Interview with Hexorius: An astral prophecy in the "City of Below". - Written by B. Pilgrim

 Interview with Hexorius: An astral prophecy in the "City of Below".

By B. Pilgrim.

I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees
I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees”.

-Robert Johnson, Crossroads Blues

”Ladies and gentlemen, attention please
Come in close so everyone can see
I got a tale to tell
A listen don't cost a dime
And if you believe that we're gonna get along just fine”.

-Steve Earle, Snake Oil.

I know this place, I've been here before. I see the sky, suspended in a perpetual purple sunset or perhaps a dawn that cannot decide to kill the night with the light of the new day. I recognize the town hall clock tower, it marks XIII hours; although that may not be possible.

Yes, I have been here, it is the astral landscape (or at least that is how I interpret it) of my hometown. I know it from the deserted streets and the rain of black ash, which disappears before it hits the ground. As an occultist, I am not used to being drawn to the astral plane without first preparing myself with meditation or some mantra. Something or someone brought me here.

I am in the main square of my city, but it is not really my city; this is "the city of below." I walk without paying attention to the echo of my footsteps, avoiding the spectral fog that seems to exhale from the gates of the church, illuminated and empty. The place is still sacred, but somehow I feel hostile towards myself. Although there seems to be no one around me, instinct tells me that I am not alone and soon I will find who made me come to this region that is and is not real at the same time.

I am startled by a whistle behind me, sharp and vibrant like a knife through the flesh. I turn my head and I can see that someone is in one of the benches facing the street of the temple, next to the hideously painted kiosk in the center of the square. Wave your hand, as if impatiently greeting an old friend.

I direct my steps towards the individual, who is crossed legs like a yogi. I recognize his old colorful rags, as well as the absurd and cluttered travel backpack larger than himself, next to him. And above all, the absence of a face under the hood makes it recognizable to me:

“Hexorius, have you brought me here?” I ask, almost accusing him of such a thing.

He nods silently. He rummages through the folds of his long, threadbare traveler's coat and pulls out a long pipe full of tobacco (at least that's what it seems to me) that has nothing to envy of a hobbit's weed pipe. Although he has no eyes, I can feel his ethereal gaze on me. 

The mouthpiece disappears into the darkness of his hood and without turning it on; I can hear his sniffing and the crackling of a light ember inside the stove of his pipe. A wisp of bluish smoke rises in the air and an exhalation from him, more like a sigh, leaves me enveloped in a fragrant mist of an aroma that is difficult for me to determine:

"If the mountain does not go to Muhammad, Muhammad goes to the mountain," replies the genderless, ageless voice of the entity before me.

"You mean you wanted to talk to me?"- I feel puzzled and flattered at the same time. Also, I am a bit nervous.

“That's obvious. I want you to interview me.”

“What? Now, I don't understand anything at all. Why?”

“In the first place, you marked this city like crazy with my sigil and my name, so I feel drawn here. Second, there are people my message must reach. Third but no less important; you are someone who has shown me that he is capable of making my words reach others. So, for better or for worse, you are going to do it.” 

The seriousness in his words impresses me. He sounds more mature since the last time he was in front of me. Can a new god evolve so fast?

“Very good, then let's start,” I answer with some concern.

"No, we can't start like this," he answers calmly.

"Then how should we start?" I feel it is better, that although he asked me to give him an interview, it is Hexorius himself, who takes control of the series of questions and answers.

After taking one last drag on his pipe and unceremoniously emptying his ashes, tapping the base of the stove with the heel of his dusty boot, he replied:

“First I must know one thing: Do you know the difference between prophecy and prediction?”

I think for a moment, several things to answer come to my mind, but I decide to be honest. “No, the truth is that I have never been good about divination.”

“That's true, but I don't judge you.” I can almost imagine him smiling as he says this, “But the difference is simple; a prediction is the probability of an event occurring in a given future if certain causes and effects are followed. A prophecy is when a higher power determines that certain events have to reach a result that is according to its will.

A brief silence occurs between us, as we each wait for the other to speak.

"This is the part, where you can ask me what this has to do with my interview," he finally says, somewhat impatiently.

"Oh well, do you want to make a prophecy?" I venture to say, beginning to suspect where this whole thing is going.

“Yes, but first I want you to ask me other things.”

"So are you a god?" My question takes up the last conversation I had with him, some time ago.

“God is just a word that describes some of my attributes. But my nature is irrelevant. What matters is my message.”

“What is your message?”

“The City will feed you. You are not alone, there are more like you and there are also, more like me.”

“What do you mean there are more like you?”

“That's an interesting question. Every city has a soul, every alley, every garbage-filled square has a heart. Before they were dispersed and latent, you people have been unifying them. Now we are in communion. Before they slept, now they have awakened for me.”

“The spirits of the cities are joining you?” The idea is grandiose and shocking at a time when this question comes out of my mouth.

“They have always been part of me, now they are becoming autonomous. Some will begin to be noticed; others prefer to keep a low profile. For now they all answer to my name and I answer for them, until they are ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“I will answer that question later.”

“Okay. The last time we spoke, you showed great interest in the actions of the wizarding community. May I know what your interest is in her?”

