“Come the Mythmaker”

“Come the Mythmaker” June 3, 2008

“…In the Summer of 2008 I have the fortune to travel with Hjeron O’Sidhe and the Mythmaker troupe on an adventure across the realms and where I will face the distorted aka of the Divine Masculine and discovery new territories in the realms of Faerie … the journey would take me into the Valhalla mountains and deeper into the realms of the Norse mythos …

The Akashic Library shimmered in the periphery of Peter’s awareness, its infinite stories held in the delicate balance of stars and ink. Calliope, her blue dress a constellation unto itself, leaned on the table before them. The quill in her hand danced, ready to anchor the next thread of the Great Story.

“Let’s begin,” she said softly, her voice a ribbon through the silence. “From the roads themselves. How did this chapter of your journey begin?”

Peter closed his eyes, letting the memories surface. “It was the summer of 2008. I was traveling through Carnia, following the Path toward the Valhalla mountains. My destination was the Mythmaker camp—Hjeron O’Sidhe’s troupe of mystical adventurers.”

Calliope tilted her head. “Did it feel significant, even then?”

He nodded. “From the start. The signs were everywhere—street names invoking Thor, the texture of the land itself resonating with the Norse mythos. It wasn’t just the physical roads I traveled; it was the vibrational topography. The land felt alive, as though it remembered the stories of Asgard and the Elvish realms.”

“There was a sense that I was traveling deeper into the realms of the Viking realms, that the vibrational topography I was moving into was made of that thing. While it looked on the surface of the world like the drive through Nelson, British Columbia to the towne of Winlaw, the string of synchronicities that defined my path was defined by this texture, connected to the sense of the elvish realms that permeated through Mt. Elphinstone.”

June 3, 2008 – Arrival at the Mythmaker Camp

“I piloted Calliope’s Dream, my silver Avion, into a meadow nestled in the Valhalla range,” Peter continued. “The moment I arrived, I felt it—the magic of the land, untouched by the cacophony of the urban world. It was a realm closer to the Green, to the purity of the forest.”

Calliope’s quill paused. “What was the camp like?”

Peter smiled faintly. “It was unlike anything I’d ever seen. An encampment of mythic avatars, their presence resonating like the hum of a tuning fork. In the Mythica, I saw it as a ship sailing across the etheric seas, its edges glimmering with rainbow light. It was a manifestation of story itself, a living myth.”

Jagara – Ship of Stories

The Mythmaker vessel seen in the underlands

The Free Folk

Peter leaned back, his voice tinged with wonder. “As I wandered the camp, I felt the magic of Story manifesting everywhere. One of the avatars, Joelique MacGregor, had even created a board game in honor of Story’s magic. It was as though each member of the troupe embodied a unique facet of the mythos.”

Calliope’s eyes sparkled. “You must have felt a kinship.”

“I did,” Peter agreed. “It felt like I was amongst the Free Folk of the circus, moving across the realms of Creation together. It was a tribe of living myths.”

“And Hjeron?” Calliope prompted.

Peter’s tone deepened. “Hjeron was the Chieftain, the gravity that held the troupe together. By the firelight, I saw his strength—the Earth magic of leadership, of holding space for a community. It wasn’t a strength I had cultivated, but I respected it deeply.”

Stories and Fire

Peter leaned back, his gaze distant. “That night, as the firelight danced on Hjeron’s face, I felt the power of his Will and Fatherhood. He held space for the assembled champions, each of them a hero in their own right. It was humbling to witness, to see the mythic world brought to life in the territories of Valhalla.”

It’s the sheer authenticity of it which moves me, strumming the strings of my heart. To be here, to be amongst a troupe of living myths IS the tale itself! It is my devotion to the quest made real, my arrival in circumstance within the landscapes of story. Here, Hjeron’s mythos reveals itself, and I see him in his aspect as a tribal chieftian, a point of gravity which brings the people to one. It is a powerful magic in the Earth element, one I can barely touch and for which I have great respect.

The Mythic Market

I wander past the market, feeling the tones of the deva. Here, I witness Joelique, sitting in contemplation before the rushing waters. It is a deeply picturesque scene, the likes of which would be scene in one of the films of the material plane, and I shoot a photo of it’s archetype in action.

The Sacred Storyteller

Calliope’s quill danced across the parchment. “And the others?”

“Each carried their own magic,” Peter said. “Joelique MacGregor, for example, had created a board game called the Sacred Storyteller. It honored the magic of Story itself. The threads of their myths wove through the camp—a symphony of Story, Song, and Dance. It was a tribe of living myths.”

The magic of Story is flush here, manifesting through the members of the Mythmaker in unique and beautiful ways. Amongst them is an avatar named Joelique MacGregor, who has created his own board game in honour of the magic of Story.

I loved it. The threads of the magic were similar to my own, flush through the ambience of the space. That of Story, of Song and of Dance. I felt a sense of kinship here, amongst the Free Folk of the circus. Making our way across the realms of the Creation together.

