, then showed an image of the ship. Apparently the device served several purposes, rather like personal communication devices, but without the communications. Everyone gathered around to see, but Fortis was suddenly struck by a thought.

“Elder Bradley, did we catch you about to relieve George on his watch at the space port?” Fortis rested one hand lightly on a pocket.

“Indeed! While he prefers the coursers and wagons, I just sail my little craft up the inlet on the far side. It crosses inside the polar flat, leaving me just a day’s walk from the pole itself.” His accent was much closer to George’s than anyone else there.

Fortis turned to George. “Can you zoom that image closer on the legs?” George did so, then turned it back for Fortis to see. Motioning Bradley closer, he pointed to the platform still extended. “Right next to this, on the right side, is tiny little circle which opens if you press on it.” Bradley signified he understood, with a quizzical look.

Producing the spooler from his pocked, Fortis handed it to the elder. “When you do get there, please press this into that receptacle. Then step away from the ship, as it will disappear, which will create a momentary vacuum. It could kick up some rocks or other debris.”

The two elders stared at each other wordlessly. George smiled and gave a single, faint nod of his head. Bradley clutched the spooler in both hands to his chest, and his face took on a very serious look. “I was planning to leave first thing in the morning. I’ll be sure to carry out your wishes.”

View from Outside

So we are patient with others who don’t yet understand, and that would be most of the world. You are never alone, but you will often feel lonely. Rare is the non-mystic who will accept your position on things; rarer still the fellow traveler. Most rare is a mystic with any significant overlapping vision. As a Christian Mystic, you are less likely to experience so much loneliness, simply because most Christians are forced to entertain a certain amount of mysticism, even if they denounce the term.

The degree to which you feel the full warmth of fellowship will often depend on how much you say. Mysticism is the unending process, and the anchor point remains God Himself. You are enlightened by the Spirit, but forced to drag around this fallen flesh, along with the broken intellect. At God’s whim you will be released, but until then, it can’t get any better than a full mystical awareness as a Christian. To all others, this will make you appear all too subjective, because no two fallen humans share precisely the same flaws, and thus, they don’t share the same particular experience with Ultimate Truth.

You’ll be torn by a burning desire to tell all you know, even as your seasoned wisdom warns you there are times when silence is better for everyone involved. If we understand this as a journey, for yourself and everyone around you, then you aren’t in a hurry to drag everyone to the place you rest on the way. God isn’t going to reveal to you every pertinent detail of any other person’s life, only enough to act in the given context. If telling someone I am a Christian Mystic will only serve to hinder their growth, then I won’t tell them. Commitment to the truth is a fragile knife edge stance, a moving target. We prefer sheer transparency, but we can’t throw our pearls at the feet of those who can’t value them. It’s not a simple matter of deciding who is and isn’t a pig in your world. There is no method at all; every step of the way, any choice is a risk. We don’t want to upset or alienate anyone, and rightly so, but we don’t get to choose how God uses us to help others along, or even them help us along. So we carry a fragile awareness that nothing is simple and do what our convictions demand from that moment, and sometimes we say nothing.

By now, it should be obvious transparency is not an absolute, nor is patience or any other marker of Christian Mystical maturity. How do we put it into words? Complex simplicity? Simple complexity? Paradox is the norm. Only those whose sole anchor is concrete objectivity can demand we divulge our entire being in terms they require. So let them choose their terms and play the game, because they aren’t ready. Let them call you whatever it is makes them comfortable. We are called liberal, emotionalist, hippies, and sinners by those wedded to Aristotle’s epistemology. True liberals will not understand our devotion to that small selection of eternal principles which seem reactionary to them, because we know some things are wrong in almost every context.

Learn the lesson of Joseph in Egypt. On the one hand, the religion was entirely pagan; on the other hand, he engaged the rituals required to serve on Pharaoh’s staff. We know the strong centralized feudalism he created in Egypt is not healthy by the standards of Noah’s Covenant, but it was God’s wisdom for Joseph. We know the truth of God was rooted in his heart, but he didn’t seem to evangelize at all. He was a slave, but he devoted himself to his master’s welfare. He was in prison unjustly, but served with grace and dignity. He didn’t shrink from telling the truth to a condemned man, and didn’t harass the one who forgot him. The paradox of God’s justice is our acceptance of injustice as the norm often serves to set things right. The ways of spiritual mysticism seem too much like wishful thinking, but we aren’t in it to succeed, only to be faithful, so that God defines contextually what it means for Him to prosper the service of our hands.

