Flying over the Isle of Man with a dead soul, Cosamado must endure his traveling companion's outbursts if he is going to succeed with his mission: to deliver a set of instructions on how to build a portal to the land of the timekeepers. Along the way he will meet a series of enlightened beings who will help him with his quest. Melting time? Territorial disputes between dreamland and the waking world? Shape-shifting beauties who have their own stories to tell? Come join Cosamado as he travels through a perfectly imperfect world that unveils some of life's more profound mysteries.
Cosamado’s Travels
By
Paul B. Barnett
PUBLISHED BY:
LucidPlay Publishing
Cosamado’s Travels
Copyright © 2011 by Paul B. Barnett
England
Cosamado’s spirit body floated down through the layers of cold oppressive English fog to immerge into the dusk of a small island known as the Isle of Man. About him he could see the patchwork of an agrarian community, not dissimilar to the coca farms of his homeland. The only difference was that here there was no sun, and the people he saw working the fields looked gray and worn.
“Is this where we are to find the maker of the portal?” Cosamado asked skeptically.
Jean Adams replied, “Mind you please, I just wanted to return briefly to my hometown to see my old Mum and Pops. You see, I died two years ago and I worry how they are getting on.”
Cosamado shuddered slightly at the thought of traveling with a dead man but as Jean was his guide, he put his prejudices aside and offered his condolences.
“You’re one to talk, what with sliding about the world half way out of your own body. Do you really feel any different now then when you are surrounded by flesh?”
Cosamado conceded that he didn’t.
“That’s the problem with the living. You’re so proud of having your feet planted firmly upon the ground. Always negating the dead as if we are missing out on some great experience. I tell you right now, I don’t miss for a second the misery of your existence.”
“Excuse me?
“You know, the lice and bad teeth. Who needs it?”
“Well if it makes any difference, I’d argue that the quality of some moments such as the birth of your child or witnessing the perfect sunrise far surpass any suffering we may experience.”
“Well there are, you and your lineal dribbling. Nearly frozen in time, inching forward, moment by moment, perfectly content to survive on the few morsels chanced upon a lifetime,” Jean vented.
“And as if that weren’t pathetic enough, you go on to create religions in a futile attempt to define the afterlife as an extension of your current life. How arrogant! Oh, and then you spend what little time you have on earth fighting wars and killing each other in an attempt to prove whose version of reality is correct. Imagine your disappointment upon crossing over only to learn it's all been a facade. We call it Post Religious Shock Syndrome or PRSS for short. Poor little souls, moping about for months until the beauty of what has actually occurred dawns on them.”
Not wanting to get drawn into a winless argument, Cosamado turned his attention to a herd of black and white animals walking towards a shelter in a rain that had just begun to fall.
“Jean, are those poor animals sick?” he asked never having before seen such bloated lifeless creatures.”
“Boy you are a backward lot aren’t you? Those “animals” are a herd of the king’s finest dairy cattle. “Sick animals indeed.”
Cosamado just ignored the scolding deciding instead to hover above in the gray clouds and watch as the poor beasts dredged their way through the yard of shit and mud wondering just what kind of “king” would allow his kingdom to degrade into such poverty.
“Come along won’t you” Jean called over to Cosamado who had suddenly become busy trying to avoid being sucked into a lopsided windmill.
“Don’t worry about such things. After all, you’re the illusion here,” Jean explained referring to Cosamado’s spirit body.
Heeding his advice, he let his body fall into the mill's tattered blades causing his soul to splinter into a thousand mini versions of his self which floated out over the yard like a dandelion blown to the wind. Overjoyed by being able to experience the universe from the multitudes that were tumbling and twirling up through the drops of rain, Cosamado allowed the river of sensations to flow into the core of his being just as though he were standing in the center of an inverse star.
Sensing that perhaps his traveling companion was having too much fun, Jean flew over and began swatting at the swarm of mini-Cosamados in an attempt to herd them together. “Come on man, pull yourself together! We’ve still a ways to go.”
Cosamado, who wished he could remain wrapped within his own sweet blanket of ecstasy, begrudgingly complied. Inhaling, and by concentrating his energy, he began to draw the extensions of his self back through the portal to his soul which was located just below his solar plexus. And as Jean floated off into the distance to watch, the golden threads connecting Cosamado with his many selves slowly drained back to their core, creating the appearance of a multi-colored sea anemone withdrawing back into its shell.
“Hey, peacock, your threads of the soul reveal that you are carrying quite a burden, the saving of the universe no less” commented Jean, who had no qualms about breaching Cosamado’s privacy.
“Well it’s true, and if I am not successful, from what I understand it will also be the end of your existence too” referring to Jean’s non-living status.
For the first time since they began their travels, Jean Adams fell silent.
Sensing he may have upset his host, Cosamado attempted to make the best of the awkward moment. “Well, what’s say we go visit your folks?”
Without saying a word, Jean just floated up though the mist that was beginning to settle over the land, and drifted south.
Several minutes later, Jean broke his silence, “Forgive me mate, it’s just since my death, I never thought I’d have to worry about the end to all this” he said while stretching his arms out for several miles before withdrawing them. “While its true, some souls choose to recycle early on,” referring to the cleansing process provided by the sun and the moon, “I have quite enjoyed hanging on, watching over me folks.”
As he spoke they came upon an apple orchard, long neglected by its owner. “This is my home, where I grew up as a child” Jean explained while gently caressing each tree as they went by.
“Ever since my death, Pops, has let it all go.”
Cosamado looked about, seeing the shadows of memories spring up from the old farm, as Jean’s presence grew stronger upon his return home. All about him, moments from Jean’s past began to appear, colorful images flowing like water filling the landscape with former lovers, long dead kittens and even an old rooster who raised his head to let out a joyous greeting.
“There he is”, Jean pointed to his father, who was asleep, sitting on a three-legged chair beneath an ancient apple tree.
As they drifted nearer, Cosamado watched as Jean went over and lovingly stroked his Pop’s worn and callused hands.
“Come on Pops; it’s me Jean.”
Slowly, the sleeping spirit lifted from the old man’s body, creating a faded echo of the man Jean knew as his father.
“Jean, is that you?” his father whispered, as though he were speaking in a dream.
“Yes Pops, it's me” Jean replied saddened that his father’s hands should feel so cold and lifeless. “I want you to know that I am all right and that you should not fear your own death nor mourn mine. That the process is as natural as slipping your hands out of a pair of old, worn gloves.”
As Jean spoke, a single tear bloomed and rolled d
own the face of the sleeping old man.
“There was so much I wanted to tell you but never took the time. I was always too busy preparing for the next season, ignoring those precious moments when you were by my side.”
“Oh but Pops, those moments were filled with such nuances of love. How you treated our horses taught me to love all living things. Your meticulous care of the orchard taught me patience and respect for nature. Your legacy is so filled with beauty.”
As the two men sat and reminisced, enthralled as Jeans memories began to waltz about them, Cosamado’s spirit hovered lazily above them like a bee up amongst the flowering blossoms of the ancient tree.
Quite suddenly, without any warning, Pops spirit became anxiously animated and expanded out like an over-inflated balloon, pointing a translucent finger at Cosamado.
“It’s you! You’re the one everyone is dreaming of” he cried out in awe.
Taken by surprise, Cosamado