Truly I am amongst a tribe of living myths.

The Prince of Paper

“There was a moment, when I went to pick up Vinny, a character who’d agreed to drive Jagara across the realms.” Peter began, his tone thoughtful. “He had experience working with neurodivergent children, and when he sensed my energy, he said, ‘Wow. Most of the people I know like you aren’t really this functional.’”

Calliope raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity in her gaze. “How did that feel?”

Peter chuckled softly, though his expression carried a touch of introspection. “It struck me deeply. At that point in my journey, I was just beginning to see how my perspective differed from others’. I was still integrating the realization that I moved through multiple realms of perception, experiencing the world in ways that weren’t always shared or understood by those around me. His words, though simple, carried weight—a reminder of the uniqueness of my path.”

He paused, his gaze turning inward. “What struck me most wasn’t just his words but the vibrational patterns around him. I could feel the warmth of his heart, the gravity of his energy, and how it carried the signature of his work with people. It was delicate yet potent—a story written into his presence, a feedback loop of his own experiences. I felt not only what he was saying but also how my own energy, my signature, appeared to him in that moment.”

Calliope’s quill hovered over the page, her eyes alight with curiosity. “Did it give you more clarity about yourself?”

Peter nodded slowly. “It did. I could sense the deva of the land—the mountains, the air, and the waters—contributing to the impressions in that moment. Even the totemic energy of his shirt played a role, weaving into the gravity of it all. It was as if my fae perspective was watching the layers of reality overlap and interact, contrasting with the grounded patterns around him. His warmth made it feel safe, like an invitation to continue exploring these layers of perception. It showed me how vibrational impressions become a tapestry, reflecting the interplay of the seen and unseen.”

Calliope smiled faintly. “It sounds like a moment of connection as much as reflection.”

“It was,” Peter agreed. “A reminder that amidst all the layers, there’s a beauty in the simplicity of human connection too.”

Chasing Rainbows

“Do you know,” Peter began, “I always felt the energies of the Norse realms long before I knew there was a mountain range named the Valhallas near Winlaw. It’s as if those realms had always been imprinted on me, their myths woven into the fabric of my being. When I finally discovered their physical namesake, it didn’t surprise me. It just… confirmed what I’d always felt.”

Calliope’s quill paused, hovering above the parchment. “You mean you sensed the mythic resonance before finding its reflection in the physical world?”

“Exactly,” Peter replied. “The landscapes spoke to me. It wasn’t just geography—it was vibrational. The mountains, the rivers, the very air carried the signatures of the old stories. It was as though the myths were alive, breathing through the land.”

Calliope’s curiosity deepened. “Was there a moment during the Mythmaker journey where you felt this most strongly?”

Peter smiled faintly. “Yes, one in particular. While the troupe was busy with their own activities, I went out walking with North. We ventured into the woods near Winlaw, the land humming with an ancient vitality. It was then that I saw it—a rainbow stretching across the horizon. It was vivid, almost impossibly so, arcing high over the forest.”

“What did you do?” Calliope asked, her eyes bright.

Peter chuckled softly. “I ran. I ran as fast as I could, North bounding beside me, his fur glinting in the diffused light. In that moment, I believed—absolutely believed—that I could catch the rainbow. That if I reached it, I would find a portal to the higher realms, to Asgard or some other mythic world. It wasn’t a thought or a hope; it was a knowing, deep in my bones.”

Calliope’s quill moved quickly now, capturing every detail. “And what did it feel like, running toward it?”

“It was pure,” Peter said, his voice softening. “The ground beneath my feet, the wind rushing past, the rhythm of North’s paws thundering beside me—it was all alive, all part of the same story. I felt the joy of the chase, the thrill of belief. The rainbow wasn’t just an optical phenomenon to me; it was a bridge, a beacon. I could feel its pull, its promise.”

He paused, his gaze growing introspective. “It’s a perfect example of my fae perspective. The mythical world has always felt more real to me than the constructs of the modern age. The rainbow wasn’t a scientific occurrence; it was a manifestation of the higher realms, a path waiting to be taken.”

Calliope tilted her head. “Did you ever feel disoriented, living between these perspectives? Between the mythical and the modern?”

Peter nodded. “Constantly. It’s as though I walk in two worlds, one foot in each. The modern age feels like a blur sometimes, its patterns so far removed from the elemental truths I perceive. But the mythical world—that’s where I feel at home. It’s where I see the threads connecting everything.”

Calliope smiled. “And North—he must have felt it too.”

Peter’s expression softened with affection. “North was my guide in many ways, my anchor to the primal forces. Running with him toward that rainbow, I felt we were both chasing the same dream, the same truth. He wasn’t just my companion; he was a reflection of the wild, untamed spirit that I carry.”