Most of the people you meet will express impatience with you. They will unconsciously demand their answers be your answers, as if they have somehow latched onto some concrete foundation. But if the whole world comes apart, then that solid foundation floats free — and then what? Christian Mysticism sees far beyond the immediate, but we see it best by looking within. Not at our fallen selves, but that treasure of Heaven resting in our broken vessel. The Spirit of God invades our being so as to provide the ultimate anchor, so in that sense, introspection is the ultimate source. We will seem to others self-absorbed, but that is what God-absorbed looks like in human terms. Because we know there is a mighty, constant war between God and our fallen nature, we know where the real action can be found. It’s not in the world around us; God has that well in hand. For each of us, the answers are all found by starting with what’s inside. For what’s outside, we have nothing but questions.

Our motto: Question is the Answer. In other words: Apparent confusion is our peace and stability. It’s not because we are internally confused, but we are able to realize the apparent solidity of reality is the ultimate delusion. To understand the universe, you have to step outside it, to the realm of One who made it. Since you can’t leave this world alive, you have to meet your death face to face before any part of you can go outside. Mundane reality is a prison, and the only escape is to migrate our spirits through this one portal of sanity and freedom. No, it makes no sense in words, because the truth is in the Land Without Words. If we don’t turn all reality inside out, we can’t hope to see the path of escape, and we are stuck in the prison of blindness and death. The result is we perceive the most pragmatic path through the dead world around us, a path which makes no sense at all to those anchored here.

(The completed series is posted as a single document here.)

Fortis joined George in the lower deck, feeding, brushing and cleaning up behind the animals. He learned the common term for them was “coursers.” During the journey across the polar island, it seemed they ate all the grass they could get. Once onboard, they grew eerily quiescent, eating far less of the dried forage stowed below deck for them.

George explained, “This long period of inactivity is very hard on them. When we dock, they’ll need some hard riding.”

“Does that fit in with our planned activities on Johnston Island?”

“Well, no. They are borrowed, as is the ship and the wagon. The food was provided, as well. Only the tent and a few belongings are actually my personal baggage. So when we land, the Harbor Master will take possession of them and notify the owner.” George began gathering the tools and climbed to the rear deck.

Fortis followed. “Give me the bigger picture. Somehow my arrival, or that of any other visitor, must be quite significant, because this represents quite an investment.”

George began pulling his personal baggage out of the wagon, setting it on the deck. “When we discerned the time was ripe for expecting a peaceful contact, the Council of Sheiks met and decided it was worth ensuring there would always be someone on station at our primitive space port at all times. The task was delegated and elders were selected from each tribe, by clan, and various promises were made for exchange of goods to offset the costs for Clan Johnston. This is the closest clan home to the pole, and all of us selected for the welcome committee are being hosted here,” waving his hand at the now visible island.

Fortis saw a low, gently sloping green hump rising from the sea. He had learned to expect trees at the lower elevations, with grass on the higher lands, but nothing much higher than a few meters. Aside from natural springs or wells, the only water was from the sea. While extensive research and development had made desalination a relatively minor task, so that even the ship itself relied on it, there was also an industry in capturing the night mists as cheaper and less troublesome. Water was easier to move and distribute when it was already uphill from the users. George had showed him the water collection tubing built into his tent, and the bladder where it was held.

As they drew closer, Fortis could see the clan banner atop a pole mounted on the hill nearest their southern approach, but also saw a large number of brilliant fabrics fluttering and moving around the pole, apparently randomly scattered. “Are those water captures?”

Glancing up, George smiled. “No, those are kites. We encourage kite making by students and hobbyists. The wind is a major natural resource, and we are constantly seeking improved means for harvesting its power. Kite design over the centuries has yielded significant advancements, both in materials and shapes. Clan Johnston is a leader in this endeavor.”

As George continued loading the loose equipment into the wagon, or stowing on the ship, Fortis stared silently at the kites. “Privilege and reputation are a major item of exchange, then?”

“Very perceptive!” George laughed. “Which brings up an important issue. You are currently the most valuable commodity on this planet.”

Fortis turned red with embarrassment. Stammering, “I… I’m used to being treated well… But I hardly see myself…”

“Think in symbols, Fortis. If all you do is send your ship and spooler home, we will in a few years have trade missions coming to visit. Our few surviving metal imports are nearly worn out. It’s not just better equipment we need, but just keeping our current level of comfort requires replacement. Naturally, human comfort itself is a mirage from the mystical viewpoint, but keeping ourselves alive and productive is critical to far greater concerns.”

“Some rising threat to the galaxy?” Fortis remembered the previous hints, but had respectfully waited for George to discuss it at his leisure.

“That, but you would almost be missing the point if that were the whole matter. We do see a major threat, and we believe we have a solution, in a manner of speaking. But that in itself is the means to a greater end. The threat is a symptom of some deep darkness, for lack of a better term.” George finished moving his personal baggage to the foredeck.

