Alma's Mirror

By Barbara Quijano

Between towering mountains

Beyond the River of Illusions

Sits the Kingdom of Hokhmah...

Long forgotten by the inhabitants of the Earth Below, Hokhmah and its villagers live in balance and communion with all of life. Pr

• Language: English
• Publisher: Year of the Book Press
• Release date: Nov 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781646493760

Book preview

Prologue–The Two Earths

Long ago, when the earth knew peace, harmony, and prosperity, the inhabitants of the land, sea, and sky shared in life’s rich bounty. All the creatures of the earth lived in a state of grace. All of creation gave and received with ease and honor, respect and love. The Whole of Earth was in balance. All was good. And all was well.

Time was a kind and gentle companion, marking the passage of the seasons. None feared it. The slow lengthening and easy shortening of days, with the accompanying comfort of night’s soft embrace, held earth’s inhabitants in peace. It was a peace born of deep and abiding connection. Each knew they belonged. Each knew life was good and the universe was kind. Every moment and every breath was reason to give thanks. It mattered little if one was bathed in rain, coated in ice, or draped in vapors. Truth was truth. The form of such things was merely the exterior manifestation of Life’s true essence. Each knew, deep within the sacred hidden places of the soul, the singular moment was perfect and as such blessed.

Life moved in rhythm with the pulse of the Great Cosmos. The moon rose, her cresting shadow loosely draped over the vast night sky. She cradled the world in her soothing mantle while the earth slept. Nature waited, cocooned in hallowed silence. In this stillness, the earth breathed as one. Everything was held in the ancient rhythm of a deep conjoined slumber. It was there, within the swirling space of unchained expression, free from the weight of form, that the magic of gathered dreams quickened the universal beating pulse. In the stillness of shared slumber, an awakening began. It too was good. And all was well.

The rising sun bathed the earth in Light. Mankind basked in it. Mankind sought the Light and thanked the Light in all of its radiant manifestations. Mankind lived in the Light and knew they were of the Light. There was joy. There was awe. There was delight in the gifts that heaven and earth laid out in a banquet of plenty. Gratitude filled all hearts as each blessed the gift and the magnificence of the other.

Unspoken, yet wisely known, was the blessed communion they all shared and the promises they each held. Ancient bonds joined. Deep roots united. All was good. And all was well.

The Whole of Earth and her inhabitants honored the holy mysteries of life and protected the sacred wisdom of creation. They tended to matters of the heart, careful with what they willed out into the world. They saw the world with the eyes of the soul. Life was the Mirror of the Collective Soul and it reflected the rich gifts of the well-tended garden of the heart, love, joy, peace and harmony. All was good. And all was well.

With the slow march of time, something changed. A seed was planted—a tiny seed that nestled deep within the fecund soil of the Universal Mind. It came first as a stirring, a faint feeling that clawed at the unguarded space. Left alone and unexamined it found its voice, stealthy and hushed, no more than a hesitant whisper carried in the wind of the unprotected mind. It came in the quiet hours. It spoke of want. It warned of lack. The language of this invader was fear. Fear breathed in deeply, toxic and contagious. Balance shifted as new thoughts seeped into the soil of the Universal Mind. Raw emotions followed. The seedling grew. Ideas rose, unfurling in the darkness. Power. Control. Dominion. Fear, and its many permutations, took hold and its roots dug into the fertile soil. Insidiously it made its subterranean advance.

The tender shoots of illusion grew. Their roots choked the hearts of those who no longer saw their own inner Light. In the fouled soil, some souls forgot their ancestral promise. A thick veil fell over these eyes. Lurking shadows drew in the darkness. Without Light, the holy mysteries were obscured and the collective remembrance faded. The One Truth slipped out of reach, sealed away in the far reaches of lost memory.

The dark seedlings grew. Their twisted vines and poisoned fruit wound themselves tighter around the unguarded hearts. The rise of the false story divided and separated mankind from the Whole of Earth. Man came to see himself as supreme, with dominion over the land, sky and sea. He held one vision above all else. Power. The world was there not for man to honor and respect, not to cherish and protect, but rather as his to control, conquer and exploit.

The vision for the Whole of Earth was nearly destroyed. Under heavy weight of darkness, fear, and the belief in separation, the Mirror of the Collective Soul cracked. The Great Illusion of the Divide became the new manifestation, and so became reality. Its vision reflected from the choked garden of the heart was one of a dying, divided earth. Earth’s new fruits were fear, mistrust, separation, hatred. All was not good. And all was not well.

Still there were those few who knew the Truth. They held fast to the vision of Light. They spoke in the language of love. They etched the ancient promises in their hearts. They recited the ancient prophecy and lived according to the ancestral laws of Oneness and Universality. These believers protected the holy mysteries. They vowed to serve and support the sacred Mirror of the Collective Soul. These few were designated as the Winged Guardians. The Keepers of Light. The Protectors of the Secret Flame. They remembered. They held the sacred vigils. They watched and waited for Light to banish darkness. They watched and waited for Love to conquer fear. They watched and waited for the Whole Earth to return to balance. They watched and waited for a time when all would know and affirm the Truth. That all was good. And all was well.

These loyal believers remained in the Highlands along with a tiny army of the faithful. Hidden and sequestered on the Earth Below, they held the sacred promise in their hearts. The ancient relics created by One Source stood against the onslaught of time and gave hope to this tiny band of believers. The sacred Windows of the Divine radiated the energy of the Holy Light and connected the Highlands and Lowlands even though most no longer believed. The covenant remained as the sun and moon danced their sacred dance of love and light and promised the dawn of a New Earth. And these blessed few believed that all is good. And all is well.

And so it remained, a tenuous balance held until the mighty wind blew on the night of the great storm and the ancient sacred relic sequestered in the Highlands shattered.