Deva of the Land

How I love my wolf. My greatest teacher. Here with me in the realms of the Norse mythos. My stalwart companion across the manifestations of the incarnate plane.

As we make our way towards the movie theatre, the Land calls out to me. Looking to the side of the road, I sense an Earth Deva, it’s face emerging from the edifice of the stone. A stripe of white cuts across it’s face in a diagonal pattern, and I sense the energies of the tribal leader passing through the field.

It is amazing to be in this with The Mythmaker! To move through the realms of the authentic magic, deep in the mountains capes of the Valhalla.

I saw the face of an Earth Deva emerging from the stone along the roadside. A stripe of white crossed its visage, and I sensed the energies of the tribal leader passing through the field. It was moments like this that grounded the journey in the deeper realms.”

June 16, 2008 – Rivers of Myth

Yet this IS what that is. A father, rising his son by the waters, teaching him the arts of the sword in the grasslands around the Valhalla range. Here again I see myself, in the embodied version of the mythical archetype, the events of my path continuing to play out as the modern myth.

Here, I see Hjeron engage in swordplay with his son by the banks of the deep river as if time and civilization were but a dream, and that this is what is truly real.

“June 16th,” Calliope noted. “The rivers.”

Peter’s voice grew quieter. “I watched Hjeron and his son by the riverside. He was teaching his boy the art of the sword, their movements timeless, as though civilization itself had melted away. It struck me deeply—a father and son, embodying the archetype of warrior and kin.”

June 20, 2008 – The Solar Boar

Calliope scribbled a note before looking up. “And the Solstice?”

It is such a village feeling. A sense of fellowship and connection, the people arranged together into a shared space, honouring the natural rhythms and flows of the solstice. Later I will come to this kind of environment one of the realms related to the aka of such qualities of consciousness manifest.

Peter’s tone shifted, vibrant with memory. “We built a paper-mâché sun and set it ablaze during the Solstice ritual. It began to roll toward the people, and Hjeron and I grabbed staves to meet it head-on. It felt like a Solar Boar, a fiery being that had entered the village, demanding to be confronted.”

June 25, 2008 – Pixie Power

I see her then, in that moment, the wings and craftstable in the foreground of my vision with Christina behind them in the distance, looking small and pixielike within the embrace of gossamer wings that I feel her myth rise past the veil and be witnessed by my fae perspective.

It is this thing, this way-of-seeing in the perfect moment of lightning’s strike that defines ‘Postcards from Faerie’, and I place the photo in my collections as proof and promise. Such is the nature of my spellcraft and I feel it’s weaving, it’s gravity wrought from the deep intent to witness the wonder of the magical world and bring that gift to the people.

June 26, 2008 – Mythos in the Meadow

“I was so impressed with Hjeron,” Peter began. His eyes softened with remembrance as he gestured lightly, the memory’s energy seeming to emanate through his hands. “In the underlands of the Mythica, he embodied something ancient, something archetypal. The tones of a tribal leader, an ancient kingship—these flowed through him. It wasn’t just a role; it was a presence, a gravity. It was something I could feel deeply, even if it wasn’t my own way.”

Calliope tilted her head, her quill suspended mid-air. “What did he do to inspire that feeling?”

Peter chuckled. “He would gather the troupe together, leading them through exercises—training in the art of circus, but it was so much more than that. Sometimes it was passing a golden ball around in a synchronized rhythm. Other times it was swordplay, where the group moved together, a choreography of trust and precision. I’d participate occasionally, but mostly, I observed. I shot photos and watched the field shimmer with the deeper resonance of it all.”

Calliope’s eyes gleamed with curiosity. “What do you mean by shimmer? Was it something literal?”

“For me, yes,” Peter replied, his tone deepening. “I saw it all as geometry—a vibrational tapestry of archetypes playing out in real-time. Each member of the troupe carried a certain gravity, a unique texture of consciousness. Hjeron’s leadership acted like the keystone holding it all together, but not through dominance. It was a harmonizing force, an alignment. The meadow itself felt alive, like it was part of the orchestration.”

Calliope glanced down, jotting a note, before looking back up. “So the land was part of the dynamic?”

“Absolutely,” Peter affirmed, his voice carrying an undertone of reverence. “The meadow had a power to it, a sense of grounded magic that resonated with the group’s movements. It wasn’t just a setting—it was a participant, a silent presence that informed the games. The energy of the Earth there felt old, wise, and deeply connected to what was happening between us all.”

Calliope leaned forward. “What about the dynamics within the group? Could you feel the tensions or resolutions?”

Peter’s expression grew thoughtful. “Yes, very much so. The relationships played out as a kind of vibrational dance, a series of intricate connections and frictions. It was as though each person embodied a specific archetype, and their interactions were the weaving of a larger narrative. The meadow became a stage for these stories, where the aka of leadership, fellowship, and personal challenges were all being explored.”

Calliope’s quill scratched across the parchment, capturing every word. “And what was Hjeron’s role in that narrative?”