Fortis joined him at the steering controls one last time, as the stone and wood dock was now visible as the nearest fixture they were approaching. George continued, “The part you play as a fellow mystic lies entirely in your hands. I’m sure you’ll want to learn as much as possible, but at some point the rest of the galaxy needs to know we are here. We must cultivate an acceptance for our uniqueness, as we seek to rebuild what has fallen in the wider galactic human culture. There are no words for it, but I believe you already know, in some sense. No one can stop the ultimate end of humankind, but we dare not let the light be extinguished, and the portal to the Other Realm be lost.”

A digest from the Anthropologist’s report on Dalorius Four: Dalorius Four is known locally as Misty. The inhabitants of Misty maintain a fairly stable tribal social and political structure, though internecine warfare is not unknown. The economy is Eastern Feudalism, with a highly evolved form of indirect barter. The primary economic activity is subsistence agriculture and resource extraction. Lacking any significant mineral resources, the primary advancements are in biology, particularly breeding flora and fauna for specific uses. They are noted for having gained significant mastery in using microorganisms to enhance their products. Technology is limited to non-metallic products, such as nano-computer circuitry, and non-metallic electrical generation, storage and transmission. The planet suffers many disadvantages in interstellar trade, sometimes lacking trading partners for long periods. They traditionally prefer to trade through monopolistic proxies. During better times, they export a wide range of luxury goods made from natural materials: woods, fabrics, ceramics and animal hides.

Road Markers

The fundamental commitment to Truth as something separate and ineffably larger than yourself carries a raft of consequences. There is a sense in which it is all one thing, but we have a well established framework for examining elements within the whole. Bear in mind, we do this artificially for the sake of growth and clarification of expectations.

Commitment to truth makes you transparent because you realize your own insignificance. But it’s not a fearful nor insulting thing; you own your insignificance as good and right. You don’t take yourself too seriously. When things don’t go as you expect, you are surprised, but not angered. You don’t even feel inconvenienced and frustrated. You knew you never controlled the situation in the first place, so you aren’t rattled when circumstances make that obvious. It frees you to focus on the one thing for which you can genuinely be held accountable: your reaction.

You are accountable. There is no pretense of being or doing anything important, only those things you know a higher power has placed on you. The largest area of debate among Christians is over the contents of this question: What is your duty to God? Anything which smacks of objective performance measure is not eternal, but a mere indicator for a specific context. God proposed specifics, but only mankind in his fallen intellect is hidebound. Jesus made it clear your decision to devote yourself to the welfare of others is the whole of any Law or Laws as far as God is concerned.

It’s not so hard to love others when you aren’t focused on yourself. When you know nothing in objective reality matters that much, including your own existence in it, you aren’t buried under a burden of senseless care. Things you can sense in this world are only tools, nothing more. Broken, worn or inappropriate tools are discarded or set aside, and the job of loving continues apace. Expressing love is not merely a duty, but is the highest expression of Truth. Once you absorb revelation, it burns inside you as a bright flame and you can’t smother it, or hold it inside. So you let it out by loving and sacrificing stuff, including your own human existence, because Truth alive in you demands it.

In a sense, you work hard to destroy this world. You work hard to remove it as a blinder which obscures what really matters. The only way to do that is provide evidence there is something beyond this world. So-called “reality” is not real. This is the part where Eastern mystical assertions this world is an illusion are recognizable. You don’t respect property, but you respect people who hold that property, as potential spirit mates who can be courted to climb out of this pit. How that courtship manifests itself in this world varies by context and factors you don’t control. There are no objectives in this labor, only a hope, a commitment to something you can hardly name.

As a more concrete example, I would cite the most wearying argument I hear from Christian conservatives and evangelicals. “You have to take care of your family.” Yes, Paul wrote that. His comment was about lazy bums who weren’t willing to work at loving anyone, but trying to freeload on those who did. Your willing sacrifice to the imperatives of the Realm of the Spirit will provide what you and your family needs. If you feel led to work in corporate 9-5 life, do so with the complete expression of mysticism, even while you recognize fully few will join you. Losing your job is not failing your family, if you lose it because you did what was right. The most important provision you can make for your family is manifesting fully that Christian Mystical lack of fear and worry. If your actions serve to enslave them to the concerns of this world, you have failed them utterly.

There is a high risk of delusion. The false mysticism which tries to paint itself over mere fleshly concerns, the obsession with advantage and symbols themselves, versus the substance in the higher realm, is the number one problem faced by Christian Mystics. If you can see it, say it, or touch it — whatever it is, don’t call it “holy” as a statement about the thing itself. That label is reserved for those transient moments when, in the particular context, some collision of things and events grants us revelation, a glimpse of holiness, which is ineffable itself. Holiness is a living moment, not an objective fact. But because this is so hard to get across, we have literally millions of people who act crazy, do utterly stupid and senseless things which only harm and obscure the revelation of God.