The Master Weaver sighed. From her sacred hidden place of being she breathed deeply. Gently she pulled the Whole of Earth into the tightening Web of Life. For the Time of the Great Reckoning was at hand and the rebalancing of the two earths set into motion. She knew the One Truth, that indeed all is good. And all is well.

Part One

Chapter 1

The Kingdom of Hokhmah

There was a simple prayer and call to action recited by each citizen. "Be the mirror for all that your soul wishes to see in Life."

It is said that the Kingdom of Hokhmah was built as a refuge. There they believed that the Sacred Singular One holds the Whole of Earth, Above and Below, in eternal balance. Imbalance, they believe, is but an illusion for those who no longer can see Truth and have forgotten what they once knew. Unity is a conscious practice of heart and mind teaching the interconnectedness of all things. Actions are intentional and infused with love and respect for all forms of life. Every inhabitant chooses to live the Kingdom’s universal Truth.

Divine Energy resides within each heart and flows in and through all of life.

They are grounded in the collective vision of Oneness. They are called to live a simple yet profound life, a life steeped in purpose and commitment. Each inhabitant is called to commit to the inexorable truth of their shared creed.

Each is part of the magical Web of Life. Each is bound to the other by the ancient unbreakable golden thread. In eternity we are forever connected. Held in Love, by Love, for Love, as Love.

The land of the Kingdom of Hokhmah is wild and lush. Hilly knolls surround the ancestral village-center and burst outward, spilling treasured content like an upended jewel box. Verdant grassy plateaus, ruby red roofs, lapis blue doors, amber-tinted shutters, and pearl-white fences are all lodged in carved creases and wedged crevices. Scattered villages roll and spread along the sloped land, draped lazily like a mismatched quilt, their odd-shaped squares stitched loosely together in haunting beauty.

Tearmann, a tiny village no more than an oversized hamlet, lies nearest the old ancestral castle. Unassuming homes in dazzling colors lay scattered like discarded jigsaw pieces. The fragmented unfinished township is framed by steeply curved gravel roads, rutted and well worn, carved into the surrounding mountains.

As the sun rises and sets, villagers give thanks. All is in order as the people of the tiny Kingdom live as one. There is ease. There is harmony. There is plenty. There is joy. There is peace. There is love. The land is rich, the sky clear, the water pure. Hearts are open.

In Tearmann, one finds the entry point to the palace road. Like every other small town and village of Hokhmah, it is a place nearly forgotten by time. Unassuming. Unremarkable. The inhabitants of the Earth Below abandoned it, relegated to the hazy memory of myth and legend. Here, in its vast fertile valley, embraced by the rugged mountains that hide them, life is good.

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Above the small village of Tearmann, at the end of a long sinewy road, rose a magnificent castle. The carved gate glistened in gold and silver. The castle enchanted weary pilgrims. It dazzled like a mythical mirage. The throbbing stone edifice shimmered in otherworldly brilliance. Its towers soared beyond the tree line, clawing past craggy cliffs, standing silent sentry.

Flanked within these towers was the Great Domed Window which captured the light of the majestic mythical orbs of day and night, standing as a humble replacement to the sacred Window of Light, once the Highland’s most ancient and revered relic.

The castle’s vast grounds were marked by a polished iron fence that spanned the expansive perimeter. Its imposing gilded gates remained open from dawn to dusk. A large crest and coat of arms framed a cornucopia, welcoming all to share in the bounty of the ancestral land. Villagers passed freely. Neither sentry nor guards were posted.

Behind the great gate stood the ancient stone palace, at the end of a wide footpath surrounded by magnificent gardens. Inside lived a young woman who was kind and beloved by the people. Some called her Princess. Others called her Queen. She called herself Alma. Alma filled her days welcoming and attending to those who came to visit. She offered fresh-baked sweets, fruit, juices and tea in the castle gardens, thanking those who visited for their gifts of friendship and community.

One summer morning Alma hid beneath a large-brimmed straw hat, tending to the flowers that grew around the small lake. This garden is as close to heaven as I will ever know. Wildflowers dotted the landscape, creating a living kaleidoscope of reds, pinks, purples, blues and every imaginable hue of yellow, orange, and green.

Butterflies and dragonflies danced among the towering stalks of sunflowers, hollyhock, and lavender. Tiny birds with iridescent wings vibrated, hovering over fragrant berry bushes. A bevy of bees dipped gracefully into the sweet puffs of pollen. Flocks of birds soared into the azure-tinted sky, puncturing the earth below with their sounds of flight, while majestic solitary birds glided in invisible currents and cast dark shadows below.

Alma leaned down and felt the ground, breathing in the sweet aroma of earth, an earth that lovingly sustained them all. Let me be the mirror of my soul. May I reflect beauty and love, a piece of heaven here on earth. Just like you, my beloved Mother Earth.

In the slanted shadows of the afternoon, Alma lay under the shade of an ancient Ginkgo Biloba. The pyramidal tree loomed as silent testament to nature’s resilience, marking the sacred spot where it is said heaven kissed the earth.

Here, under the fan-shaped leaves of the tree’s canopy, villagers gathered to sing and play. Here, Alma dug her feet into the warm welcoming earth above the tree’s subterranean roots. This spot is as deep into the earth as I will ever know. As above, so below, Alma silently affirmed. Here, atop the sloping mountain, the sacred tree reminded villagers of their deep connection to earth. The majestic Gingko, avatar for the Kingdom and earth itself, stood regal and tall, now the one that kissed heaven.

The castle grounds buzzed with life. Alma welcomed villagers who came with gladness and joy, bringing gifts of what they made or harvested—fresh milk and artisanal cheeses, eggs and sweet fruit ripened by the sun, warm breads slathered in rich butters and luscious jams, bright vegetables, cookies and cakes held on large platters, clay pitchers filled with fragrant fruit juices and aromatic teas, soft wools spun and transformed into warm shawls, heavy blankets and cozy sweaters, and wooden toys and housewares lovingly carved. All labored and all partook with joy in the sharing of their collective gifts. Alma thanked each person for the unique energy they brought to the Web of Life. In their hearts, each guest knew they held an unbreakable yet fragile golden thread. Together they spun the magic and joy they all shared. Together they gave form to the old stone-carved words.