“He was the center,” Peter said. “Not in an egoic sense, but as the one who held the system together. His energy was a grounding force, providing structure amidst the chaos. It was leadership, but it wasn’t about control—it was about presence. He moved through the field with a sense of purpose, his actions guided by something beyond just the surface. Watching him, I couldn’t help but wonder, ‘Is this what leadership looks like on the human plane?’”

Calliope smiled faintly. “It sounds like you were witnessing more than just a practice.”

Peter nodded, his gaze distant. “It was a revelation of archetypal truth—a glimpse into the shimmering underlands of what I would come to call the aka of leadership. And through it all, the land, the troupe, and Hjeron himself felt like they were part of a larger geometry, a divine design playing out before my eyes.”

“I remember watching them,” he began, “as they moved through their theatrical performances—Hjeron leading the troupe, their movements like a choreography of archetypal energy. And then it happened—a vision, vivid and undeniable.”

Calliope’s quill stilled, her eyes locking on his. “What did you see?”

Peter closed his eyes briefly, as if to summon the image from the depths of his memory. “I saw them as the pantheon of Asgard itself, looking down through a portal into the Earth plane. It was the strangest sensation, Calliope. In one moment, they were mortals—moving, laughing, embodying their roles in the troupe. But in the next, they were divine, shimmering as archetypes, their essence amplified into the realm of Gods.”

Calliope’s voice softened, touched by the gravity of his words. “The Gods looking down on Mortals?”

Peter nodded. “Yes, but it was more than that. It wasn’t just that the Gods were observing the Mortals—it was as if they were the same beings, seen at different octaves of themselves. In that instant, the distinction between divine and mortal blurred, and I understood that what I was witnessing wasn’t just a performance—it was a reflection of the Great Story itself, playing out on multiple levels.”

Calliope tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “Did it feel like you were part of that vision, or were you merely observing?”

“I was both,” Peter said, his voice steady. “I felt like I was watching from the vantage of the Gods themselves, peering through the portal into the meadow below. And yet, I was also present there, rooted in the Earth plane, seeing them as my companions, as fellow travelers in the human story. It was as if the two perspectives merged, and I could see the threads that connected us all—mortal and divine, above and below.”

Calliope’s quill danced across the parchment, capturing the essence of his words. “And how did that change the way you saw them—Hjeron, the troupe?”

Peter’s gaze softened, his voice quieter now. “It deepened my respect for them. For Hjeron, for the troupe, for the journey we were on. It wasn’t just a group of people navigating their way through the world—it was a living tapestry of myth, woven from the threads of archetypes and stories that have existed since time began. It was as though the meadow itself was a sacred stage, and the Gods were leaning in, watching their own echoes come to life.”

Calliope set down her quill, her expression one of quiet wonder. “It sounds like you weren’t just witnessing a moment—you were witnessing eternity.”

Peter smiled faintly. “Perhaps I was. And in that moment, I knew that what we were doing wasn’t just for us—it was for the Great Story, for the weave that holds all worlds together.”

July 5, 2008 – The Stoneshaper

The sense of modern myth continues to hum within my body as I encounter the stone shaper at the local tavern, witnessing the synchronicity with my camera. It was Chris’s excellence with shaping that had crafted the “The Elphinstone Coat” for me a year earlier, and to see him here in spontaneous synchrony at the tavern felt archetypical and mythical.

“I’ve adapted into modern technology” he tells me, handing over a small device that shows his design work in a digital format.

As always, it is the sense of things as they occur in the Mythica that drives me, where I witness the confluence of my meeting the master Shaper at a local tea-tavern in the free colonies of Canada, a pair of adventurers met on-location, on the Quest through their own mystical realities.

Fire and Ice

Peter nodded slowly, the memory rippling through him like a distant storm. “It happened during a pause in the journey with Hjeron and the Mythmaker troupe. We were on the road, somewhere in the shifting landscapes of the northern highways, when I felt it—an unsettling flux in the field. The air crackled with energy, as though the realms themselves were churning beneath us. Storms dotted the sky in the distance, and the vibration of the land felt unsettled, alive.”

Calliope’s quill scratched faintly against the parchment. “And then?”

“There was this sting,” Peter said, his voice dropping. “An insect. Tiny, but it carried a venom that my body couldn’t process. Within moments, I broke out in hives, my breath growing short. It wasn’t just physical—it was as though the poison itself carried a presence, a vibration that felt small and angry, like an echo of the environment’s unrest. I realized I was having an allergic reaction, but I didn’t think of it in the way most would. I could only relate to it elementally.”

“Elementally?” Calliope prompted, her head tilting slightly.

Peter’s gaze turned inward. “Yes. The only way I could comprehend what was happening was through the language of the elements. The venom felt like fire—a corrosive heat moving through my system. It reminded me of a moment on Kauai when I opened the hood of a rented car and boiling water erupted like dragon’s breath. I remember thinking it wasn’t just water; it was heat, raw and destructive. That moment taught me how to work with energy through an elemental lens, to shift it away from myself and into the ground.”

