If I believed in Hell, I might have thought I had arrived.  Though the temperature in San Diego was officially a mere 78, the high humidity combined with the complete lack of a breeze gave the illusion of a sweat lodge at high noon somewhere in the badlands of Death Valley.  The Renaissance Faire which had traditionally been held at another venue had been moved to a hilly ravine, and to make a long story short, what had once been merely difficult had become nigh on to impossible, since entire shops and guild encampments had to be moved in by hand (lest the dead grass be damaged - though how it could be any more dead was a mystery to all), and all down a steep hill without the use of vehicles of any sort.  I had left my wand at Hogwarts, and despite all evocations of Intent (in varying degrees of colorful language), that 50 pound box still weighed 50 pounds and refused to be levitated even though I am wholly aware that it is possile to do so.

Somehow, we managed, though by the end of the day on Friday, my body felt like it had been a punching bag for some super hero in training, and this led to fitful dreams which were a far cry from Dreaming, but nonetheless may have served some purpose not yet clear.

By the time the event opened on Saturday morning, temps & humidity had already soared, and the definition of relief had come to be spelled with a bottle of ice cold water dumped down the back of one's shirt - rather like attaching electrodes to one's nipples and flipping the switch.  A real eye-opener, to be sure.  And, in the end, not much relief.

So we sweated.  Took to counting phantoms to pass the time in between customers.  And sweated some more. 

It occurred to me at some point that it was all rather amusing.  Patrons who would tout the solidity of reality at any other moment swirled past in peasant bodices and merchant-class jerkins. A noblewoman fanned herself with an array of peacock feathers, remarking at length on the heat.  Dressed in a long-sleeve, high-necked thick brocade dress complete with hoops, underskirts and a flowing black velvet cape with hood, I could only inquire with a certain degree of curiosity, "What do you do when you return to the 21st Century?"  Perhaps not surprisingly, she was a high school science teacher.

Approaching on the path of dead grass, I saw the Danse Macabre - a troupe of musicians who dress entirely in black, with skeletal faces and the trappings of death.  Their movements were slow, lethargic.  Their music had hooked into the heat and gave it a voice of a heavy, slow drum, like a heartbeat slowing, slowing... slowing.

My mind drifted, and as the dansers passed by, I felt my own heart jump wildly into my throat.  A very real gasp slipped past my lips, and I realized I was looking straight at Orlando.  Sitting on a low block wall about 30 feet away, wearing a black tank top and dark glasses, there was no mistaking him for merely another man - a fact that was validated when I realized I could neither breathe nor move.  Time stopped.  Between tick and tock.  Only the dansers continued to move, and then only in slow motion. 

The very real thought crossed my mind that perhaps this was simply "it".  End of the mortal timeline.  Time to dance with the double past the lair of the eagle.  To my surprise, I had no particular fear of that dance - in fact, I was far more unnerved by Orlando himself than by the idea of my own potential demise.  This was not some passing vision.  What I saw was as solid and physical as any of the other patrons at the Faire, and all the more because the luminosity of him was the same unfathomable black light I have always associated with him.  The reverse luminosity of the singularity, whose cohesion is so tight not even light may escape.

A black-clad flutist passed between us, obscuring my view for no more than a single second. And yet, as the danser moved on toward the west, the wall where Orlando had been sitting was suddenly empty.  No place to hide, nowhere to run.  He was simply gone, back to the nagual, behind the veil of third attention, into the minor-keyed melody of the flute which is without substance, yet omni-present throughout the air itself.

I do not specifically know what this incident means, nor why it chose that unlikely moment to manifest.  After returning home on Sunday evening, I fell into an exhausted sleep, though not a restful one, and dreamt of serpents in my house.  Within minutes, I was awakened by a fierce storm over the desert, with lightning flashes so intense and prolonged, they seemed to reveal shadow worlds not normally visible to the naked eye.

The nagual is a restless tempest, its darkest waters doorways into otherworlds.  Something is afoot.