Each is part of the magical Web of Life.

Alma’s heart opened and overflowed with gratitude. She breathed in. The air was sweet and clean. She closed her eyes and listened. She heard laughter and song. She exhaled and released her breath in a gentle sigh. Alma’s heart was full and her spirit light.

All is well, she whispered.

This was Alma’s world. A wonderful world. A world of union and balance. This magical place of pure air, pure water, pure joy was her home. Here, high in the Kingdom of Hokhmah, there was no lack, no need, no want.

Alma, too, shared her gift with others. When asked, she simply replied, I am a creator; an artist, if you will. I reflect in my art all that I see in my heart. I mirror the goodness, the beauty and light that surrounds me... the love that surrounds us all.

Days passed in the hidden Kingdom of Hokhmah, shrouded by cloud-draped mountain peaks, divided by the old Great River. When the sun began its descent, dipping into the western sky, the villagers left happy and full, through the palace gates, past the tiny village of Tearmann, with its well-tended fields, neat rows of orchards heavy with fruit, content grazing livestock, and each affirmed what their heart knew to be true. All was in order. There was peace in the land. Life was good.

Chapter 2

With the setting of the sun and the retreat of the villagers, the castle grounds grew still. Alma ambled among the bowing flowers and nesting birds. She moved beyond the glistening gate and slowly climbed the tiny path to the highest point of the castle’s ground. There she paused on the small plateau, bedecked in soft mossy grass, near the steeped edge and watched in wonder as the magnificent ball of dazzling light completed its evening descent.

Alma, at once Princess and Queen, stood alone, a solitary young woman lost in her world, mesmerized. She let her heart feel what her eyes saw. She became the mirror of a bedazzled world, taking in the beauty and reflecting back the majesty. The sky blazed in radiant reds and oranges. The landscape ignited in a firestorm of celestial flames. In this magical moment, cued by a phantom conductor, the flowers gracefully closed inward and the birds quieted. The mighty sinking sun faded and bid a silent farewell. The day was done, its promises fulfilled, the night’s curtain drawn.

On the grassy plateau at the edge of her world, Alma returned the heavenly bow. She gave thanks for the gifts the day had offered. In that moment of transcendence and in the place of transformation, she gave voice to an ancient prayer. There is peace in my heart. There is peace in my land. There is love in my heart. There is love in my land. In this, I am blessed. In this, we are blessed. For this, I give thanks. All is well. And so it is.

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The stars faintly glowed, guiding Alma’s way along the sloping path. Memory carried her down. She luxuriated in the cool evening breeze’s caress. The night was alive with sound and rhythm. The cacophony of distant frogs blended with the low hum of nocturnal insects and the staccato call of night birds. The soothing and exuberant melody ebbed and flowed above the valley.

Alma listened to the soft steady gurgle from the subterranean pool, the sacred Font of Creation, a hallowed spot where the small spurt of pure clean water bubbled from the earth and fed the brooks, streams and creeks throughout the rich valley. Here was the inception point of the fountainhead of holy water that journeyed and joined with the River of Dreams, Il Fiume dei Sogni, rushing out beyond the farthest reaches of Tearmann.

Alma inhaled deeply. She smelled the damp soil and the settling dew. The solitary young woman walked slowly with focused intention. With each delicate footstep, she connected with the earth, measuring the passage of her breath, practicing presence.

At a certain spot, she looked up and bowed. There it was, the solitary light shining in the far corner of the now darkened castle. He waits. She smiled and quickened her steps.

Heart full and mind clear, Alma returned to the castle while slumber embraced the land. In this hour of shadow and starlight, the Artist waited. In the gauzy shadows while starlight and moonbeams danced across ancient stone, the interior castle awakened. Faint echoes of long lost hymns and eternal promises whispered through empty hallways. The old hewed stone and wood carved floors settled in the damp air, moaning a mournful melody of times bygone. The space exhaled in creaking sighs of nearly forgotten footsteps from those long since passed.

Alma shivered. She heard the old voices buried deep within the sturdy floorboards. They clung web-like along the chilled walls, sequestered behind heavy doors. They waited in the bending corridors and curved arched windows.

He waits and he watches. She smiled and greeted the energy of life that lived within the thick ancestral walls.

Peace to all who pass here. May we all know peace, the old castle moaned in return.

In the deepening quiet, voices called and tugged at fragments of neatly bound and stored memories. Alma honored the call to come and remember, to awaken and to dream. She honored the call to create.

Peace to you, she silently answered.

The hushed night sounds beckoned her to let go of the day and to ascend into the night. They summoned her to come and join in the magic they alone could offer. With the magnetic pulse of the castle’s own breath, Alma left the warmth of the comforting hearth and wound her way to the massive circular stone stairway that lay in the center of the old castle.

There, at the base of the curved structure, the voices and ancient energies joined the call inviting their Princess.

Come to me... come and see what the world reflects through you.

Dutifully, Princess Alma listened.

Come to higher ground and release the vision you hold.

The Princess looked at the rising staircase, wrapped in disembodied voices coaxing her forward. In the singular beat of her heart, Alma felt the weight of the moment. Gone now were the friends who had filled the spaces with laughter and love. Gone now were the caretakers returned to the refuge of their homes. Alone, the Princess stood, a solitary figure in the ancient palace.

He waits and he listens. Alma sighed.