“And this time?” Calliope asked, her quill hovering.

“This time, I invoked the same kind of spellwork,” Peter said. “I had to cool the fire within me. I sat on the cold tile floor of a nearby building, letting the chill sink into my body. I opened a space within my awareness, calling on the primal elements to aid me. The poison moved through me like a fiery current, and I guided it downward, visualizing the heat flowing out of my body and into the earth.”

Calliope’s brow furrowed. “Did you feel it working?”

“Yes,” Peter said, his tone firm. “The tiles beneath me became an anchor, their coolness a conduit for the energy. I channeled the fire through my nervous system, feeling it drop away with every breath. It was chill and overheated all at once—a strange balance of opposing forces. And as I worked, I began to sense the poison’s astral form. It was insectoid, intelligent in its own way, though not malicious—just aligned with its nature.”

Calliope’s eyes widened slightly. “You could see it?”

“In my mind’s eye,” Peter said. “It was like a shadow overlaying my body, its vibration intertwined with the venom. It reminded me of another time on Kauai, when I was bitten by a centipede. That venom carried an ancient, almost prehistoric energy, flush with the memory of primordial forests. But this… this was different. It felt smaller, angrier—more modern in its intensity.”

Calliope scribbled a note before looking up. “Was this how you always related to experiences? Through the elements, detached from the modern world’s context?”

Peter’s expression softened. “Always. The modern world’s language has never felt entirely my own. But the elements… they’ve always spoken to me. They are the foundation of everything, the archetypal forces beneath form. In that moment, I didn’t think of allergens or histamines; I thought of fire and how to balance it with earth, with water. It was the only way I could relate to what was happening.”

Calliope’s quill paused. “And the invocation itself? The spellwork—how did you call on the elements?”

Peter leaned forward, his voice lowering. “I began with breath, drawing the heat out with every exhalation. I visualized the fire like a river of molten energy, flowing down my spine and into the ground. The tiles beneath me became icy, a cooling counterpoint to the heat. I imagined their chill rising, weaving through my veins, calming the storm within me. It was less about words and more about focus—holding the balance between fire and water, heat and coolness, until the venom’s vibration loosened and fell away.”

The roadships parallel each other as we make our way across the highways of Canada, where I have vision of Jagara as a great viking ship adorned with the prow of a noble stag and Calliope’s Dream as a silver, fae vessel of woven and glimmering threads.

In another Age, what appears as Jagara and Calliope’s Dream appear for me in a dream as a viking and fae vessel traveling alongide each other along a rainbow ocean.

The Myth of Jagara

As we travel from Winlaw towards the western territories of Canada, Jagara collapses, unable to continue carrying the crew. A vision comes to me, and I see how this is part of her mythos, that of a semi-annual death and rebirth.

Jagara’s seemingly annual death and resurrection seems implied as she hurdles to a stop, demanding we gather the travelers onto Calliope’s Dream …

The Gnome Knows

The sense that I am traveling along the actual rainbow road of Asgardian lore is so strong for me as I pilot Grey and Calliope’s Dream along the highways. There is a visceral sense of the vibrations, the subtle colors that underlie our experience as being intrinsic to the road itself, to what I call the sideway highways between the realms.

It is then a synchronicity appears, bringing us off the main highway to a small outpost featuring the “World’s Largest Gnome.”

To encounter the gnome at this juncture feels to be proof of the Mythica itself. That we would arrive at a spot holding the expression and effigy of the fae realms in synchronicity elated me. Here, with my kinbrother by my side, I saw the place, the membrane between the subtle and surface worlds unveiled as the actual memory impressions of the gnomes and that of Asgard manifest in the world. The sense that we were beings of ancient presence, of us as American (and Canadian) Gods like I had read about in Neil Gaiman’s novel is thick in the air.

Calliope’s quill paused mid-air, and she leaned toward Peter, her expression intent. “The underlands of the Mythica,” she said. “You’ve mentioned them before. What are they exactly? And how does a stop like this—a gnome, of all things—fit into the Great Story?”

Peter’s gaze turned inward, as though sifting through the layered vibrations of memory. “The underlands are the subtle realms that mirror our surface experience,” he explained. “They’re the vibrational foundation of the world, the energies and archetypes that shape the physical plane. When we stopped at the World’s Largest Gnome, it wasn’t random, even though it seemed like it. It was synchronicity, a resonance between our inner vibrations and the outer world.”

“Synchronicity,” Calliope murmured, her quill scratching faintly. “So you’re saying it’s the Law of Correspondence at work? That what is within manifests without?”