No one on this earth can untangle that for you. You can sometimes get a word of wisdom from another who is more deeply rooted in Heaven, but in the end, Truth cuts His own path in your heart. Only you can teach yourself, in God’s presence, the difference between false guilt and genuine sorrow of the Spirit. But let it be said with all assurance, the vast majority of modern Western Christianity is off the path. Most of it is a confused and twisted blending of material and mystical, with a vast mixture of misapplication of principle to things because the proper discernment of what is and isn’t spiritul is missing. Even then, I’m only expressing my own personal evaluation. You dare not buy into my collection of religious perceptions, but may find them useful in discerning your own. If you find nothing to argue with, you aren’t paying attention.

The second marker of the Mystic is patience in all circumstances.

Because I fully expect your path will at some points diverge from mine, I have all the time in the world to wait for you. If those paths never cross again, that is no harm to me. The most I can do is apply myself to the necessary measures to insulate my work from yours, should I come to see it as a real problem. It is theoretically possible I would be forced to take harsh measures in this world to prevent harm to something for which it is my duty to protect. It is highly unlikely. Spanking a child may be the only way to stop them killing themselves, in particular, to break habits which lead to death. There comes a time when your authority over another reaches a limit, and you cannot act. But if they intrude themselves into your realm of authority, they have chosen to be under it. You must act as you best understand God’s revelation in the context. God can replace abundantly anything anyone else can take or destroy. But if you reach out your hand to harm those people whom God has called me to protect, you might draw back a stump. I won’t know until that moment comes, but the justifications for violence are extremely limited, and for some non-existent. Ultimately, no other human can decide for you.

I didn’t come to this place quickly. My duty to God is a struggle to remove obstacles to your progress and mine. I can do you no good by marking out a path and time line when by no means will God show me what he’s doing inside you. I might have some idea, but God has warned frequently in writing He reserves the right to keep His schedule from our eyes. Indeed, the whole of the Ancient Near Eastern culture of the Bible hardly bothers to measure or mark the time line for things. A concern for how long things are taking is not a gift from God, but a part of curse of the Fall. Mystics will use time as any other tool or resource, all of which we accept as it comes. Even my own son and daughter came into this world with some things already established, and it was for me to negotiate obstacles I could not remove in raising them. Indeed, it didn’t matter if I could theoretically fix this or that, but whether my duty to Truth required me to try. The highest duty of all was to set them free, by equipping them for freedom. If my daughter then chooses to be a dope-smoking hooker, it would break my heart, but I cannot allow that choice to be somehow a personal affront to which I must respond. She stands before God on her own. I can wait for her to ravage herself until she cries out for help, and I can wait for you, too. How long did God wait for me?

The Journey

No living human can show you the gate. I can only tell you there is one. But we can paint the border in bold colors.

You can try to fake it. You can emulate all the subtle behavior clues, study and internalize the logic academically, but at some point you must inevitably betray yourself. For the Christian part of this, we recognize people fail, including the person in the mirror. For the Mystical part of this, faking it only goes so far, and failure itself — how you fail — gives you away. You cannot counterfeit transparency. People who have embraced mysticism fully can always be frighteningly transparent, even when they can’t pretend the thing at issue will improve. They might evince a moral orientation contrary to Scripture, but they will accept and admit that, too.

Transparency remains today as the signal point of departure.

Transparency is a commitment to truth. For Christians, Truth is a Person — God. There is no such thing as objective truth standing as a separate entity outside God. Something participates in truth only so far as it reflects God’s revelation.

The gate is totally beyond control, and beggars description. You cannot find the gate if you look for it. Academic curiosity won’t show it to you, regardless of intensity. Fascination and obsession are insufficient. The gate is a pre-existing commitment to enter. You can’t simply decide on a cognitive basis you want it, because whatever you want will not be it. You will experience it as a sense of intensely personal calling.

Given that, you may be so very far removed from the gate you’ll need some guidance. If you experience a powerful sense of pull, there are actions you can take which will help to clarify. Christians would hardly be surprised by the suggestion you get alone, either by hiding away (“prayer closet”) or climbing the mountains of isolation. My personal preference is for the latter, typically by taking long walks in rural settings. Unlike other brands of mysticism, I recommend talking out loud, specifically to God.

However, the worst thing you can do is script the wording, because then it becomes mere ritual. Ritual is a hindrance until you have the thing ritual symbolizes. Ritual follows truth, arising from it; ritual cannot create truth in you. Too many rituals after the First Century arise from someone’s personal experience, which may not coincide with yours. If you don’t find it promoted directly in the Bible narrative, don’t use it, because it will be one more roadblock you have to tear down. Genuine Christian Mysticism can be a shared experience, but cannot possibly be homogenized or commoditized; it is utterly unique with each individual.