The castle’s inner space pressed heavy on her, vast, large and looming. This was the secret place she shared with her ancestors. Within the secluded thick walls of the castle, Alma honored their memories as they silently passed by and caressed her. In this moment, Alma felt the dull ache of remembrance. It pulled at her, a tight knotted spot buried deep within her heart. Childhood memories summoned her to return. She resisted. She knew the call to begin her ascent to the upper chamber of the towers was the right path. The only path. She paused and waited on the first cold stone step. She felt small. But she knew her strength and purpose awaited her in the highest reaches of her ancestral home.

With a deep breath, Princess Alma tilted her flickering lantern into the tightly curved stairwell. Shadows scattered high into the vertical spiral. She placed one small foot on the first carved stone stair. Thus began her nocturnal journey. Hard damp steps greeted her and the narrow incline seduced her forward.

"Come," the walls whispered. Come to the higher ground.

The stairs curved tightly. The passageway narrowed as the stone walls drew her closer. Princess Alma’s pulse quickened and her breath grew deeper. She intentionally slowed, her free hand brushing across the cold stone wall.

The Princess became aware of her body and the space it occupied. She smelled moist stone mixed with the dust of years past embedded in the cramped space. She felt the rise and fall of her belly and chest. She noticed the cool air of the inhale and the pleasing warmth of the exhale. She watched the dance of shadows as her lantern’s flame bent and bowed with the swirling breezes. She measured her footsteps, feeling the size and angle of each step. She shifted her posture in the tightening curve of the stairwell. Princess Alma drew her loose cape closer as the stone wall cradled her in a chilly embrace.

As she climbed, stillness settled around the Princess. She invited it to seep in, deeper into her bones. She surrendered to it, the aching for what no longer was slipped away. She gave herself to the push. She breathed into it and emerged. Released. She stood in the open space between the two ancient spires. The lantern’s light fluttered. The upper chamber, hidden within the highest point of the old castle, lay cloistered in the forgotten Kingdom of craggy cliffs and shrouded mountain tops. Touched by the woman’s breath and light, the space was brought to life.

This was the Princess’s space, her private hermitage for creation and healing, a sacred place of transformation, restoration and transcendence. The Princess paused, allowing her heartbeat to slow and her breath to calm. Here, the dimly lit shadows receded. The twin-paned domed window stood framed by the ancient towers. The Princess bowed slightly to the heavy glass window in remembrance of the once glorious and sacred Window of Light.

Magnificent Window with your beautiful stained glass. Precious Window gone now. Taken from us on that stormy night when my life changed.

She pushed the groping thoughts away.

Clouds drifted around moonbeams and teased the twinkling starlight that filtered through the thick panels of glass. The world outside slept while the windows awakened the inner world of the Artist’s studio. Here, underneath the watchful eye of the luminous glass and the pair of soaring twin stone sentries, Princess Alma withdrew.

He waits and he knows.

With reverence, the Princess moved to the closed windows. They stood joined and locked by a heavy brass hook. The Princess pulled a paint splattered wooden stepladder from the dark corner and dragged it toward the carved stone windowsill. Lithely she climbed the small steps. The old wood creaked. Balanced on tiptoes, the Princess touched the cool etched brass latch. She closed her eyes and waited. The familiar charge of electricity passed through her. Her heart leapt. She twitched and breathed deeply. With one strong pull, she unlatched the tarnished green brass hook.

The heavy oval panes of glass yawned and flew open, aided by wind swirling between the two towering spires. Night air rushed in. Air and light, sounds and smells transformed the castle’s interior space. The young woman’s senses quickened, each fully engaged. The echoing night songs drifted in and danced on the thick walls. A barely perceptible shift in energy hung lightly on the Princess’s skin, soft and tingling like young love’s stolen kiss. She stood bathed in a pool of translucent ethereal gold. Her lantern’s flame danced and soared in the rush of air. In that moment, Princess Alma retreated and the Artist emerged.

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The Artist opened her eyes and gazed out upon the distant land blanketed in smoky grey and silver dewy mist. A lone owl sang its deep soulful call. The wind answered in a hushed whisper, muffled by tall rustling pines. Nature called the Artist to join in the magic of the night. The moment was hers. A blank canvas awaited the spark of inspiration and the awakening of her vision. The muse stirred and sang in the low tone of the night wind.

Deep within lies a place, a holy place, a sacred place. It waits for you to awaken. It is the place where your dreams sleep, where your song sings, where your dance awaits. It holds vigil for you. Sit, even if just for a moment. Put aside the matters of the day. Let go of the heavy things. Close your eyes so it may weave magic before you, giving voice to the song your heart yearns to release. It waits to guide you to the place where you glide effortlessly into the rhythm of the dance—a dance your body already knows. Welcome to the sanctuary within, your holy place. May the wind carry you into the stream of sweet surrender and the light hold you in the embrace of sublime grace. Awaken now and see the beauty of the reflection of the mirror of your soul.

The Artist exhaled and surrendered. She leaned into the wild dance of creation. She swayed and sang and brought form to the visions held in her heart. She brought life to what she saw through her mind’s eye framed by the lens of her heart. Her hands glided as she dipped into wildly scattered pallets of color. She created, led by her inner guide. She capitulated to her muse and let the brush become an extension of her hands and heart. She emptied herself, freeing her mind’s eye to ignite her inner world with color. She painted the music. She painted the silence. She painted the darkness and the light.

The rush of energy enveloped the Artist and carried her to faraway places. Magical, mythical, mysterious places sprang to life on the blank canvas. Time dissolved. This was her sacred moment of alchemy, bliss and joy, her place of creation.

Once finished, exhilarated and spent, the Artist reverently took the completed piece to the interior space between the large domed windows. Bathed in the twinkling light of distant stars and soft muted moonbeams, she slowly shifted back into the small space between the spires. The Artist blinked. She saw for the first time the images her hands and heart created. Dotted and dabbed with energy, wet and glistening, she saw a vibrant scene, a delicious slice of life.

