The Virtual Life of Fizzy Oceans (12 page)

Crystal and I thought that our newest VL friend, Kizmet Aurora, might also enjoy the ceremony, as well as a tour of Pagan Morning, so we invited her along to experience the event (and the REP) for herself. We all meet at the Open Books shop to dress and check out one another’s attire before transferring to the REP.

“I’ve been to a number of Native American weddings,” Kiz tells Crystal and me, “but I’ve never attended an occult wedding. I’m anxious to see if Wiccan ceremonies are at all similar to those of Native American pagans.”

“My PL religious upbringing was Catholic,” Crystal tells Kiz and me, “but in those teachings (and those rituals) I never found much relevance—at least not intellectually, and certainly not spiritually. These days, Danish life is thoroughly secular; and the few who continue to claim Christianity as their faith seldom live by its teachings. One thing that my Catholic upbringing did manage to impart to me is a rather unhealthy sense of guilt that, no matter what I learn, or what I do, I can’t seem to shake. I continually wonder whether or not I’m worthy. Ask me to what, or to whom I must show my worthiness, and I cannot give you a satisfactory answer—at least not a logical one. Therein lies my personal torment, because I’m an empirical person living in a secular world, a world where ecological catastrophes (not to mention binary simulations) are everyday events, a world where Heaven and Hell—at least the traditional Christian concepts of such places—are as outdated as the stories and symbols of a bygone millennium. Such myths were envisioned in the minds of people somewhat less sophisticated than those who populate our world(s) today. So, I guess I’d say that while I’m really not religious, I am definitely burdened by a religious tradition that I cannot ever fully discard, even though I’d probably like to. For me, Pagan Morning is something quite different than the religion I grew up with. If the priest could see me now, frolicking about with witches and wizards and Druids and the like, he’d no doubt pronounce me evil and lock me up inside the church crypt until I confessed my blasphemies and renounced Satan’s influence for all time to come. Which might not be all that much longer… Of course the pentagram inside the circle has nothing whatsoever to do with Satan. Witches might or might not acknowledge the existence of the Dark Force, but they certainly do not worship it! For me, paganism is about earthliness, and it is about femininity. It speaks to the most elemental aspects of my being. And that feels good! Not only to experience it myself, but to share the experience of my earthly self with others!”

“Crystal, you are so good with words!” I tell her.

Crystal’s EM bows its head. Crystal Marbella is always modest.

“So how do I look?” Kiz asks us. “I didn’t really know what to wear to a pagan wedding, so I bought this floor-length dress with a flower print. I thought something ‘hippie’ or something ‘New Age’ might be appropriate.”

“You look stunning, Kiz,” I tell her.

“And look at Crystal!” exclaims Kiz.

“Crystal always catches every eye,” I tell Kiz. “You’ll learn to forgive her.”

“Nothing wrong with looking beautiful,” says Kiz.

“Shall we transfer to Pagan Morning, ladies?” I ask.

“Fizzy, do you have the gift?” Crystal asks me.

“I almost forgot,” I tell her. “Thanks for reminding me.” From inside the shop I take a specially-wrapped package. “Now, I think we’re ready.”

Whoosh
…

Arriving within the Pagan Morning REP, Crystal and Kiz and I find ourselves at the central temple. It is an open-air amphitheater of classic Greek design with a large pentagram inside a closed circle at its center. The insignia is surrounded by seven pools—each one signifying a deeper mystery. Around the perimeter of the amphitheater are tall columns, and resting on top of each column is a semi-spherical dish filled with oil and lit on fire for light. Here at the temple, classes in the occult arts and sciences are taught to overflow audiences, and on the occult High Holidays services are conducted to honor and commemorate the occasion.

The entire Pagan Morning REP is laid out in concentric circles, and the path leading from one location to the next leads through a natural area that has been meticulously constructed in the style of an English wood. On our way to the hilltop abbey, we pass Pooh Bear Inn, a pub where the wedding party for Sly and Alegra will take place after the ceremony. Further along, we come to a wishing well, and Crystal and Kiz and I each make a wish for the future—not the future of Virtual Life, but the future of Physical Life, and for the future of the earth!