The point is this: If you cannot find this thing already inside you, you cannot have it at all. Thus, much of the initial experience is immersion in introspection.

I do not for a second believe this is for everyone, or that all humans are fully capable of mysticism. There may be a thousand reasons why this or that person will never get there, but we know the vast majority of humanity won’t. Nobody can tell you this is due to the nature of the thing, only that it works out that way. Frankly, any attempt to discuss “the nature of mysticism” is itself a purely cognitive exercise, and not a part of mysticism.

Thus, even in cultures where mysticism is taken for granted, a true mystic will stand out as atypical. Again, the primary mark to which we can give a name is transparency. There is nothing secret about mysticism. People who are genuine mystics will never hide any part of it from you, nor any part of themselves, so long as there is the slightest hope you actually want it. While a great many Eastern mystics withdraw so you have to struggle to get to them, as a symbol of struggling to get to mysticism, they won’t deny the seeker so as to hoard it all to themselves. It is your own lack of the calling and drawing which will keep you out of it.

As noted previously, once you come through the gate, you can’t go back. It’s a one way gate, even as surely as it is your gate alone. Once this form of enlightenment has you, the change is permanent. You can try all you want to stop, and you may be able to stay in place. I’ve encountered a few folks who never seem to progress beyond bare entrance. But you cannot ever go back. Your own sanity demands you keep exploring, pressing in to discover the Land. You won’t lose sight of all you knew before, but it will surely appear in a different light. In the long run, nothing — no particle — of your life will ever be the same.

Fortis noticed George used the small electronic display sheet for navigation, mounting it near the steering controls. “George, you don’t have the common navigational beacons around this planet, for obvious reasons. How does your navigation system work?”

“Every planet — every celestial body — has a magnetic polarity. The instrument reads it and reports direction, but as you noted, can’t tell us much about latitude, since that’s not a matter of polarity.”

Fortis asked, “Does electromagnetism work here on Misty?”

“It does. You may recall that technology was deprecated during the period on Terra just before the discovery of hyperspace. There was a craze with wireless power transmissions and devices proliferated. The fields around most people were so numerous and intense, it caused all sorts of medical problems. Once the scientists realized the connection, and the information got out, popular pressured demanded alternatives. The use of electromagnetic fields became one of those unwritten cultural taboos, though we know very weak ones aren’t really so harmful. The problem here is the fields generated are weaker than on most other planets. And the hardware required is an expensive import for us.”

So the spooler Fortis carried was not necessarily useless baggage. He tested it and found if he held the device against his head, he could read from it. The technology worked both ways, of course, so Fortis spent some hours that first full day of sailing dumping all the anthropological data George had given him. Between the chip in his head and spooler’s own artificial intelligence, the information was reduced algorithmically to take up comparatively little memory space on the device, fully indexed and searchable.

He showed the spooler to George. “In the case something should happen to me, I would ask you try to return this thing to my ship. There’s a slot near the ladder where you can insert this. The ship’s computer will read it automatically. It contains instructions for the ship to return to my home planet unpiloted with the data.”

George turned it over in his hand. “Not a bad idea. I would surely be willing to try, and will inform others as necessary. So far there is little we’ve discussed which could return to haunt us here on Misty.”

He handed it back and Fortis poked it into the pocket made for it. He announced gravely to George, “I’m not recording anything else. It seems I am forced by circumstances to cross the line, now.”

“I could take you back to your ship, if you wish,” George offered.

Fortis sat down. “No. Whatever it is I came to do officially is finished, but my own personal mission has just begun.”

“You know you can’t go back, then. You may be able to return physically, but you will be an alien to your own past.” George was quite serious, but his expression held its normal subtle exuberance.

Fortis accepted that without further discussion. “Something tells me mysticism isn’t really about predicting the future, as everyone assumed it was for the emperors.”

George’s smile twisted on one side. “It was never about future, past or present, really. Mysticism is focused on the ultimate reality of things regardless of time and events. The imperial mystical tutors were responding to things science can neither grasp nor explain. Human intellect is rather confined to what can be measured. For all the wonders of advancements in materials, artificial intelligence, medicine, psychology, exploration of celestial phenomena, particles, fields, and such, they still can’t reach a grand unified theory of the universe. That answer lies outside the universe.”

Fortis gazed off at the fuzzy horizon. “The old paradox of anthropology is you can’t really study it from the outside, but once inside, you can’t be truly objective.”

Fiddling with the steering controls, George noted, “It’s almost the reverse image for mysticism. You don’t go into mysticism; you come out of the object realm. So called ‘objective reality’ is the confined space, a prison you escape.”

Fortis cocked his head to one side. “I thought the only way to get outside of reality was to die.”

