Tales and Stories

Chapter 25 - Angels of Sinai

And now, Shri Kifkef, although you have regaled us with fine supplies of food and drink, could you not also rustle up something with which an old man could fill his lungs?”

Kifkef’s eyes shot wide open at this glaring omission and in an instant he had departed into the darkness to locate what was required. Gypsy Lou smiled as she watched his sandals disappear so swiftly.

“As infinitely-preferable company I could have chosen to spend the night with, still I wish that the morning would not come.”

“It’s only the limitations on things that give them their meaning.” Gene reasoned. She started to scowl but a gentler mood overtook her and she shrugged.

“Maybe. But I still intend to grasp as much as I can of everything that comes my way, just to be on the safe side.”

“I’d expect nothing less.” Baba Gene laughed.

Kifkef returned with a nargilah, a water pipe with a hose through which one inhaled the cooled smoke. He cleared away the dishes to the floor and set the pipe down in the middle of the table. Then, producing numerous cloth pouches he asked:

“And what flavour of tobacco would you like to complement the weed? There is apple with nutmeg, wild blackberry, cardamon, vanilla, mint with sesame-“

“Do you have any soaked in camel urine?” Gypsy Lou asked in mock seriousness.

“What she means, Kifkef, is that to the uncultured tongue perhaps a more simple strain would be more appropriate.”

Kifkef sniffed at this affront to his hospitality but very soon all conflict was forgotten in the obliterating haze of THC. The moments now rolled with the unhurried grace of the ripples that completed their thousand mile-long journeys upon the shore.

The moon cast a path of silver across the ocean and they wondered if a person swift enough might be able to tread it. The chinks of light danced upon the water with such rapidity that they seemed linked together. And as they stared at this dazzling animation, each began to perceive distinct images comprised of the stray glints of moonlight.

Baba Gene saw Shiva in the Dance of Destruction, a weapon in each of his four hands and a spitting cobra draped around his neck. Gypsy Lou also saw a dancer but of a more earthly kind - the flamenco artist at whom she used to gaze as a child, having snuck close to the impromptu stage to watch in fascination and awe as arms were twirled and feet stomped in strict rhythm.

And Kifkef saw… well what he had seen he chose to relate in his last tale of the night.

The Story of the Crying Angel