Korridorium

♫ Enmeshed in Clouds (Woodstock Mix) ♫

26/398

I enter the corridor. A lively bustle reigns here. A woman in colorful, flowing robes greets me with a smile and a kiss on the forehead. She leads me to her friends, who are gathered with some children around a fire, singing, dancing, and roasting marshmallows. I clearly please other women in the group as well. They feel me, nestle against me, and weave flowers into my hair. As I try to move on, one of them pulls me to the ground and offers me a smoldering little roll of paper. The corridor doors—I see now—have been painted with fantasy worlds, mandalas, and floral garlands.

I promised my people I would not halt my search until I recovered the Tjurunga, without which our shaman is powerless. And yet: Can I not linger for a moment to recover from the rigors of the trek? Perhaps I should learn the language of these people and find out what awaits me at the end of the corridor—and behind the many doors they haven’t opened in years, decades, or perhaps ever. The cheerful mood of these people is infectious. Yes, I’ll stay. I nod to the women, letting them know I accept their kind invitation. Perhaps I will find the Tjurunga here among them after all. A wave of dizziness washes over me from all the new impressions. The smoldering paper stem has burned down, and somehow, I know the smoke will never taste bitter again.

Tjurunga: