The Legend of the Sleepers
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And he hears a stone fall beneath the bare feet of those carrying him, hears it tumbling down, skipping from rock to rock, fleet and resonant, then more hesitant and hushed, retreating like an echo, but the sound never ceased, it merely faded, for it did not touch bottom any more than did his half-wakeful, half-dormant consciousness.
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Her mortal body returned to the brothel, while her spirit moved on to a new Illusion.
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Man’s life is decay and perdition, and the world is in the hands of tyrants.
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Is it a dream or a sleepwalking illusion of his half-dormant consciousness, a dream of his pagan body, descending as it did from pagan ancestors, worshippers of the moon goddess, the full-moon goddess, ancestors who are calling to him now? Surely there is a full moon outside or a new moon at least, and the souls of his ancestors are awakening, the souls of his ancient forebears, calling to his pagan body, tempting his pagan blood.
Or is it the ascension of his soul to heaven, the moment when soul shears away from body, Christian soul from pagan body, sinful body from sinful soul, to which mercy is granted, whose sins are forgiven?
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The only thing that grew — nourished by the moisture of the cave and the immobility of the bodies, stimulated by the ashes of oblivion and the frenzy of dreams — was the hair on their heads and the stubble on their faces, the fuzz on their bodies and the fuzz under their arms; the only thing that grew in their sleep — invisibly, as water builds and destroys invisibly — were their nails, crackling.
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