A Minister And His Daemon

The Minister of Fears was tired. Sitting comfortably atop the Great-Grey-Tower, he was lost in thoughts, his mind stirring around the few passages of his life he remembered clearly. Dressed in his official crimson dress, Jeoffrey the second sighed in relief and threw away his white wig, down the tower, the colorless lump of artificial hair catching the heavy winds and morphing in yet another apparition; a freed, ghoul-like bird, flapping its absurd locks of hair, at one with the gusts of air.

Jeoffrey laughed in amazement, following of his gaze the white dot until, just like everything, it faded away in the distance. Sitting up there the Minister of Fears could see the whole realm, the valley of the flower's shadow, the entrance to the darkwater realm, home to the upended fortress, and the unending plains of golden wheat, waving in unison to some invisible, all powerful hand.

Up there atop the tower Jeoffrey thought back on his life, as any old man do. He could see, if he focused enough, his whole life in front of him, overlaying the very world before his eyes. His pathetic, tormented childhood, his struggle and rise to power, his descent into madness and the embrace of the apparitions, plaguing (nay, enhancing) his life, these demons appearing only to him.

What use to give them names and categorize them?

What use to document and organize such absurd spectacles?

For all he knew, they were only symptoms of the hidden insanity of his mind. For the Minister of Fears did make peace with it, his madness, his hysteria as some called it in the past. Not an easy feat for a man so proud and knowledgeable as him. And so after a flood of blue wine and almost infinite meetings with other ministers, filled with noise (no, scratch that, with important discourse) Jeoffrey sighed and closed his eyes, utterly bored of his own memories. It seems his years of struggles were his most poignant, meaningful. What a shame. Surely there is more to life than all that.

High above, even higher than him on his great tower, the clouds, organized in such fashion that they rose and rose, so massive and imposing that one gets confused, almost frightened by their sheer presence. Not mere clouds, but nature elementals, filled with power on the winds and the rain and the climate of existance-

Please indulge an old man, these are not mere ramblings but truth only he can see!

Opening his eyes wider evermore, Jeoffrey dared gaze higher and higher, beyond the white mastodons, toward the blue lie of the sky, beyond it, to a realm of abstract, detached energies, that only one with deep enough understandings of reality can distinguish. Of not days and nights but of a purple void, and the unwavering onslaught of waves of energy. Of the intricate, controlled chaos that is the dance of the planets, of the realms, in perfect harmony despite the underlying destructive forces that permeate everything. Of not time but simple actions and reactions, the absurd maelstrom of the present moment, all-encompassing yet ever shifting.

A sort of mumbling tore the Minister of Fears from his epiphany, his eyes dry and his limbs shaking, freezing in the strong winds. Back to his senses he exhaled strongly, his tired mind on the edge of fainting, yet there underneath him an abyss, the call of the void. No matter how old and exhausted his mind, Jeoffrey still held on to his life dearly, and he waved his arms about, gaining back his balance and falling back in his chair, his heart beating so fast he was overcome with nausea. The world around him shifted about as he gained back his sense, his thoughts in disarray, hearing a sort of muffled, raspy voice amidst the winds, amidst his confusion;

''So you think, you believe, Minister, your life to be most valuable? To be most precious?''

Jeoffrey blinked a few times and sat up, in high alert, looking around him, to the solitude he was so acustomed to. No one, yet the voice perserved, unfazed.

''For beings such as yours, to glimpse at the Truth, is remarkable, yet your fears of death are most jarring, insect.''

Jeoffrey could perceive at last, there, hovering in front of him, the abstract- and at the same time- panic inducing face of a Daemon, its impossible eyes piercing him deeper even than the depths of his soul, its raspy voice reaching not only his ears but his mind itself, overriding any other sounds.

The Minister of Fears stood up, facing the Daemon as a man, yet underneath his proud and wise facade, a swelling panic, akin to a dam on the verge of breaking apart, threatening to unleash enough terror to overwhelm his old mind, yet the dam held strong for now, barely.

''Minister! Tell me, what do you believe, really, is the Truth? For I have no doubt you believe yourself to be so wise to be part of it. Let me show you, Minister, just how deeply mistaken you are.''

And the Daemon blinked, its ethereal body embracing, nay, swallowing Jeoffrey whole, yet not dying or suffering, Jeoffrey witnessed around him the absolute truth of reality.

Not from his puny, absurd perspective, not from his mind constructing the world from its senses, but from the Daemon's emancipated view. A view containing the whole of existance at once, a view that one could aknowledge as being omniscient, yet still being able to focus on certain parts, like the sun in all its brillance or the tiny rising grey line that is the tower, and the even smaller being that stands there, glowing in effervescence. And underneath all that, the nature of things losing their meaning, their essence, to become pure, unaltered. The sun becoming nothing more than pure exaltation, the realm becoming nothing more than eccentricities of existence, and himself, paradoxically, becoming nothing more than the dreams of an almost (but not quite) all powerful Daemon.

Snapped, teared, pulled, utterly ruptured from the vision, Joefrey collapsed on his chair, atop the grey tower. Still tormenting him, the Daemon, back to his impossible face weaving in the ether, its voice trespassing the Minister's mind once more.

''Now, after witnessing Truth, as you call it, allow me to ask you once more. What makes you so attached, so protective of your life?''

Despite everything, Jeoffrey had no answer, even after debating internally for who knows how long. Other than perhaps by habit?

And at that the Daemon erupted in laughter, its vocal percussions echoeing throughout the realm, and to the Minister's surprise, scaring the wildlife, with birds and eagles scattering and foxes, reindeers, hares and other game racing away, as if frightened beyond belief.