George sat down again. “There is more than one kind of death.”

A lot of things died in Fortis, but some rather slowly. It was his life long exposure to planets with distinct polar climates which made him expect a long dreary voyage northward, but Misty’s climate was virtually the same every place. In less than a week they sailed past inhabited islands and spotted other boats sailing the sea. There were no storms, just sometimes a little more wind. It never rained, but it was always somewhat dampish, especially during the relative darkness of night. He became comfortable sleeping in the open air with a blanket, and under a small awning to ward off the heavy mists of night.

Eventually he forced himself to eat the repulsive little fish necessary to supplement the lack of sunlight. The complete lack of direct sunlight would have been oppressive, depressive even, had he not been so utterly absorbed in the questions brought to life by his embrace of mysticism. Thus, while he felt as a bird leaving its cage, he found the cloudy embrace of Misty rather comforting in removing distractions of extreme variability in his surroundings.

Still, even after some three weeks, his eyes fully adjusted, he didn’t see as well as George.

“There,” George was pointing off into the hazy horizon. “I can see the spire on the hilltop of the southern approach to the largest city in this region. It bears the flag of Clan Johnston.”

Fortis strained to see it, but detected nothing through the intervening mist. “You told me there were precious few permanent buildings on Misty. I take it there are some here?”

“Yes. But most of them are simply static frames with the same tent fabric for covering. That’s always been enough here on Misty, and we have compelling reasons for clinging to semi-nomadic living. That’s not so much a part of mysticism itself, but a peculiarity of our religion.”

So far, Fortis had gained only a bare, intellectual view of the dominant religion on Misty. He knew that it was based in a very primitive version of Christianity, but there were a plethora of religions in the galaxy claiming that. Yet they were all incredibly varied in ritual and intellectual content of teaching. Most were hardly more than a cultural variation with similar terminology and key phrases. Most still made some reference to the ancient Book, but that seemed about all they had in common. George had not yet said much about doctrine.

Turning back to Fortis, George said, “This city has one of the best academies for our religion, and you’ll learn more from them than you would me. It will be perplexing, to be sure, at first. Still, you’ve already passed the greatest barrier. Without the mystical approach, you’ll never really understand any part of it, except perhaps a confusing array of external manifestations. We still have a great many people among us who can’t get that far, but we do our best not to alienate them. They have their place. Misty is their home, too, and mysticism isn’t required for full participation in life. You could, given time, grasp what our religion is like for them, but you wouldn’t really understand it.”

In the silence, George stepped back over to the steering station and idly checked the controls. Fortis turned back from the horizon with a half-smile. “So the name of your planet is more a pun.”

George threw back his head in full laughter. Still chuckling, “Now I can say to you truly, welcome to Mystical Misty.”

(The first book ends here. The story continues in the sequel, of course.)

Preparation

There is nothing about mysticism which seeks information, nor a change of status. There is nothing static about it. You are entering a fluid and dynamic existence from which you can never depart again. You are entering upon a journey through that Land Without Words. Change will become the only constant. This fundamentally unsettled existence is disturbing and captivating, but requires a complete shift away from what we have been told by mainstream society is the best of all possible worlds. We learn to seek comfort in discomfort, peace in the storm, stability in the chaos — not because we become something different, not because we become so adept at handling everything, but stop trying to handle anything. We seek no control over the reality around us, but seek merely to restrain our own fallen nature.

Rather than the nebulous loss of self into the nothingness of the Far Eastern mysticism, we lose ourselves into God Almighty. We have a distinct Person who is separate from His Creation, but surely available to us in all things. It’s not because He declares to us the nature of anything, but reveals to us the place a thing holds in His calling of us. In a sense, we know all things only by their use in whatever world the Lord reveals to us. All revelation is an imperative.

By no means do we give priority to limiting pain, suffering or damage to our selves. It’s human nature to avoid these things, and that in itself is not sinful, but becomes sin when that avoidance stands as the final point of decision. The body is merely the vehicle, but so is the intellect. Those things are fallen, untrustworthy, and we must escape their hold on us as much as God allows.

A critical element is grasping the parable of the stone foundation. Jesus spoke of building on the rock, a reference to Himself as God’s revelation. Upon experiencing that call, that nipping of heels from the Hound of Heaven, we are confronted with a mass of confusion which obscures that Rock. God is One, and we all share in Him, but no two of us have the same calling, so no two of us can receive precisely the same revelation. The touchstone of our individual calling is that unshakable mass of imperative which God places in us unilaterally. Our awareness of it comes in the form of convictions. We all should have heard by now the old saw: Opinions you hold; convictions hold you. As you begin to explore this non-rational faculty, your most reliable foundation is your convictions. Every choice must be a stone which fits on that foundation.