“Exactly,” Peter said, nodding. “Our shared energies—my own connection to the Norse realms and Hjeron’s Celtic lineage—created a vibrational signature. That signature aligned with the gnome, which carries its own mythic energy. It’s not coincidence; it’s alignment. It’s proof that where we end up on the Path is a reflection of who we are and what we’re carrying.”

Calliope tilted her head thoughtfully. “The gnome as a realmsign, then? A marker on the rainbow road?”

Peter’s lips curved into a small smile. “Yes. The road we traveled felt like the Rainbow Bridge itself—Bifröst, in its modern incarnation. As we moved, we encountered synchronicities tied to our vibrational mythos. Every stop, every symbol, was part of the larger weave. That gnome wasn’t just a quirky roadside attraction; it was the manifestation of the fae realms breaking through the surface world.”

“And the Mythmaker troupe?” Calliope asked, her voice soft with curiosity. “Did they sense it too?”

“I think so,” Peter replied. “Even if they didn’t articulate it in the same way, they felt the magic. We were living on the edge of the subtle and surface realms, walking the rainbow road together. The synchronicities that appeared along the way were reminders that the journey wasn’t just physical. It was mythic, archetypal—a dance between the worlds.”

Calliope’s quill stilled as she considered his words. “So, the underlands of the Mythica are always there, waiting to reveal themselves when we’re attuned?”

Peter nodded again. “Exactly. When we’re aligned, we see the signs. The world responds to our vibrations, drawing us to the places and moments that reflect the deeper truths of our Story. The gnome was one of those moments—a window into the underlands, a reminder that we were exactly where we were meant to be.”

Calliope smiled faintly, dipping her quill into the inkwell. “It’s a beautiful way to see the world, Peter. A world where even the smallest things carry mythic weight.”

Peter returned her smile, his voice quiet but resolute. “It’s the only way I’ve ever seen it.”

July 13, 2008 – Vancouver Island

There is a poetry to Stasia. A radiance of erudite story that flows beneath the surface of her self. I sense a refinement of character within her, a ladyship which is both fine and fierce in it’s grandeur peeking itself out beyond her current self in the couture of the moment, and I witness a photo of it’s showing to mark the moment.

It was this thing, made of craft and leather, that spoke to me, showing the essence of what I would come to call the aka of the circus.

The Journey Begins

Calliope gestured for him to continue. “And then you set out together?”

“Yes,” Peter said, his voice tinged with nostalgia. “Jagara, Hjeron’s bus, and Calliope’s Dream traveled side by side, like a Viking ship and a fae vessel on the rainbow roads of Asgardian lore. The synchronicities on the path were constant, weaving the narrative as we moved.”

“And then Jagara collapsed,” Calliope said softly.

Peter’s expression darkened. “Yes. It was inevitable. Jagara’s mythos was one of death and rebirth—a semi-annual resurrection. When it broke down, I had to decide whether to turn back or press forward with the troupe.”

“You chose to press forward,” Calliope noted.

Peter nodded. “I did. Not out of defiance but out of necessity. Something within me knew we couldn’t turn back.”

The Gnome Knows

“On that road,” Peter continued, “a synchronicity appeared. We were drawn off the main highway to a small outpost featuring the world’s largest gnome.”

Calliope smiled. “A symbol of the fae realms.”

“Exactly,” Peter said. “To encounter it at that moment felt like proof of the Mythica itself. It was as though the membrane between the subtle and surface worlds had thinned, revealing the gnomes’ presence in the weave of the land. It was a reminder of our shared mythic heritage.”

The Poetry of Stasia

Calliope leaned in. “Tell me about Stasia.”

Peter’s voice softened. “There was a poetry to her, a radiance of erudite story beneath the surface of her self. In her couture and demeanor, I saw the threads of her myth rising past the veil. It was a reminder of the beauty in the archetypes we carry.”

Shadows of the Masculine

Peter’s tone grew heavier. “And then came the hardest part. Stewarding the troupe forward, I felt the weight of the Divine Masculine playing out between Hjeron and me. There was a sense of inevitability to it, a karmic challenge woven into the fabric of our shared story.”

Calliope’s gaze was steady. “What happened?”

“There was agitation in the field,” Peter said. “I couldn’t understand why I was so adamant about moving forward, why I couldn’t turn back. Looking back, I see it as part of a greater archetypal resolution—the qualities of warriorship, fellowship, and alpha dominance versus the ideal of the round table.”

Crossing Waters and Chieftains

Peter’s voice softened. “We crossed from the ocean to the bay, and I felt it—a shift in the waters, a transition into a new realm. Shortly after, a neon sign reading ‘Chieftain Pub’ appeared on the path.”

Calliope tilted her head. “Another realmsign.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “It reflected the archetype I was moving through, even if I didn’t see myself as a Chieftain. It was the field’s way of showing me the energies at play.”

Clearing the Warrior Waters

Peter’s expression darkened. “And then I discovered that Hjeron’s silver flute and photographs had fallen into the bathtub in my Airstream, which had somehow filled with murky water. They were ruined.”