The Artist smiled. Momentarily the creator became the observer. The freshly created image whispered to her soul. The power of the passion to create raced through her. The Artist’s breath caught, captured in the embodied fusion of the gift of her heart and the vision of her soul. The Artist bowed, giving thanks.

Her body now tired, her heart full, reverently she placed the canvas along the old castle’s solid stone wall to dry. She climbed the wooden steps on the small stool and leaned out beyond the exterior castle walls to pull the two glass panes inward. The old frames creaked as she tugged. The Artist gazed one last time upon the muted grey landscape. A cool breeze caressed her paint-splattered face.

The Artist breathed in the smell of fertile fields, sweet meadow grass and fragrant flowers. She listened to the gentle murmur of the ever moving streams, the steady hum of lapping water spilling over and polishing the mossy stone. The babbling waters held the backdrop for the still slumbering Kingdom. She heard it. Its distant song in the strange language, no more than a hushed whisper, called to the Artist, Rukha d’ koodsha.

The Artist closed her eyes, straining to hear the foreign words that escaped understanding. The haunting melody beseeched. She willed herself to expand outward, to connect to the world beyond the palace gates, to move past the craggy cliffs and majestic mountaintop. In that moment of closure, she offered a blessing to the sleeping villages, to the whole of the Kingdom and to the strange foreign world of her dreams.

For you, Momma and Daddy, Grandmama and Papa too, wherever you might be tonight, Alma softly whispered. For all of you, and for you, my dearest Baba, too, who always waits. May peace hold you and joy guide you on your paths. May goodness and kindness rest within your heart and abide within your home. May love hold us by the glow of the moon and the radiance of the sun. May we be blessed as we bless the other. May we awaken with a joyful heart to the promise of a new day. May we always know that we are held in the gentle embrace of One Source and the Sacred Singular One who guides the Great Cosmos. She who breathes as the mighty Wind. She who soars as the majestic Bird. She who cleanses as the healing Rain. She who guides as the eternal Light. For all is good. And all is well.

Eyes open, the Artist closed the heavy domed glass and latched the tarnished brass hook. She stepped off the small ladder and her feet touched the carved stone floor. A rush of energy coursed through her body. Her night’s work done, the Artist retreated and the Princess returned.

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Alma picked up the still burning lantern and surveyed the studio and bowed to her sacred space of alchemy and creation. Not mine but yours, she whispered. This is my gift. My purpose. May it bring the joy that I feel in this moment to those I love. May I serve always as the Mirror of my Soul.

Her task complete, Princess Alma withdrew from the high towers. She walked past heavily draped windows. The night wrapped itself around her like the gauzy threads of a woven cocoon. She glanced at the carved wooden door that stood at the end of the adjacent corridor. A soft light pooled out from underneath. As the young woman continued past the junction, the light dimmed and a soft rustling behind the door followed her retreating steps.

Her lips curved in a soft smile. He rests now. His vigil done. Good night, dearest Baba.

At the end of the long hallway, Alma paused. It was her time to retire and rest, to shelter in the safety of this familiar space. Her time to dream and allow the remnants of the night’s magic to work their alchemy of transformation.

The young woman opened the wooden door. Smoldering embers glowed in the hearth. She slid into the warm room, bowing to the inky night sky, punctured with jeweled stars pulsating from the curved window. She offered a prayer of gratitude, a prayer of remembrance.

Alma slept peacefully knowing she had served the calling of her soul. While night faded and darkness evaporated, she dreamed. The words of her prayer took form in the diaphanous haze of slumber, a simple petition for restoration and unity. Hers were dreams of remembrance for a family held close to her heart. Her dreams took flight, transforming into her fervent prayers with magical wings.

Chapter 3

Alma strolled along the castle grounds, smiling at villagers who had come to share in the daily communal gathering. She paused by a group of artisans selling their wares. A small child balancing a large bouquet of wildflowers ran toward her. Breathless and flush with excitement, the girl stopped and gave a deep curtsey. In a voice high and sweet she said, Princess. Good morning.

Alma returned the smile and gently kneeled in front of the girl. Good morning, my dear. Please, you can call me Alma.

The young girl twirled, braids flying, ending in a pirouette with a flourishing bow. She let loose a laugh as light as the morning’s air and bright as sunshine. Princess Alma, good morning.

Alma smiled.

The girl giggled as she handed the ribbon-laced bouquet to her. For you!

Well thank you, my dear. These are quite beautiful. Alma raised the flowers to her face and took in the sweet fragrance of lilac, lavender, honeysuckle, and sweet alyssum all swaddled in the subtle scents of earth, rain, sunshine, moonbeams and dew.

These are from our garden, the girl’s voice dropped to a near whisper as if sharing a delicious secret. Really, it’s the meadow behind our home. I picked them for you this morning, Princess Alma. The child’s eyes brimmed with innocence and pure joy.

I will place them in my bedroom. They will remind me of you when I go to bed and when I wake up. Alma stood and smiled at the girl. What is your name?

Grace. The girl paused. Mum and Daddy call me Gracie.

Grace. That is beautiful, Alma said. May I call you by your proper name?

Oh yes, please, the child’s voice grew serious. As a Princess, you should call me by my proper name.

So, Grace. Would you like to join me to fetch water for your beautiful bouquet?

That would be lovely! Then Grace’s face scrunched. But if you don’t mind, Princess, may I run and let my mum know? She does worry when I go missing.

Alma nodded and the girl flashed a smile before running toward a cluster of women gathered around a table filled with fruits and vegetables. Tightly pulled braids flew behind as small legs pumped mightily along the path.

Alma smiled. Yes, dear one, we mustn’t upset our mums.

When Grace returned, Alma held the small hand and led the child toward the castle door. The tiny clutching hand felt nice in hers. She slowed her pace to match the steps of her new friend.

Grace spoke to her of the fields and flowers, birds and bees, and her own innocent awe.