“It is difficult not to pay attention to your stuff and not be interested in you. But being honest, of all currents, I have only approached those who are inside this business of the assault on reality.”

“Why?”

“Because they are the only ones doing something important, obviously! You just have to see the results in the daily lives of the Sleepers. They are getting closer to magic again. Informally perhaps, but the magic has returned to the collective mind and gradually begins to gather strength.”

“You mean that magic is returning to our world?”

“Hahahaha! No, the magic has never gone away! It became banal and purposeless, even in initiatory orders, whose names do not deserve my mention. But the assault on reality brought perspective back, and now even the sleepers are beginning to search for magic to get out of the narrow view that consensus has made of what the world is supposed to be.”

“Can you elaborate your answer a little more?”

“Sure. For decades, magic was viewed with suspicion and even contempt even in spiritual and social movements. The consensus narrative was that it was dangerous or useless. Since the first and famous Chelseanacht, the narrative has changed. It began gradually in the youngest people, where the power of wonder is more evident and where fantasy is a survival strategy, when they grew up they continued looking for that strange something in their lives, until it was shaped into real magic from different currents and paradigms. The world is experiencing a renaissance in magical thinking. That is very pleasing to those of us who are watching and supporting such a thing.”

“Who are those who observe and support us?”

Hexorius shrugs, as if the point is very obvious:

“You know: gods, angels, demons, archetypes, etc. After all, every name given to them is just an adjective that describes their function in the great order of things.”

“Speaking of entities, do you have a relationship with some of them?”

“That is a very personal question,” said Hexorius, an echo of sarcasm is perceived in his words, “But yes, I get along well with those who are in liminal places, sometimes I go around a little and do some charity work with the psychopompos, and I am very close to the Red Queen.”

"You mean Ellis?" I ask, not really surprised.

“Evidently. We're friends, don't assume otherwise or you'll get us both in trouble.”

“I understand, changing the subject and in your opinion, how much has reality changed?”

“The strange and different has become more noticeable in everyday life, to the point of being visible with the naked eye. Before it was ignored, now everyone knows it is there. I myself am proof of it, before I slept and now magic has awakened me. Others who sleep will wake up in the same way that I have.”

Doubt flies in my mind with anxious wings. I need to ask, as this dialogue begins to lead to a single point. Without much resistance, I ask the following:

“You mentioned that the world is experiencing a magical rebirth. Does that have to do with your prophecy?”

“Ah, you figured it out. Well yes, actually it is. Now you are ready to hear what I have to say; at least I think so.”

I feel apprehensive. A deity, almost newborn and in the making of maturing, the lord of the Ghost Towns will craft a prophecy before me. I feel mixed emotions, on the one hand I can't wait to meet this epiphany, and on the other hand I wish it was someone else to be chosen to deliver this message:

“The City will feed you, The Message will be heard. When you see my mark, you will know that I am there. Magic and amazement will be found by all those who go in search of it, with my name on their lips. I am the urban crossroads, where those who hide in plain sight on the streets and avenues, will be able to gather to find guidance and protection. They will wake up those who sleep.”

The words came out of the empty hood, echoing through the buildings surrounding the deserted plaza. I hear murmurs, coming from everywhere, as if approving of said revelation. I try to understand the magnitude of this that has been delivered to me.

"Is that all?" That is what my stunned mind lets out.

The voice of Leslie Chow (The Hangover 3, 2009), responds to me from the darkness of that hood:

“I do not know… you tell me…”

“I think I just want to know one more thing. Are you and I alone here?”

“Of course not, but I just want you to pay attention to me, so I don't let you see the others. Would you like to see those around us and have been aware of our interview?”

There is some hilarity and childish mischief in his words. A few apprehensive, unintelligible murmurs; they surround us like altered bees. I shake my head to say “No”; I think it was too astral plane for me this time.

"Very well, as you like." Hexorius sits up and lazily slings the huge travel backpack next to him over his shoulders.

"I'll just add something else, before returning you to your body," he says, as if he had forgotten to mention something important.

"Go ahead" is the most I can say.

Hexorius disappears from my sight, as if he had never been in front of me. He didn't even kick up the dust where his boots were. But his voice, that inhuman and cordial vibration surrounds the atmosphere of the astral plaza where I am:

“The City has eyes and ears everywhere. I'll be watching you people, very closely. Remember that you can always be more.”

The echo of his last words still resonates in my mind, when the clock that marks XIII hours to my left, slowly begins to give soft chimes of bronze voice. The bell towers of the astral version of the Parish of Our Lady of Guadalupe respond to that metal choir with their own deeper and older metal voice. Something takes flight towards the eternal sunset in which the version from below my hometown is found, with the flapping of multiple feathered wings.

I can almost feel the brush of those invisible feathers on my face, when I sit up suddenly, on my own body. I am no longer in the ethereal regions; I am in my bed, next to my wife. She fidgets beside me and mumbles things in her dreams that I cannot understand.

I sigh, feeling exhausted, even though technically "I was sleeping." As I lay back on my pillow, I manage to hear a single drowsy question from my wife, which makes my blood run cold:

“Why do the bells ring?”

She sleeps at dawn; she won't remember what she said. But I can't fall asleep until the first light of the new day. I kept myself awake, wondering why the bells are ringing.