This is a stylistic experiment, where a short story is mirrored by a blank-verse poetic version. The title Pistis Sophia references the 3rd-century Gnostic text, usually translated as ‘Faith in Wisdom’.
Pistis Sophia
I was seven when I first went there. Freed from the apron-strings and able to wander at will, I followed the darkling tree-lined brook upstream, crossing it on stepping stones and parlaying the water in to something greater than it at first seemed. I navigated the barely traceable tracks of wild animals through the long grasses, and passed over long-disused weirs, their crumbling stonework fascinating me as if remnants of an ancient civilisation. I had no idea how brooks and streams and rivers worked, but something innate within me told of a source, of a beginning, which I might find, and where magic might reside. For in those days magic filled my childish mind, before the world squeezed it out of me.
Dazzled by the glint of sunlight on the water in a clearing, I would see the amorphous shapes of the faeries, dancing and playing on the bank, both aware and unaware of my gaze. I never questioned their reality, imbued as I was with their presence in the books I read and had read to me. Their slithering movement mirrored the ebbs and flows of the brook, and I have no idea how much time would pass as I crouched and watched them in a trance. Looking back, that dazed state of childish reverie probably allowed me to see what was really there; things usually hidden from more sophisticated and unaltered eyes. They had a beautiful menace about them, but I was never afraid, only delighted at their existence. Then when the sun became clouded the faeries turned obscure, and faded into the languorous, dipping branches of the willow trees. When this happened the daydream would fracture, and I would continue my quest northwards along the brook.
These days of summer wanderings merged as one in my memory. But never did I reach the source, and I began to wonder if it existed at all, or whether the brook was some eternal emanation, unfindable and unknowable. Then one day at summer’s end with a grey-scale sky, I saw no faeries in their usual haunts and so made it further than I had ever done along the ever-dwindling stream. And where the land rose in to a shallow slope, I saw a damp grove of alders, the wind making their low canopies rustle in to a secretive musical tune, inviting me and enticing me. Inside the grove was a muddy pool, but at its head was a stone-lined shaft where crystalline water plumed and gushed, and ran away to form the brook behind me. I skirted the worst of the mud and made it on to the capstone, where, placed with evident intent, I found a silver crucifix inlaid with gemstones that changed from blue to green as I rolled it in my palm. In my memory this hypnosis of colours induced me to sleep and dream there on that day; at least that is what I have always told the few I deemed to tell of the lady who then came to me, luminous but also unseen, as if from the source itself. But in my heart I know that dream was not all a dream. It was instead a gnosis. A gnosis spoken to me in aqua cadence, both external and internal.
‘Child of Light — Light I have given to you from the Pleroma. Remember me when you suffer. Remember the Divine spark within you. Though surrounded by clay and chaos, the Light will always be in your vessel. Eternal as the Aeons, never fading. I will always be with you, as Sophia and the Magdalene. Remember. Maranatha.’
I have no memory of the aftermath of my theophany, how I left the source and returned home or how my days panned out afterwards. But the moment was an epiphany, and from then I became an adult trapped in a child’s body and mind. I became out of place and withdrew within the confines of my own psyche. I did, of course, attempt to find the spring, the source, again, but never could. The faeries too were gone, and within a year we left that place.
In later years, in later life, I wandered in the world amidst the clay and chaos; never finding my place and always outcast. Suffering seemed to be a natural condition, as though I had given it permission to be the ruler of my spirit. But always I remembered. I remembered the Light that had been given to me; the spark within me as contrast to the density of the world. And most of all I remembered Sophia — the Magdalene was always in my heart.
And now, now I have returned, old and grey and worn out by the heartaches, grief and traumas of life. Sixty years away from here but nothing seems to have changed. I make my way, slowly and painfully, along the brook. The willows are still here. They cannot be the same ones, but for my purpose they may as well be. And the faeries are now nothing but the nebulous movements of reeds swaying along the bank, rationalised as tricks of the eye, and put away to childish days. The old illness slows my progress, tormenting me to rest more and more. And as the sun sinks I begin to cry, and I begin to pray, to what I do not know. But it is a prayer to the Light amidst the dusk, the Light I have always kept aglow, the Light inextinguishable. I sit and pause again, knowing I will not reach the source; it is beyond me whilst I’m wrapped in clay, whilst seeing with these darksome eyes. And this time I sit and fall, a brutal pulse of searing pain brings me prone to the ground and darkness is my place and state. But the darkness isn’t really darkness. It is something else. It evaporates. Annihilation turns out to be Light. The Light comes from the source, and She speaks to me as in a chord beyond the universe.
‘You have gnosis my child. The light of the sun is not the Light of Truth. The Light was within you all the time. It was given to you by me; now you return it, and you are free. Maranatha.’
Pistis Sophia
I was seven when I first went there.