At the bottom of the hill where the abbey is located, next to the stone staircase that leads up to the priory, an ancient and degraded cemetery testifies quite dramatically to man’s transience. Entering the graveyard through a creaking gate, we encounter a walking skeleton (no metaphor—the real thing!) that breathes heavily and groans and even casts a shadow as
it
reluctantly walks in the steps of sorrow, or regret, or unrequited love, or responsibility never borne. We visit a newly-opened grave upon which there is a wilted red rose and a teddy bear. The scene brings a lump to my throat—not for my own mortality, but for the sorrows of all who suffer a great loss. Near a large fountain at the center of the cemetery, we find the grave of the legendary occult master Aleister Crowley. Upon his headstone, a wreathe made from cut flowers, along with several candles, designates both a tribute and a remembrance.

In a splendid grove of chestnut trees, we walk beneath the boughs and through lush grasses that cover the gently undulating ground until we find ourselves in an idyllic clearing where wind chimes ring, an open campfire burns, and a lone wagon stands as the sincere and simple residence of a pagan woman. From a nearby perch, a wise old owl calls the name of his mistress. Upon a pedestal, a large crystal ball reflects the shafts of sunlight that spike through the leaves and branches of the trees overhead. “Anybody here?” Crystal calls. But only the owl answers her inquiry.

The tinkling chimes beckon me up the wagon’s three stair steps. Standing on the platform at the witch’s threshold, I peer inside her humble home. I see a rustic chamber furnished for economy and function. A woodstove contains the remaining embers of this morning’s fire; sun and moon curtains are parted above a single bed. On a rustic table, a spread of tarot cards awaits the reader’s keen analysis. “I hope we’re welcome,” I tell my companions. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“I think the resident witch must be away,” says Crystal.

“I think this little gypsy wagon is so sweet!” says Kiz.

“Maybe we could leave a greeting,” I propose.

“Or a small gift,” Crystal suggests. “What do you have in your cache, Fizzy?”

“Nothing appropriate for a witch, I think.”

“I see what you mean,” says Crystal scratching her head.

“What about a crystal?” Kiz asks.

“That might be appropriate,” I agree. “Do you have one in your cache, Kiz?”

“I sure do,” she says. Kiz lays a highly polished black stone upon the table inside the wagon.

“Splendid gift,” I tell Kiz.

“Yes, splendid indeed!” Crystal concurs.

“The stone’s geological name is obsidian, but where I come from it is called Apache’s Tears,” Kiz explains. “I hope she likes it.”

“I’m sure she will,” says Crystal.

Just as we are preparing to leave the campsite, we see a young woman approaching, the folds of a long flower-print skirt gathered round her legs, a colorful blouse covering her breast and midriff, and a knitted shawl draped over her slender shoulders. Her long, brown, wavy hair cascades down her back, and a funny, wide-brimmed hat covers the top of her head. In one hand she carries a basketful of freshly picked raspberries, in the other she clutches a walking stick fashioned from a fallen branch.

“We didn’t mean to intrude,” I apologize as she comes into the site.

“No intrusion,” she says cheerfully. “I was out picking berries. Here in Virtual Life they’re abundant the year round,” she laughs.

“We were on our way to a wedding at the abbey when we came upon your campsite,” Crystal explains.

“It’s very peaceful here,” Kiz adds.

“It’s not much, but it’s home,” says the woman. “Do you have time for a cup of tea?” she asks.

Crystal looks at me, and I look at Kiz. The truth is that we have all the time in the world—at least all the time in Virtual Life. “We’d love a cup of tea,” says Crystal on our behalf.

“Excellent!” says the witch. “Then I’ll just put the kettle to boil.”

“You’re English, aren’t you?” Crystal presumes of our hostess.

“Welsh,” she says. “My Virtual Life name is Violet Mary Firth, in honor of the late Dion Fortune. Like my namesake, I was born into Physical Life in Bryn-y-Bia in Llandudno, Wales.”