Convictions are things from which you cannot walk away. More than any other thing you can identify, this is the substance of what you are, what makes you an individual, and what unites you with God. Your understanding of these imperatives will grow, changing often at times, but the substance of what they are, generally hard or impossible to put into words, are what God has made of you. Insofar as you can know your true self, it is by knowing your convictions. All the ways we might claim to know God or His will starts right here. The first and greatest task, and the one to which you must return every moment, is defining those imperatives in the context of that moment.

For the sake of a shared vision, the Lord did surely reveal the means for comparing notes. On a purely human level, we have the Covenant of Noah. This provides a cognitive frame of reference. It is not restrictive in the sense of demanding you obey it in detail, but as marking off general boundaries. It is designed to be handled deductively — this is the given, and all other things are organized to fit this pattern. We note the Law of Moses was a specific implementation of it for a specific context, but Jesus said of both Law Covenants:

“Master, which is the great commandment in the Law?” Jesus said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like it, ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.” (Matthew 22:36-40)

Paul echoes this in Romans 13:8 — “he who loves another has fulfilled the law.” If your commitment is loyal devotion to God, with the corollary of respect for your fellow humans, you will fulfill whatever the Laws intended.

Given we know the world of mysticism is filled with so many ungodly distractions, it pays well to shield yourself. It’s not the place where God alone speaks, but where demons also roam. They can be found any place we can go. Our adherence to the Laws through sacrificial godly love is our defense. It’s not a matter of secret phrases, incantations, declarations which quote English translations (or any other language) of the Bible, but your commitment constantly renewed. When you are obeying the Laws of God, the demons are impotent against you. That is, they can’t do anything which God doesn’t allow. The Land Without Words is your home, but you should expect to walk a few miles in the shoes of Job as you journey through it.

It was on the fourth day and the smell of sea was much stronger. The map Fortis saw the first afternoon, an electronic display sheet George produced when they had set up camp, showed how there were a great many long sea inlets, snaking inland, making the polar island look like a splatter. They had crossed several shallow inlets of varying widths, but none deep enough to more than wet the boots Fortis wore. George had explained only the polar island was like that, and the map images indicated it was so. However, the islands farther north were themselves rather scattered, randomly shaped, but fairly dense in the southern hemisphere. There was a wide band of continental land masses on the equator, with narrow seas cutting between them. The northern hemisphere was rather more thinly scattered islands, mostly smaller.

“What you notice as a sea smell will soon fade to olfactory accommodation, since it is nearly ubiquitous outside the equatorial lands,” George explained.

Fortis settled himself for a long and tedious journey, still tossing around his intuition how George seemed to read his questions. It never dawned on him George, or his entire world, would possess anything like it themselves. Indeed, for all their primitive culture and technology, their mental abilities were far beyond the norm. Not in the sense of pure intellectual acumen; Fortis had seen lots of that in his studies. Some cultures encouraged such a high level of intellect one would think they all had the most advanced chip implants, but it went well beyond mere algorithm processing. It was more like a highly advanced process of branching off into new connections, and doing it altogether faster than most of the human race. Such people would have nearly died of boredom in this quiet long journey, because their worlds were filled with constant, rapidly shifting inputs.

For all his rather ordinary intellect, with his secret gift of tuition, Fortis was terribly uncomfortable in those cultures. Yet, rather than the milder case of boredom he expected with George’s ebullient and informative chatter, Fortis was stunned as George began to lay out the more shocking map of Misty, the philosophical orientation unlike anything Fortis had seen in his long years of study. After three days of entertaining and encyclopedic discussion of standard anthropological data, George halted their progress for lunch.

Over the meal of smoked, dried meat, and a little of the harshly flavored fish Fortis could not yet bring himself to consume, along with various dried fruits and roasted nuts and grain, George remarked rather casually they would not be setting up the tent that day.

“In just an hour from here we’ll be at the shore near the boat. We use something like a raft to move the animals out to the ship. They could easily wade out, but then we’d have to lift them aboard. They aren’t particularly fond of getting wet, anyway. By nightfall, we’ll be within reach of an island with no predators, and a fairly sharp bank so we can tie up directly to it. The currents just north of here are a bit fast and strong, so they create some unusual topography, though nothing dramatic. Tomorrow you’ll get a taste of some stronger winds. Still, only in the high deserts, and the shores just near them, are they strong enough to threaten a boat much.”

No sooner had they remounted and set out through the scattered sparse grass, when George said something in a totally different tone of voice. It was almost somber. “Some of the data coming back on our birds the past few years make us nervous here on Misty.”

Fortis turned to look directly at George, who had been staring straight ahead, almost stony faced. Then his gaze sank to the reins in his hands, sighing deeply. Fortis was paying full attention, now.