Calliope winced. “That must have been devastating.”

“It was,” Peter said. “I saw it as a manifestation of the muddy waters between us—the unresolved karma. I performed a cleansing ritual, trying to clear the energies as best I could.”

The Vision in the Forest

Peter’s voice took on a dreamlike quality. “One night, I had a vision. I stood in a misty forest, surrounded by Vikings. They were fighting, their shields clashing as I stood by a round table. It was as though the shadows of the Divine Masculine were playing out before me.”

Calliope’s eyes widened. “What did you learn?”

“That we are all mirrors for each other,” Peter said. “Hjeron and I were playing out ancient patterns, not out of malice but as part of a greater story. It was a karmic challenge, a chance for resolution.”

The Akashic Library shimmered softly in the distance, a dreamlike realm of infinite stories captured in light and memory. Peter sat at the great central table, his gold cloak glowing faintly under the library’s ethereal illumination. Calliope, poised at the edge of the table in her starry blue dress, leaned forward with her quill, a scroll spread open before her.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, her voice resonating like the opening chord of a symphony.

Peter nodded, his eyes flickering with the weight of memory. “Let’s start at the beginning,” he said. “The summer of 2008. The Path had led me through Carnia toward the Valhalla mountains. My destination was the Mythmaker camp, where Hjeron O’Sidhe and his troupe of mystical adventurers awaited.”

“Tell me about the road,” Calliope prompted, her quill hovering over the page.

Peter’s gaze turned inward. “The road felt alive. I remember the signs—a street named for Thor, the texture of the landscape resonating with the vibrations of the Norse mythos. It wasn’t just the physical journey; it was the vibrational topography, a deeper resonance that felt like traveling through a story.”

“And you felt the Norse realms?” Calliope inquired.

“Yes,” Peter said. “The drive from Nelson to Winlaw unfolded like a tapestry woven with synchronicities. The Elvish realms whispered through the trees, and the land itself seemed to carry the echoes of Valhalla. It felt like I was walking the Rainbow Bridge, a pathway not just across space but between dimensions.”

Arrival at the Mythmaker Camp

“And then you arrived,” Calliope prompted gently.

Peter smiled faintly. “Yes. Calliope’s Dream—my silver Airstream—carried me into the meadow where the Mythmaker troupe was encamped. The land was magic itself, untouched by the gray vibrations of the urban world. It was deep in the Green, nestled within the Valhalla mountains.”

“What was it like?” she asked.

“It was as though I’d stepped into another realm,” Peter said. “The camp wasn’t just a collection of buses and tents; it was an enclave of mythic avatars. In the Mythica, I saw it as a great ship sailing across the ether seas, its edges glimmering with the light of rainbows.”

He paused, his voice deepening with reverence. “And then there was Hjeron. He was the Chieftain, a tribal leader whose presence held the troupe together. By the fire, I saw the strength in him—a magic of the Earth element that embodied leadership and stewardship. It wasn’t a strength I shared, but I respected it deeply.”

Pixie Power

“There was Christina,” Peter said, a smile tugging at his lips. “I saw her through the legs of a stool, her small frame framed by gossamer wings. She looked like a pixie, a modern embodiment of Faerie, crafting costumes that transformed those who wore them. It was her myth rising past the veil.”

Mythos in the Meadow

“And Hjeron again,” Calliope said. “What was he like in the meadow?”

Peter’s tone grew thoughtful. “He carried the tones of ancient kingship. As I watched him rally the troupe in circus exercises, I marveled at his leadership. It was an energy of community, an Earth strength I had yet to embody. It made me wonder—is this the nature of leadership on the human plane?”

Stoneshaper

“We traveled to Nelson,” Peter said. “There, at a tea shop, I encountered Copper Chris, the Stoneshaper who had crafted my Elphinstone Coat. He showed me his new tools—digital technology he’d adapted to document his work. It was a meeting of ancient and modern crafts, a synchronicity that resonated deeply.”

Realmstorm

Peter’s voice darkened. “Then came the Realmstorm. An insect stung me, triggering an allergic reaction that felt like fire moving through my form. I sat on the cold tile floors, invoking my magics to purge the poison. It was a battle between body and field, a reminder of the energies at play beneath the surface.”

The Collapse of Jagara

“And Jagara?” Calliope prompted.

Peter sighed. “The bus collapsed. It was part of her mythos, a cycle of death and rebirth. We had to consolidate the troupe into Calliope’s Dream and continue forward. It was a moment of transition, both logistical and symbolic.”

The Gnome Knows

Peter’s tone lightened. “We were drawn off the highway to a small outpost featuring the world’s largest gnome. It felt like a proof of the Mythica itself—a realmsign of the fae. The gnome stood as a symbol of the membrane between the subtle and surface worlds.”