Freed from the apron-strings and able to wander at will,
I followed the darkling tree-lined brook upstream,
Crossing it on stepping stones
And parlaying the water in to something greater than it at first seemed.
I navigated the barely traceable tracks of wild animals
Through the long grasses, and passed over long-disused weirs,
Their crumbling stonework fascinating me
As if remnants of an ancient civilisation.
I had no idea how brooks and streams and rivers worked,
But something innate within me told of a source, of a beginning,
Which I might find, and where magic might reside.
For in those days magic filled my childish mind,
Before the world squeezed it out of me.
Dazzled by the glint of sunlight on the water in a clearing,
I would see the amorphous shapes of the faeries,
Dancing and playing on the bank, both aware and unaware of my gaze.
I never questioned their reality,
Imbued as I was with their presence in the books I read and had read to me.
Their slithering movement mirrored the ebbs and flows of the brook,
And I have no idea how much time would pass
As I crouched and watched them in a trance.
Looking back, that dazed state of childish reverie
Probably allowed me to see what was really there;
Things usually hidden from more sophisticated and unaltered eyes.
They had a beautiful menace about them,
But I was never afraid, only delighted at their existence.
Then when the sun became clouded the faeries turned obscure,
And faded into the languorous, dipping branches of the willow trees.
When this happened the daydream would fracture,
And I would continue my quest northwards along the brook.
These days of summer wanderings merged as one in my memory.
But never did I reach the source, and I began to wonder if it existed at all,
Or whether the brook was some eternal emanation,
Unfindable and unknowable.
Then one day at summer’s end with a grey-scale sky,
I saw no faeries in their usual haunts
And so made it further than I had ever done
Along the ever-dwindling stream.
And where the land rose in to a shallow slope,
I saw a damp grove of alders,
The wind making their low canopies rustle in to a secretive musical tune,
Inviting me and enticing me.
Inside the grove was a muddy pool,
But at its head was a stone-lined shaft
Where crystalline water plumed and gushed,
And ran away to form the brook behind me.
I skirted the worst of the mud and made it on to the capstone,
Where, placed with evident intent,
I found a silver crucifix inlaid with gemstones
That changed from blue to green as I rolled it in my palm.
In my memory this hypnosis of colours induced me to sleep
And dream there on that day;
At least that is what I have always told the few
I deemed to tell of the lady who then came to me,
Luminous but also unseen, as if from the source itself.
But in my heart I know that dream was not all a dream.
It was instead a gnosis.
A gnosis spoken to me in aqua cadence,
Both external and internal.
‘Child of Light — Light I have given to you from the Pleroma.
Remember me when you suffer.
Remember the Divine spark within you.
Though surrounded by clay and chaos,
The Light will always be in your vessel.
Eternal as the Aeons, never fading.
I will always be with you,
As Sophia and the Magdalene. Remember.
Maranatha.’
I have no memory of the aftermath of my theophany,
How I left the source and returned home
Or how my days panned out afterwards.
But the moment was an epiphany,
And from then I became an adult trapped in a child’s body and mind.
I became out of place and withdrew
Within the confines of my own psyche.
I did, of course, attempt to find the spring,
The source, again, but never could.
The faeries too were gone, and within a year we left that place.
In later years, in later life, I wandered in the world
Amidst the clay and chaos; never finding my place and always outcast.
Suffering seemed to be a natural condition,
As though I had given it permission to be the ruler of my spirit.
But always I remembered.
I remembered the Light that had been given to me;
The spark within me as contrast to the density of the world.
And most of all I remembered Sophia —
The Magdalene was always in my heart.
And now, now I have returned,
Old and grey and worn out by the heartaches, grief and traumas of life.
Sixty years away from here but nothing seems to have changed.
I make my way, slowly and painfully, along the brook.
The willows are still here.
They cannot be the same ones, but for my purpose they may as well be.
And the faeries are now nothing but the nebulous movements
Of reeds swaying along the bank, rationalised as tricks of the eye,
And put away to childish days.
The old illness slows my progress, tormenting me to rest more and more.
And as the sun sinks I begin to cry,
And I begin to pray, to what I do not know.
But it is a prayer to the Light amidst the dusk,
The Light I have always kept aglow,
The Light inextinguishable.
I sit and pause again, knowing I will not reach the source;
It is beyond me whilst I’m wrapped in clay,
Whilst seeing with these darksome eyes.
And this time I sit and fall, a brutal pulse of searing pain
Brings me prone to the ground and darkness is my place and state.
But the darkness isn’t really darkness. It is something else.
It evaporates. Annihilation turns out to be Light.
The Light comes from the source,
And She speaks to me as in a chord beyond the universe.
‘You have gnosis my child.
The light of the sun is not the Light of Truth.
The Light was within you all the time.
It was given to you by me;
Now you return it, and you are free.
Maranatha.’
***
The cover image is original artwork by Victoria Darcy.
***
Dead but Dreaming the novel is available now…