Alma’s heart filled with joy.

In the castle’s cavernous kitchen, Alma and Grace filled a large mason jar with water. Alma handed a small scoop of raw sugar to the child on a wooden spoon. Here you go, Grace. Stir in the sugar to feed these beautiful flowers. I want them to last as long as possible so I can remember this splendid moment we are sharing.

Grace dutifully stirred as she looked around, intrigued by the enormous stove and soot-stained hearth with its jumbled assortment of every imaginable pot and pan hanging from large hooks or stacked on painted wooden shelves.

I suppose things look a bit different here, Alma noted. I would guess your kitchen is far cozier than this. I often wished I had a nice cozy kitchen to sit in and sip tea with my mum and dad. Alma pushed aside the familiar longing. Not now, she silently willed the thought away.

Oh yes! Grace responded. We eat dinner at the wooden table tucked next to our fireplace. It smells of spices and baked bread. I believe it’s my favorite room in our home. We have a window too, although not quite as grand as yours.

Grace paused and turned to the kitchen’s heavy paned windows.

Off in the distance I can look at my garden, which really is the meadow, her childlike voice continued. I like to watch the flowers and leaves blow in the wind. And we have lots of beautiful birds. Daddy teaches me their names, and Nana helps me recognize their call. She says I love the meadow so much because that’s where the fairies left me, and where she found me. That’s one of her silly stories.

Alma smiled and squeezed Grace’s hand.

I like the meadow for lots of reasons, Grace went on. Sometimes deer go by, and in the spring we see the fawns. Mum doesn’t like the deer to go near her garden. She has a proper garden. She shoos them away. Daddy and I laugh when she runs out with her broom or duster telling the deer to ‘scoot.’ Except Daddy tells me not to tell Mum we laugh.

Indeed, Alma laughed, the deer are beautiful creatures, especially when they run and jump over split rails and logs. But I understand your mother. We keep a fence around our vegetables and berries. Though I confess, I sometimes leave pieces of fruit outside those fences for the rabbits and deer. Seems a shame to smell the sweetness yet not taste it. Alma’s voice dropped to a whisper. But that’s a secret you will have to keep, Grace, since Mr. Jonathan, our gardener, would not like that I am encouraging the deer or bunnies.

The child giggled. I’m good at keeping secrets. Yours are safe with me. Just like my secret with Daddy about Mum and the deer.

Wildflowers in hand, Alma led Grace down a long hallway to the far end of the castle. At the heavy wooden door, the child paused. Alma motioned her in. This is my bedroom. All my friends are welcome here.

Am I your friend? Grace’s voice was soft and sincere, her eyes opened wide.

Well, you have given me these beautiful flowers and we shared our secrets. I would say we are quite good friends, Grace.

A radiant smile lit the girl’s cherubic face. She stepped inside. There were shelves of dark wood filled with books and all manner of curious things—branches, stones, seashells, colored glass, feathers and beads. The walls were covered with colorful paintings. Multicolored blankets and shawls draped several wooden and fabric-covered chairs. There was a cheerful woven rug in the shape of the sun in the middle of the room and stars adorned the ceiling.

Grace stared, intrigued with a set of ornately framed photos near the bed. Two beautiful women stared back who closely resembled Alma. It’s beautiful... Grace looked down, momentarily shy. But this doesn’t look like a princess’s room.

Oh well, I suppose it does not, Alma acknowledged.

I expected a princess like you might have lace and silk and all manner of fancy things. But I do so like it. You have things that I love from the meadows, creeks and the land around our house. These are perfect treasures.

Alma smiled and beckoned the child to sit. So where shall we put your beautiful flowers?

Grace surveyed the room and pointed. I think there by the window would be quite lovely. The sun will feel good on the flowers. I’ve noticed how in the meadow they turn toward the sun.

Alma set the Mason jar vase on a small stand below the window. Grace struggled as she stretched high on her toes to peer out, so Alma lifted the child into her arms after gently opening the glass pane. A soft breeze danced through the draped curtains.

What a beautiful view you have, Princess.

Indeed, it is one of my favorite things, to watch the clouds drift past as I rest in bed. For me, the magic of a window is that while I might be inside, I can let the outside in. The window allows me to connect with all that is beautiful just beyond me.

Grace turned and looked at her. Illuminated in defused light slanting in from the window, she whispered in a high voice, In the winter, when it’s too cold to play in the yard, I take my little stool and look out our big kitchen window. Daddy says I’m a bit of a day dreamer. Mum says it means I have a kind heart and a curious mind. I don’t know about any of that, but I imagine a part of me is outside, and I can feel the wind and the rain and taste the snow. It is rather magical.

Alma set the child down and straightened her cotton dress. You are a bright and curious child, Grace. You speak of things that few grown-ups understand.

Grace giggled. Daddy says sometimes he doesn’t understand me. Nana scolds him and then laughs. She says I speak the language of the garden fairies.

Alma again noted how sunlight bathed the young girl. Well, I suppose we should go back and join the others. Your mum might be getting a bit worried.

Grace grabbed Alma’s outstretched hand and the two friends proceeded back outside.

Alma offered a silent and simple thank you for her new friend who understood the magic of dancing leaves, bending flowers and especially the magic of windows. A breeze blew and the wind replied, As within, so without.

Chapter 4

On a day when the leaves were beginning to turn and the tall pampas grasses grew stiffer, Alma saw Grace playing tag under the Gingko with a group of boisterous children. She smiled, recalling similar childhood games, and closed her eyes, letting the children’s shouts and laughter wash over her.

When Alma opened her eyes, she noticed Grace had stopped and stood gazing at her. Alma offered a slight bow and a gentle wave. Grace let out a short squeal and broke into a full throttled run, arms cutting through the air and pigtails flying.

Princess Alma, good morning, she panted as she wrapped herself into Alma’s warm embrace.