Clearing the Warrior Waters

Peter’s expression turned somber. “Hjeron’s silver flute and photographs had fallen into the murky water of my Airstream’s bathtub. They were ruined. I saw it as a manifestation of the dirty waters between us, a karmic entanglement that needed cleansing. I performed a ritual, clearing the energies as best I could.”

Shadows of the Masculine

Peter’s gaze grew distant. “One night, I had a vision of a forest, misty and filled with Vikings battling around a round table. It felt like the shadows of the Divine Masculine were playing out between Hjeron and me—warriorship, fellowship, and the tension between alpha dominance and the round table.”

Calliope set her quill down, her gaze steady. “And what did you learn from all of this?”

Peter’s voice softened. “That our stories are threads in a greater weave. Hjeron and I were mirrors for each other, reflecting ancient patterns and divine truths. Through it all, the Mythica was being born.”

Calliope smiled faintly. “A story worth telling.”

“Stewarding the Myth”

And then I did something that would bother me for years.

At the time of this writing, I look back on events with new eyes.  With a vaster experience of the strings of our stories wafting across the ethers.  A tenderness and sadness touches on me, when I feel how my actions were felt in that climactic moment, where I was driven to my actions by something greater than myself.

This was hard, at the time.  So hard.  I felt so much agitation across the ethers, yet for some reason, I was not led to drive back across the country. To my truest knowledge of self, there was no motivation to steal away his crew, nor any desire to challenge his position. Not consciously, at least.

Yet what are our stories, if not the resolution of our collective subconscious? What is the sacred mirror that sits beneath all the characters in our Story?

It can be so difficult to forgive ourselves for our own judgments of self.  To hold a sense of curiosity at the unfoldment of what appears to be transpiring on the surface of the world.  This was one of those times.  Where I felt myself a part of an unfolding mythos, fulfilling a role in that archetypical underworld for Hjeron, just as he was playing a role for me.  There was a sense of inevitability around it, not out of malign intent, but by the compass of an inner faith.

Looking back, I could not understand why I was being so obstinate.  Why it just felt so fundamentally wrong to drive back.  It was merely a 9 hour trip, yet for reason, I could not do it. I had no conscious intention to seize control of his troupe, I saw myself as a steward, trying to live up to the role of a leadership that carried the people forward.

Here, the shadows around the Divine Masculine played themselves out, where I felt myself and Hjeron in the shared resolution of the qualities of warriorship, fellowship, and the nature of alpha dominance versus the the ideal of the round table.

Crossing Waters

I could feel it, echoing back across the field from the shapes where the Ocean met the Bay.  A change in the waters of the circumstance, where we shifted into a new realms.

Chieftains and Tribes

On the quest, I am always divining the path and as I pass by a pub with the neon sign ‘Chieftain’ hanging beneath it, I wonder at it’s appearance in the field. At what it says about my current position in the underlands and what aka I am moving through along the way.

I am determined to understand what is going on. Why I have been so adamant about the navigation of my ship and the consequences. As I contemplate this, my eyes are led to a glowing neon sign saying “Chieftain Pub”, and I see that I am in the underlands of being a Chieftain, the archetype of Hjeron’s mythos.

Yet I do not consider myself a chieftain. If anything, I feel I am stewarding the myth, striving to divine the reasons why I am being led the way I am.

Wilde and Wandering

It is magical.  So magical, to be on the journey through the realms with a caravan of fellow mystics.  In my way I strive to navigate the crew forward, feeling myself stewarding them from one place to another on the route of their performance.

In that moment it was clear to me, we saw the world through the bubble of our beliefs. Through the liquid chroma of our mind and it’s interpretations.

July 28, 2008 – “Clearing the Warrior Waters”

I was dismayed when I discovered his flute and pictures had fallen into the murky water. To see that my incomprehension of the earth plane had brought about even further suffering to the brotherhood I cherished so much. Now, my senses enhanced by the liquid fire, I felt the reverberations of my own judgment and it’s connection to what felt like a greater pattern that linked us both.

I needed to cleanse it. To clear the energies as best I could. To open a ritual space and clear the threads I felt in the weave between our worlds.

In the underlands, I saw myself in a forest, surrounded by mists. ALl around me were vikings fighting. One held up a round shield as I stood by a round table. The waves across the ether hammered me as I felt the space between. Calling upon the neutrality I had practiced at the Academy, I felt into the space of my self, feeling into the place where it’s edges met Hjeron’s. It was a place of broken things, one that stretched back across the lineages of the Age, and I felt it playing out in the modern myth beneath our shared stories.

Shadows of the Masculine

Here, the shadows around the Divine Masculine played themselves out, where I felt myself and Hjeron in the shared resolution of the qualities of warriorship, fellowship, and the nature of alpha dominance versus the the ideal of the round table.

Characters

Cicada Corazon Hjeron O’Sidhe Joelique MacGregor North Stasia Pfeiffer Vinny Von Papier Stephanie Peregrinus