We Interrupt This Broadcast

Due to a scheduled outage, Port Evenus will have a week's interruption in the broadcast. Tune in next week to catch up!

Beyond the Hall of Mirrors

    The exit left the Mirror Hall, but not to the outside. Hoell found himself in a chamber of library quiet buoyed by faint opera, too large to be a trailer, but certainly behind-the-scenes. Weak light crowded with furniture, benches, things he couldn’t make out, blossoming dancing shadows over the tent walls, scarcely illuminating, mystifying. He moved cautiously, quietly. He thought he heard deep breathing, someone sleeping, softly on the edge of bel canto. Accoutrements of show-business loomed from the darkness, ornate canes, silk toppers, chains and feathers, trunks draped in mythology. The private quarters of magic.
   The soprano scratched, needle stuck, then freed itself with a lurch. Hoell heard a voice, speaking from the darkness. Soft and scratchy as the needle, surreal. “How will it end?”
   Hoell froze. Was it imagination? He couldn’t see anyone. But it spoke again, repeating itself. “How will it end?”
   Still no one he could see, but had to be aware of him. “Excuse me?”
   “Everything has a beginning. And everything has a end. How will it end?”
   Hoell slowly moved toward the music, not sure what to expect. Whatever he had in mind, it wasn’t what he saw. On a table, just across from a wobbly phonograph, was a glass dome containing a human head, hair and beard white with an expression of doubt and apprehension. The head swiveled, eyes looked directly at him. “I sought to enjoy the folly of man’s short pleasures of earth. What is it you seek?”
   Hoell held the gaze evenly, somehow unsurprised the macabre thing spoke. “I’ve come to return something. But I don’t know who it belongs to.” He wasn’t sure why, but he told the head the truth. “Whitechapel wants me to take it to him, but he just wants to save himself. It belongs to someone else.”
   “You seek Him.” Eyes tossed lightly to the ceiling. “He who constructed this Babylon. He who holds the keys.”
   “I don’t know what I’m after,” Hoell admitted.
   “You want more than your life is now,” the head said sorrowfully. “You want to touch the promise before the world moved in around you. You want what can be found at the Crossroads. What only He can give you.”
   Hoell let the words assemble in his mind.“Then it is true. This . . . . carnival is run by The Jew?”
   The bushy eyebrows closed sadly. “It is true he has power. It is not of his own making, but he possess it nonetheless. And I am too old to envy him any longer. I had my time, and squandered it.”
   “Who are you?”
   The head sighed. “I have known many names, worn the mantle of many civilizations since he first cursed me. Cartaphilus. Matathias. Isaac Laquedem. Newton. Van Houten. Ahasver. I have none, now. It has been my curse to pay for my pride, my inhumanity, for eternity. Do not squander yours. The winds are blowing again. Where will you let them take you?”
   Hoell took in the room again. His fingers reflexively twisted the bullet in his pocket. “I don’t know. To an ending, I suppose. I’ll find out.”
   The head closed its eyes, slipping into a blissful expression, like tasting the most perfect dream one could dream. “Only your life can speak your fate. All man‘s dreams and ambitions are meaningless. All that matters is, how will it end? How’s it going to end? Be a friend, and wind the phonograph.”

The Hall

     Endless mirrors glisten and menace in the spears of moonlight finding their way in. Hoell felt his way like a blind man in a world of cold blue light, following the trail, clinging to shards of self-awareness. Static self-image dissolves, the soul split into a multitude of facets and palindromes. Consciousness leads from one self-image to the next, never settling -- distance perceived at close proximity, nearness a mirage stretching itself to the next self-image. The danger lies in trying to pinpoint identity. You lose your grip in the face of absorption, until you believe you never had one at all, grasping association of the nearest reflection, struggling to retain your idea of yourself, your idea of the awareness of reality. Your own image becomes your worst enemy, fading, melding one with another. A million unshaven Hoells, hollow eyes tugging for a piece of warmth, each one mutely insisting they are the real Hoell, each one promising life, and future, and sanctuary just beyond the curve of light. Dirty fingers reaching, clutching desperately, surrounded by the voices of others trapped here, carried eternally by the skittering mice. Believe me, accept me, I'll show you the way . . . .
   Hoell felt himself slipping, fading, sensations dripping like sand into an abyss. All point of reference had vanished completely. And then he paused, and held his right hand out palm down. In a moment it dipped gently, fluidly, a sparrow riding the wind, a wave slowly rolling toward breaking. Fingers began to flicker like spring rain, and his head filled with a progression of notes. The music was there, had always been there, just beyond hearing but guiding. The abyss pulled back, the desperate yearning Hoells faded into the backdrop. He almost laughed, and shortly left by a star-covered door.
   Mirrors can be created, broken or ignored. And when your mind is in the thrall of the music, nothing else matters.

A Lull in the Proceedings

Due to the so-called "holiday weekend" and the demands it places on those of us who row fervently across the river Styx, we regret to inform you that Port Evenus will be taking a break this Sunday from their regular scheduled broadcast. We hope you spend this time in the warm company of your loved ones, grilling tasty portions of bovine. In the meanwhile, let us encourage you to fill your PE needs on the rest of our parent site, and be sure to tune in next week!