The Bell Tower
To ring true…a tale
A formidable and daunting task lay before him.
An ancient fortress-like church from a long forgotten civilization beckons him.
Like a giant monolith birthed from the ground, its structure is a behemoth amongst the tranquil valley in which it resides.
He has been on a journey…one that has consisted of many years and far too many miles.
He is a battle tested warrior of environment and consequence.
His battle is no longer of the flesh or mind. He seeks answers and truth.
The answers lie within and without.
Above and beyond.
He has been to the holiest of holy temples.
Realms of exquisite beauty.
Vast infinite spaces that transcend time and form.
He has also experienced the other end of this spectrum.
Prisons of sheer terror and confusion.
Dark, cold chambers of pain and torment.
Landscapes of destruction and desolation.
As he stands gazing into the expansive green valley he turns to peer at the forest behind him.
It is without light.
A small torch guided him while inside.
Also amongst his meager possessions, a battle hammer.
Old and scarred, it has been passed down through generations from others like him.
Warriors.
The torch, a symbol of the light within. Unquenchable in its desire to persevere and survive.
The torch at times, during his wanderings and expeditions, has been a roaring beacon of hope and guidance.
At other times an almost undetectable presence.
But still there…always.
The hammer, a symbol of strength and experience.
It’s old wooden handle is reinforced with iron that was forged to stand the test of time.
The stone hammer is large, square in shape, and blunt. Tied in place by the tough leathery sinews of a huge beast felled in a hunt long ago. It is grey and pockmarked. The stone was designed in the fiery hot magma of creation. A cherished relic of the past.
The torch has served him well. He has stepped out and overcome the darkness. The light and warmth of his worlds' sun fixes him in place for a few moments of quiet reflection.
He grips the hammer. His fist tightens evermore around the handle. He feels it’s power. It is an extension of himself. A renewed sense of confidence and purpose consume him.
The mammoth edifice calls to him.
He begins to walk.
As he gets closer to the church, it’s grand enormity overwhelms him. It is here that the Bell lives and breathes.
The church, once a place of worship for ancient mystics and magicians has been filled in with stone and mortar. The doors, shut and closed for all eternity.
He cranes his neck to look skyward toward the towers' zenith.
It is not in sight.
It extends far into soft milky white clouds.
Majestic and breathtaking, he must compose himself. The task ahead has been attempted by many and completed by few.
The tower provokes grandiose thoughts of beauty and splendor. Feelings many a man cannot fathom.
But there is also an ominous undertone to this place and its hallowed ground.
There are vultures that circle the tower patiently waiting.
Large birds of prey are perched on the towers' many small outcrops and ledges.
Bones and the remains of those who have tried and failed to scale the tower litter the sacred area that encircles him.
Whether they were or were not pure of heart or strong of mind to accomplish this formidable task is irrelevant.
This is his time. And his time is now.
He throws his trusted war hammer over a broad shoulder and straps the weapon to his back. He feels it’s weight.
An arduous and grueling venture awaits the warrior/seeker.
With determination and courage he begins the ascent.
Hours into the climb his muscles burn with an acidic intensity and his throat feels like he has drank a chalice full of desert sand.
He finds a small ledge to post himself upon and get some much needed rest before completing the last leg of a monumental undertaking.
He opens a small bag that hangs from his belt and that rest against his hip.
He takes a chunk of partially dried meat from the bag. Leftovers from a kill made a few days ago in the dark forest. He promptly devours it.
He retrieves a flask from the bag and drinks the small amount of water that it contains.
He feels slightly nourished and his thirst has been slaked for the time.
The tiny outpost only allows him enough space to sit upright with knees pulled close to his chest. He hangs his head and closes his eyes. It is well into the midnight hours and sleep does not come easy.
When he does drift off he has vague foreboding dreams. More akin to feelings than visions and imagery.
His time of rest is extremely fitful and uncomfortable. But he is still able to manage small portions of deep sleep.
He awakens to the sunrise.