Stupor overcame Jeoffrey. His whole life took at once the yellow-green tint of doubt, realizing that such a Daemon was REAL, and not simple madness from his mind. That the apparitions of the past were as real as him, same for the golden spirits? That after all these unending years, it was not madness and hysteria that overcame him but a deeper, truer vision of reality?

At that the Daemon shifted personality entirely and with an aggressive, earth shattering voice warned Jeoffrey of his earthly view;

''When will you stop this vain pursuit of pride, or certainty? You are but an insect amidst the energies of radiant Truth yet you cling to this limited, pathetic life?''

At last Jeoffrey understood where the Daemon was going with his questions, his visions. He talked with certainty, for the first time in years, to this vision of a face there in front of him;

''Why didn't I let myself fall down, after glimpsing at the truth of reality? Why didn't I let myself fall down and die at last, after such an epiphany? Not purely by habit, but also by this so-called pride you hate so much.''

The Daemon looked at him, its facial expressions mimicking that of intense concentration, as Jeoffrey poured the words outward, the dam not breaking but softly overflowing;

''For what entity, what being would reject the life he so embraced all these years, upon learning that its nature is wrong, far from the truth? No being at all, at least no being with a modicum of pride, of love. For what, really, are things-in-themselves, but simply waves of energy upon the veil of reality? Yes, a veil! What you call truth is but another lie, merely mimicking truth, that is impossible to reach, to see, to understand.''

Far from falling in a deaf ear, the Daemon actually seemed satisfied with his answer. The apparition vanished at once, a mere instant later not a trace of it left behind. Jeoffrey let himself fall upon his wooden chair, exhausted beyond belief. Eyes closed, his mind blank, he could start to see the breathtaking colors of the sunset there on the horizon, through his eyelids, the setting sun painting such a wondrous scene, for his eyes only.

The Minister of Fears thought that perhaps the lie was to be embraced, and smiling from a deeply rooted love for life he fell asleep, to the one thousand demons and apparitions rising over the realms in the early night.

Yet deep beneath his certitude, still lurked the shadow of a doubt, akin to a seed, digging its humble roots at the core of Jeoffrey's old mind. An idea, a sort of dream perhaps, a fantasy.

Death as escape?

***

Half-awake the Minister of Fears opened his eyes, and upon seeing once more the scenery from atop the tower a profound disgust overcame him. The sun was long gone by now, and the comforting land was flooded not with the bliss of night but with thousands, millions of demons of all sorts, waltzing to some music that cannot be heard, akin to waves of impossibilities upon the very realm.

Not quite bored, but quite annoyed Jeoffrey put on his red hood, pushed back the chair that fell down loudly on the stone floor and opened the trap-door at once. Going down the steep stairs of the Great-Grey-Tower, the Minister of Fears was overcome with a sudden idea, appearing in his mind in bright, bold capital letter of gold;

SALVATION

Pushing open the wooden door of his cherished library, Jeoffrey reached for the hearth, and with his bare hands he grabbed a half-burnt log, the pain in his hand clouded, distant, meaningless as was his very life. Why couldn't he see it before! Though he reasoned, far from being the Daemon's fault, it was his very own, his answer, that opened his eyes to the futility, to the unbearable repetitiveness of existance, to the so close escape!

The Minister of Fears marched with haste along the dozen bookshelves, filled with his life's work, his research documents and essays and books on all topics. Extending his arm he pushed down at his feet the books, the scrolls, the trinkets, the scribblings. Scattering on them, red hot coals and burning logs, and laughing in certainty Jeoffrey ran along back to the stairs. Just before entering he catched a glimpse of himself, in the mirror there hanging on the wall, sparkling in the gray smoke and the rising flames.

Jeoffrey didn't like what he saw. Not one bit. Amidst the rising destruction he saw the shadow of a man, barely holding on to his sanity, his crimson dress full of holes, dirty and unbefitting of such a man as he; caughing in the smoke he reached for the miror and threw it on the ground, shattering it, flooding the ground with specks of light. He ran back up the steep stairs, back up the tower, pushing shut the wooden door behind him, the smoke oozing through cracks and crevasses.

Rising underneath him the grey toxic clouds, ashes of his life's work, pushing him up toward the top of the tower, toward the end. Glancing backward Jeoffrey noticed, without surprise, the flood of apparitions, demons, rising with the smoke, rising with him, in perfect motion. His feeble body shaking under the stress, yet his mind in ebullition, exalted, in anticipation of emancipation. Jeoffrey reached the trap door and pushed it open, well tried to push it open, it was stuck! Panicking amidst the suffocating smoke and the rising sea of demons Jeoffrey screamed and punched on the trap door until at last it gave in, and gushing akin to an absurd, grey volcano, the smoke and the apparitions and an old, insane man erupted upward, lifted by all that is mad and hysteric and completely, utterly deranged.

Floating almost, the Minister of Fears looked down, one last time, to the realm he calls home, to the memories he calls himself, and for the first time in his whole life, he took a step foward, free of any doutbs, free of any fears.

The Minister of Fears walked off the tower, falling down to the entrance hundreds of meters below. Around him, the smoke and the crackling of the knowledge, burning away, and lower at the entrance, the apparitions still entering with great haste, as if nothing else was of importance.

In limbo, the Minister of Fears thought back, one last time, on his life, before reaching, fatally, the ground at last-

***

''Mother?''

A very young child, almost a baby, whispers in the dark.

''Mommy?''

And to his relief, there in the so very dark of the night she appears, kissing him and hugging him tightly, so warm and comfortable she is that he forgets everything.

Forgets that he just ended it all in the most absurd way, to escape at last. Forgets that once again, and forever more, for infinity, will he live his life, his struggles, his repetitions, in eternal reccurence.

And at every moment and every place, the Daemon laughs.