Why Grace, you are a magnificent runner.

Oh yes, the grass here at the castle is so soft it almost tickles my feet. It is perfect for running. The girl peered down and wiggled her toes.

I am very happy to see you, Grace. Your flowers brightened my room for many days. Every day as I changed the water and smelled the sweetness of the blooms, I thought of you.

The child beamed. I’m sorry I didn’t bring you more flowers today. The sunflowers are amazing. They’re at least as tall as you, Princess. But Mum was in a terrible hurry and needed me to help carry a bag of peppers.

I’m sure she appreciated your help, and many people will enjoy your sweet peppers. I am happy to have you here, and don’t need anything more than to hear you laugh with your friends and feel your loving hug.

Grace leaned in and hugged Alma’s waist.

The two walked hand in hand, basking in the slanted rays of the shifting sun, greeting those they passed.

Once they moved past the busy footpath and stalls of food and ware, Grace paused. Alma looked down at the girl. Yes?

Grace coughed. Princess Alma, people say you are an artist.

Yes, I suppose that is my talent and gift, and what I am here to do, Alma replied. Some people grow vegetables or tend to the animals, some make cheeses and others wine. Some, like you, gather the wildflowers. I paint and draw. So, I guess that would make me an artist.

The girl nodded and swayed, her bare feet drawing swirls in the soft dirt. She looked up, suddenly pensive and serious. They say you draw things you see from beyond here... beyond our meadows and the forest and mountains. Sometimes when I come here to help Mum, I go to the great hall in the castle and look at your paintings. They are beautiful. But some of them seem...

Grace paused, searching for the right words.

I don’t know. Some of them seem sort of strange, you know? The girl searched Alma’s face and then looked down. I mean, I do like your paintings very much. But I mostly like the flowers and forests and meadows that look like home.

A silence stood between them. Alma could see the child struggling. She smiled and nodded gently. Yes, Grace. I like it here, too. Our land is beautiful.

Grace smiled shyly and shrugged. So, with so many wonderful things right here, why do you paint pictures of faraway places and people we don’t know?

Alma turned toward a small path leading to a grove of fruit trees. The pair walked in silence as the buzzing of insects grew louder. Under a cluster of trees was a small wooden bench where they sat in the shade.

Alma looked out past the orchard at the tall trees lining the castle’s outer fence and the looming hills. I love our villages, she began, and all the beauty that surrounds us. I think we live in a place of pure magic, and I wouldn’t want to live anywhere else in the whole world. All the beauty that I hold in my heart is reflected here in nature and the people I love. That is what I try to paint for people.

Yes, Grace responded. So why do you paint things none of us know? Isn’t what we have right here enough for you?

Alma let the question hang. She suspected there was more the child wanted to say. Or perhaps Alma needed time to think what her question was really asking.

Together they sat in the late summer shade as birds sang and the breeze blew. Grace’s hands were folded in her lap as she gazed off into the distance. For me, Princess, I know the flowers and can name them and I love them. The vegetables Daddy plants in our garden are enough for the most delicious meals. They feed us and keep us strong. The recipes Nana has are the same ones she shares with Mum and me, and they came from her nana. The fruit on these trees is perfect for everything I love like pies and jams. But mostly just to eat the fruit right off the tree. I can’t imagine anything different being any better.

The Princess smiled and patted the girl gently. You are right, Grace. But something inside me calls to imagine for a moment another place, a bigger world. When I am alone at night, I go up to the high tower and look out of the Great Domed Window. There I see things. It’s as if I am being transported. That’s when my inner voice and my inner eye take over and guide me. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like I am not the artist. I am not the painter. The painting uses me to paint itself. Whatever it is, it needs me to express it and give it life.

Alma listened to her own words and wondered if a child so young could understand. Now is not the time.

The two sat quietly while birds continued to sing. Then Grace broke the silence. Leaning forward on the sun-faded wooden bench, in a voice both earnest and sincere, she said, You say you love your art. Do you love it all the same? I mean do you love the paintings of our forests, our meadows, trees and gardens maybe a little bit more than those other pictures of the Earth Below? What about the paintings of the cities, deserts, islands, and beaches?

The Princess now understood what lay behind the simple question. Oh, my sweet friend, Grace. That’s like asking a mother which of her children she loves best. I love them all and paint them with my imagination... and with love.

To honor the call, Alma silently added.

The Princess smiled at the innocent but wise young girl. She continued. Once a painting is finished, I share it as my gift. I let the places and people come to life through my brushstrokes. All I really hope for is that someone will find something in the paintings that makes them happy or brings peace. Maybe something in my art even sparks a sense of curiosity and ignites their imagination. That’s all, really. I paint because I have to. The images choose me and I try to honor each one.

The Princess paused and pointed to the closest tree and its cluster of heavy fruit. I wonder if the tree thinks of the peaches and how someone will enjoy their sweetness. Or if it is merely the nature of such things, that the peach tree bears fruit and that is enough.

The statement hung as a question in the rich afternoon sun. Alma inhaled the sights, sounds and the feeling, willing herself to create a memory. Perhaps the paintings of the places and people from here come from a different place in my heart. Now that you ask, and thinking about it a bit, I suppose the images of my life here come from memories and dreams. Maybe they have a different energy. I am painting from my past as I remember it, from the love in my heart. And perhaps from my future, as I hope things will be.

Alma left unspoken the inspiration for the other pictures. That was a mystery she had not yet unraveled. She hoped the explanation she offered would be enough.

Princess Alma, I like that, Grace said. I like that very much. When I look at your paintings, I feel something.

Alma waited, sensing that there was something deeper at play. The girl’s words pulsed with an energy. These were Alma’s own buried questions she didn’t want to face.

The wind shifted and the tree’s branches lifted slightly. Grace said, "I wonder if somehow in that moment when I look at your pictures, the ones from here, maybe together we are sharing that special thing that Nana calls connection. I think maybe we are sharing love. Like when I eat that peach, I am sharing something with the tree. It is also love, right?"