George continued, “You are aware several religious temples were destroyed on three different worlds?”

“They weren’t really very significant as buildings go,” Fortis offered.

“But they were all belonging to a particular sect, or a family of sects. They held to some odd practices, such as chanting, or simply sitting quietly for hours. While the buildings were never large or fancy, they always included the latest sound dampening technology, so you could go inside and not know there was a whole modern world out there roaring away. They practiced a form of meditation.”

Fortis remembered, but hadn’t given it much thought. “I seem to recall they rejected all implants, insisting whatever they really needed to know could not be reduced to data streams.” As soon as he said it, Fortis realized the possible connection to his own use of intuition.

George half smiled. “They roamed the Land Without Words.” Fortis was slightly amused at how George could make it obvious the words were a proper noun. “The old generic term for such religions is ‘mysticism.’ Directly experiencing ultimate truth, they would claim, using non-intellectual faculties.”

Fortis recognized the quoted standard academic definition. He filled in the rest. “It was regarded as a superstition, something which hindered normal human development. It also tended to make them socially troublesome. Too many of them were elitist, refusing to adapt or negotiate logically with the various social structures in which they lived. It hearkened back to ancient prejudices which have no place in such a far-flung humanity. When mankind went out to the stars, diplomacy was so essential it became hard-wired, something written into the very structure of the standard Galactic language. It’s one of the first things infants learn when they begin to vocalize.”

George halted his mount. “Whatever they did wrong, this oppressive move threatens to destroy the last hope for humanity.” He dismounted.

Fortis realized there was a flat, oblong platform in front of them pulled up some distance from the water’s edge. Glancing about, he could see they were on a spit of land just a dozen meters across, and wide expanses of water separated them from any other lands, now almost entirely behind them.

George strode to the platform and lifted the end closest to the water. Fortis noted it looked as if the surface was woven grass, with a curved frame providing the oval shape, apparently of that same light, hard wood used for almost everything. Before Fortis could dismount and offer to help, George had waded out a ways and let the platform down in the water. Letting it go, Fortis could see it was still resting partially on the bottom, with the front edge under water.

George called out in that odd gibberish used to direct the beasts’ behavior, and the draft animal pulled forward alone, walking slowly toward the platform. George halted it, then stepped quickly behind the wagon and turned the crank which slid the wheel carriage forward until the harness began to pull upward slightly. In one smooth motion he released the harness and allowed the wagon to tip back, raising the arms of the harness skyward. He then directed the beast onto the platform. Fortis was no longer surprised to see something so flimsy looking bear the weight without flexing. Then George bent down and turned some handle Fortis could not see. There was a an audible hissing sound as some sort of bladder inflated under the entire platform, spreading out and raising the whole thing out of the water just a bit, leveling the platform to float. From one side, George pulled up a long pole and pushed the raft away toward the boat some meters off shore. Fortis hadn’t really noticed it before.

It took only an hour to ferry the three beasts and the men together with the wagon. Near the waterline, the boat was almost as flat as the raft, which was now strung behind the boat. Fortis had noticed during their approach and embarkation the underside had smooth, almost shiny pontoons on both sides. Up close, he glimpsed a ribbed structure under the surface, running straight the length of the pontoons. The beasts stood on the lowest deck in the center. Apparently they never laid down; Fortis never saw them when they weren’t standing or walking. The wagon was rolled to the stern and locked in a frame made to receive it. Fortis had seen rigging for pleasure craft on many worlds, some with wind sails of all sorts of designs. He noticed this boat had a complicated framework of very stiff sails, which still appeared to be gossamer fabric. They could be turned vertically by a simple control on the foredeck. They had been folded together when he boarded, but George quickly got them spread out and turned to catch the breeze somehow. Almost immediately the vessel began to move.

Fortis sat on a woven seat mounted near the steering station. George sat down facing him once he was satisfied everything was working properly. He kept one hand on the controls, and glanced back and forth among the bright sails.

Still looking up, “You know, Fortis, the emperors had special tutors for their children and some of their staff. Among those tutors, it was a long tradition to have one or more of those mystics whose temples were destroyed recently. Legend has it they helped the rulers and close counselors anticipate things a whole planet of scientists could not have guessed. They took the mystics seriously. The imperial policies only failed when someone murdered the staff mystics in fit of political jealousy. While the last emperor of the our most recent Imperium hadn’t really been paying much attention to the mystics, they still held strong ceremonial importance. Once they were dead, imperial favor for them declined. That trend carried over into the break up, and the council in that sector has been pressing them hard ever since then.”

Fortis had not heard all the details, but recognized the story. “I take it something is brewing which you believe requires mystics to discern. Without them, the population of the galaxy is somehow threatened.”

George turned to Fortis with a grin. “Your intuition is quite good.”