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He saw a light and crawled towards it. He stuck his head out into a large cavern. A cave. Below him, in the centre of the cavern, was a desk. There was a candelabra on the desk. Several candles cast a soft shifting light on scrolls, manuscripts, papers, jumbled. Two figures bent over the desk studying. "One looks like me," thought Chris. The second figure was a stranger to Chris, but I recognise him as myself, the narrator.
"I think we need something extraordinary here," the narrator was saying, "something transendental has to happen to you, Chris, since you’re the Messiah. It’s gotta be something… well like, like you could be swallowed by a hippopotamus."
"And then," said the other figure, Chris himself, "then the hippopotamus could cross to the Nodal Isle, cause that's where we want him, me, to get to, isn't it? and vomit me up on the Node."
"There's no reason," said the first figure, "why you should ever leave the hippopotam, Christopher. It's a big creature. Big enough to hold everything. To the Egyptians the hippo was the great earth-mother, Taurt, who devours her lovers and sons. It is the centre of the universe, the omphalus. There is no reason to believe that you ever escaped the stomach of mother Taurt."
As Chris watched and listened from above, unseen and unbelieving, his head poked though into the cavernous stomach, there was a great peristaltic heaving, and he was flushed into another place...
Back in El Stone all Kali and Carlo's power was occupied in keeping the emanations of HadjiBab at bay. "The Berber grows stronger by the hour despite his deaths," observed Kali. "We must go on to the offensive!"
Kali drew pentacles in the air with her fingers, with the index finger of each hand. At the moment, to her mind's eye, the pentacles appeared a little muddied. She reported this to Carlo. He adjusted his instrumentation. The "Om" of the cozy shifted. The a-real stars in Kali's inner vision glowed golden. They were safe. For the moment.
"Silver linings," said Carlo.
"What?" said Kali.
"The Berber is a rich and colourful phenomenon, don't you think?"
"Honey, the Berber is nothing but a wart on the cosmic member. That is why we are never letting him Lodge it."
It would be the Incompetent Evil Genius who would master the Berber, two prongedly. Prong one: by inoculating the wirings of the world with electrical worms to jam conductivity, he would silence "Ultimo", and the computer. Prong two: meanwhile, the Fantasmagory, another creation of the Incompetent Evil Genius' genius, a creature of black flame (negative energy) resembling nothing more than the silhouette of a shaggy dog, would steel into the Tangiers basement and licked up the Berber's fire.
"It's time for tea," Hallelujah chorused, and he led Chris back to Sheena's shack.
"There are many points of view in the boa-tree," Shekin sang.
"But. Hmm. Well, then, tell me, am I the messiah?"
"The me is higher?" Shekenov looked deeply into Christopher's eyes. "Sing to the God’swings. See what harmonies they reflect."
Christopher aum.ed, OM-boled himself. (Bols are the symbols and syllables of Indian music, the notation of the tabla.) Christopher scatted, making himself one with the source, "aiun". The God's wings mirrored, answering I/eye/aye. Chris' face grew soft, his eye grew single. He felt himself merging with the pluroma. He ceased to observe himself as separate. Felt his part in the unfolding whole. But, at this time, this only lasted while he hummed.