Alma’s expression softened. You are wise beyond your years. Why Grace, yes. That is quite perfect. We are sharing love.

Grace jumped up and ran toward the trees. She grabbed two low-hanging peaches and gave each three quick turns. The fruit dropped effortlessly into her hands. She skipped back to the bench. Here, let’s enjoy some of the tree’s gifts.

After wiping the fruit on her cotton dress, she offered a velvet-skinned peach to Alma and kept one for herself. Eyes closed, Grace bit into the firm flesh and let the juice slowly run down the corner of her mouth.

Mmm... this is good. You know, if I chew it very slowly, I think it tastes even better. The girl’s words were garbled between bites of the juicy fruit.

You’re right, Grace, Alma answered, wiping juice from her own mouth with the back of one hand. I think I can taste some sunshine and rain and new earth.

And love, Grace added.

Yes, love, Alma beamed. There is always love.

The sun hid behind a passing cloud, draping the two in shadows where they sat on the old bench, sharing peaches, discovering the sweet gift of fruit, connection and love.

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The early evening, wrapped in its own rhythm and energy, found Alma passing through the now empty corridors and breezeways. She paused to look at the artwork displayed on the thick walls. What did you see in these pictures, sweet Grace? What are these images saying to you? And what are you saying to me?

The Artist’s work filled the castle in ornate frames—translucent and rushing rivers under gleaming bridges, stately avenues lit by amber lights, gilded temples perched on sunlit mountaintops, and jungle-shrouded shrines. Each canvas vividly captured places unknown and untraveled by the people of Hokhmah. For those who paused to look, they could see the potential and splendor of the Earth Below.

Alma took in the scenes and let her heart register their emotions.

One of my favorites, came a familiar deep voice. Such power. You have the gift, my dear.

Alma shifted, grounded by a surge of electricity. Papa. Welcome. I was lost in my own world, she whispered. I am glad you like it.

Tell me, what world are you lost in now?

Alma pondered. I guess I am not lost in a world but in a question. A curious question from a most curious little girl.

Hmm. Papa led Alma to a secluded area in the corridor. And what question would engage you so thoroughly? The old man’s voice was playful.

I don’t know. I guess it is really the question I ask myself every evening when I climb those stairs.

And what would that be?

Why me?

"Why me? Oh, my child. I suppose that’s better than Why not me? But really, come now, Alma. Is that really the question at the heart of this?"

The young woman felt the cool breeze shift. It traced around her shoulders and stroked her long hair.

The voice continued. What is really troubling you?

Oh sweet, Papa. Always here for me. Always kind and gentle. I don’t know what I would do without you.

Alma leaned forward, her head in her hands. She breathed in the aromatic scents of smokey berries and chocolate. She remembered the feel of the old man’s tweed jacket and the contours of his pipe buried deep in his pocket.

"I miss you. I miss all of you. Sometimes I feel like my heart could just break right open. Then I look at these paintings and I wonder where you are and what you are seeing. I wonder what you are doing. And then I can’t help but wonder, Why? It always ends with me wondering when I will see you all again. Alma’s breath caught and then she added... Wondering why you left."

Papa’s soft voice carried on the wind. I understand. I truly do. And if I had a magic wand I would change everything.

Alma brushed aside tears and felt a warm presence wrap around her.

"Alas, mi cielito, my magic wand stopped working a long time ago. And so, I too wait and wonder. I’ve come to trust in the not knowing. I left because the breezes came and the wind shifted; it was my time. I was called to begin the healing and restoration. I had a vision borne in my mind but not my heart. It was not enough for these times. I had to experience the visions. To engage with my heart. Now I am here and hold the space for you with love so that your Guides may shine their light for you. And you too will hear your call on the wind."

She struggled to understand Papa’s words.

The old man smiled. His eyes held love. Let’s leave those things for another time. Tell me about this curious child.

Alma relaxed. She is a sweet girl. Her name is Grace. She lives in Tearmann and comes here often with her mum. Something about her intrigues me. She is wise beyond her years, with eyes that seem strangely familiar. There’s a light in there. She knows things.

Hmm, Papa cooed. Sounds rather like a young girl I knew once. Birds called in the distance. "To change the subject a bit, mi cielito, let’s look at this particular painting. Tell me, what is it you see?"

Alma turned her attention again to the large canvas bearing an image of a vast ocean, with majestic waves of blue and green. Sunlight streaked the distant shoreline. I see the ocean.

Yes, so do I. But that is because I have been to the ocean. When I look at it, I can hear the thunderous sound the waves make as they meet the shore. I can smell the salt air. I can feel the cold sting of ocean spray caught in the winter wind. But I also feel the soothing pull of summer’s warm tides. I see the ocean, but I also feel it. I connect with it.

Because you know it. You’ve lived it, Alma finished his thoughts.

It is part of my past. But for you, my dear, it offers possibilities.

Alma nodded. So is your vision more real than mine?

Your vision is no less real than my experience. But because I’ve been there, I can imagine the nearby seaside villages dotted under green canopies embraced in a burnt vermilion sunset. Stretching beyond what’s on the canvas, there are towns and cities, nameless and mysterious to you, each waiting to be brought to life in a pallet of color. A whole world is waiting for us. For you.

Alma sat up and smiled. I see that. Every night I see something exciting and new.

"Ah, cielito. It is here for all to enjoy, to see from our own point of reference. That is your gift. You see things others cannot."

Is that the gift, Papa? The seeing?

Yes, but I believe there is more. I see something in your eyes. Perhaps as you do in your new friend. What question unsettles you?

Alma paused and tried to put to words the emotion Grace’s question evoked. "I am not quite sure. Something about my art troubled her. And her reaction mattered to me. Maybe because I don’t yet