“My VL name is Fizzy Oceans,” I offer. “My friends are called Kizmet Aurora and Crystal Marbella. Kiz and I are both Americans, though I live my Physical Life in Seattle, while Kiz lives hers in Arizona. Crystal lives her Physical Life in Copenhagen, Denmark. Crystal and I have a publishing shop in the Lit-A-Rama REP.”

“She’s probably already read our profiles,” says Crystal.

Violet Mary Firth neither confirms nor denies reading our VL profiles, rather she pours tea into four china cups then serves each of us as we sit on hand-hewn chairs around her eternal fire.

“Virtual Life seems a strange place for pagans,” Kiz remarks, though she is obviously quite taken with the beauty and serenity of the environment.

“Why would you think that?” asks Violet Mary Firth.

“Because VL is a simulated world—it’s not
natural
.”

Violet Mary Firth considers Kiz’s observation as she sips her tea. After a moment she addresses us all. “While it’s true that VL is quite removed from Natural Life, it’s also true that witches live and work within the realm of symbols, which makes VL an ideal environment to practice the Craft. Symbols are to the mind what tools are to the hand—an extended application of its powers.”

“Did you personally make everything here?” asks Crystal.

“Of course I did not create the REP. Nor did I create the general environment in the glen. Freyja Mumford and Adrianne Hardwood did that work. But I created all the details in my personal environment.”

“Even the owl?” asks Kiz.

“Every witch has her familiar,” says Violet Mary with a smile.

“Still, it seems odd to me that one who identifies himself or herself as pagan would choose to live within a computer simulation. Aren’t the very foundations of paganism deeply rooted in the natural world?” asks Kiz.

“NL versus VL: what a conundrum!” laughs Violet Mary. “To designate something as imaginary does not make it disposable. It has its own kind of existence within the mind. Images—and our mental capacity to fashion them—are an essential part of the creative process, and they naturally extend themselves into the physical matrix. It is true that an image has no foundation in the physical universe, but that certainly does not mean that it is unimportant in determining the fabric of our existence. Images are powerful tools; if we limit our conception of reality to physical perception and measurement only, then we corrupt the integrity of our perception on every level, including the physical.”

“Anyone who’s spent much time in Virtual Life certainly knows that,” says Crystal.

Violet Mary’s voice remains soft and calm and measured. “The armature upon which the universe is built originates not from the physical world, but rather from the spectral axis. Usually, we do not readily perceive such forces because the inmost mind recognizes different symbols than those with which we customarily describe our physical existence. Yet, these primal symbols are all around us, and we are profoundly (and heroically) affected by them.”

“Do you mean spirits?” I ask. “Like the ones walking around in the graveyard over there…”

“Not exactly,” Violet Mary laughs. “Those are there mostly for effect. A bit of a joke played by Adrianne and Freyja, I suspect.”

“What forces then?” I ask. “Gods? Goddesses? Demons?”

“Images borne of thought shape the essence of the gods and goddesses,” Violet Mary defines.

“I think I understand perfectly what Violet Mary is saying,” says Kiz. “She’s saying that
we
are the gods and goddesses; that each individual, and only s/
he
, can define the world s/he inhabits. Whether it’s the so-called natural world, or a world like Virtual Life that is made up entirely of symbols, makes no difference whatsoever.”

Violet Mary smiles as she sips her tea.

“I’ve never actually been to a pagan ceremony,” says Crystal. “I’m looking forward to the wedding.”

“Hand fastings are lovely, aren’t they indeed?” says Violet Mary in passing.

“I hope I don’t do something obtuse,” I apologize before the fact.

“That’s hardly possible,” Violet Mary observes.

“I wouldn’t want to offend anyone,” I qualify.

“Never mind that,” says Violet Mary. “But perhaps you’d like a reading before you go. Today, it’s on the house!” she laughs.

“How very kind of you to offer, but—”

“Really…” says Crystal. “First we crash your place, then—”

“Don’t be foolish,” says Violet Mary.