He exists in this singular moment far above the terrain below. A place where earthen-bound mortals are not meant to inhabit.
He looks at the view before him with unbridled wonder and amazement.
He is awestruck.
Silent and completely still.
He stands to stretch his cramped body.
He begins to climb.
Refreshed and restored, his fortitude is renewed.
He spends the next few hours, which stretch well past high noon, focused and driven.
Against all odds, physical and mental, he has reached the top. The answers he seeks are moments from his grasp.
He has traversed a vertical maze of craggy rock and large rough blocks.
Interspersed with cracks and bumps he could easily wedge a hand or foot between, were smooth surfaces with unsure grasp and foot holds that could have easily lead to a dire mistake. A never ending fall where death comes before his body would smash into the ground below.
In his upward travel he meets many sculptures of gargoyles, angels, demons, and other-worldly creatures that may or may not exist in the realms of possibility and reason.
He stretches his arm out to clutch the last hold of the journey.
He uses his last ounce of strength to pull his lead heavy body over the precipice.
He falls to the floor of a cavernous room.
It is decorated with the artifacts of long ago performed rituals.
The walls and ceilings are painted with ornate alien letters and numbers from a prehistoric culture that spiral in and around the room.
At the nexus of this inner sanctum, contained within a tower that scrapes the boundaries of heaven, rest the Bell.
The Bell is a sight to behold.
It is made from unknown metals. The work of a collaboration of top echelon alchemist, sorcerers, and magicians.
The recipe for this other worldly and alien metal was brought to his planet by inter-dimensional travelers who wished to enrich other planes of existence.
These planes and dimensions are countless. Infinite in their scope and reach. Going beyond all rational comprehension and esoteric philosophies.
The Bell has had pure and unadulterated magic bestowed upon it. A magic that came from the very center of the cosmos. An incantation whose long forgotten words have been forever lost to time. Back to its secret place inside the heart of infinity.
Legend has it that any being who strikes the Bell will receive a gift.
The ultimate gift.
The gift of truth.
He has come for this purpose.
He feels frozen.
Encased in the cold illusion of time and space.
He manages to break free of his imagined icy sarcophagus.
He grabs for his hammer.
He pauses for a brief moment to exhale and let go. Freeing his mind and body for what is next to come.
He grips the handle. Twisting his upper torso while throwing the old stone relic behind him in an backwards arching movement. Completely smooth and fluid. The way a seasoned and skilled warrior would do.
His way.
With all his might he swings and strikes the Bell.
At the moment of impact, when stone meets metal, the magic begins.
First it travels up his arms and into his chest, head and back. And then downward to his legs.
At the very same moment like the power of an exploding super nova the shock wave of sound hits his body.
It is not heard so much as felt.
An all encompassing and bowel shaking feeling of reverberation envelopes him.
His mind, body, and soul are completely immersed in vibration and resonance.
He is terrified that it will never end.
It is too powerful.
The prospect of a never ending cycle of vibratory insanity is more than his mind can bear.
He begins to experience a state of total synesthesia. It comes on like a flood.
He can see the shock wave of sound spreading out from the Bell. It is bright, beautiful and almost blinding.
The colors of his world are pure noise. A cacophony of sound that is deafening.
He is stuck in this state of being for what seems like an eternity.
The minutes seemed like hours. The hours seemed like eons.
It begins to wear off slowly. He begins to retrieve his bearings and his thoughts begin to return to a near normal state.
But nothing is normal.
He knows that everything has changed and will remain that way until death releases him from his mortal coil.
He can feel his spirit.
It has not left his body.
It is deeply entrenched within him.
He is now complete. He is now One.
A new Being.
He makes his descent back to the valley below.
He goes forth to live a life of truth and honesty.
His words and actions forever impact the ones he meets while roaming the expanses of his world.
His words ring of truth and others know this.
Most importantly they can feel it.
The Bell has worked it’s strange and beguiling magic. He is forever grateful to the travelers.
He finds peace and no longer roams.
He finds contentment and love.
This is his reality.
This is his truth.
