The journey is long, the stars are bright, and his ancestors watch him in anticipation. Krog sits by the fire, alone on the mountain, gazing down at the flickering lights in the forested valley below. His kin await his return there.
Standing, he takes a burning torch from the fire, picks up a sack of charcoal, and enters the cave. His body is painted with sacred pigments and his soul is infused with moon herb. All trepidation about the magnitude of this night is overwhelmed by the bolstering sense of his purpose under these stars.
In the heart of the cave he finds it. The small prism, perfectly smooth on all four of its perfectly equal sides, sits waiting for him on a natural pillar of rock.
There are no rites to incant, no blessings to bestow. He simply approaches the prism and lowers his torch so that its light may pass through it.
The thirsting crystal ignites in a dazzling explosion of colour. It casts images onto the walls. Images that move with the flickering of the light.
The prism shows Krog other times. Other worlds. It shows Krog moments of immense scale as well as moments of tiny intimacy. It shows him monsters and forgotten places and new dimensions. It shows him the strange, the colossal, and the beautiful.
Leaving the torch by the prism, he takes up his charcoal and approaches the cave wall, where thousands of drawings made over many generations await him.
He looks at all the images from other times and places and chooses one. Then he waves a story from it, as the charcoal slides from his fingers onto the stone.
It is dawn when he emerges from the cave, the torch extinguished, his hands blackened. He smiles at the rising sun. A good day ahead, and at the end of it, he’ll see this all over again. Another glimmer. Another story. Another Krog.
Paddy Dobson
15th July 2022