Five of them were deciphered long ago. One remains an enigma.  Each of the six is a fascinating study, and linked together they form the opening to the melody that has been elemental to our journeys through Bramblevine Mountain’s Inner World. The Six Mysteries are the prelude to the song that propels our civilization inward and upward.  Up, up, up, to the top of Bramblevine Mountain.  All the way up to Pointy Peak, and even a little higher up than that.  To its Raspberrie cap which is Borbel’s Tower.

Having paved the way for us to move forward in fulfillment of our common Gomeii destiny, we honor the iridescence inherent in those six footprints left upon our little plot of earth steering us to the end.

Separately, each one of The Six Mysteries has left its own unique mark. Coupled, five of them have lighted the pathway which brought us to The Secret Map, spurring the Raspberries on in our mission.

What of the remaining mystery, then?  We are not remotely close to deciphering it that we know of, but no need to be discouraged. There is a sparkling treasure in it worth mining, playing through the human hands of time.  If you look long enough and carefully at it, that scripted image emits a subtle glow.  Until the jewel hidden inside of the riddle has been brought out, we will keep digging.

Our little tribe has held council to discuss the meaning in it.  We cannot know but we presuppose humanity’s goodness is our helpmate somehow, in getting to the root of it.

So, that bafflement represents the brilliance of our future, that bright tomorrow unfolding out of today.  Perhaps we are being drawn more deeply in to embrace some core revelation of our abridgment.

In glowing anticipation of what is yet waiting to be unwrapped, we live wholly in this present hour, for all of tomorrow’s sweet radiance dwells right here.

copyright © 2008 by Smidgen Raspberrie.  All rights reserved.

The Six Mysteries are:

Fallon R. Raspberrie, first Gomeii of record, lives in the bottom right-hand corner of a rare document, through inscription.   Our ancient forebear’s signature shines above the initials M. R. F., as if standing watch over the monogram.  Guardian of another name? The undecipherable lettering is one of the most fascinating mysteries tied to the secret map of Bramblevine Mountain’s Inner-World.

Although I was still a soffian (1) when the map was excavated, the memory rings clear today.  Leaning on the lower part of the bridge arc peering over, I watched as Sweetbriar knelt down a few feet away from the water’s edge.  He had donned his scarlet cleric’s robe, which is reserved for sacred ceremonies out of the ordinary–new birth and other like celebrations–though never the robbing of a grave.  Reaching in, he extricated the little bundle from its lovely tomb.  With a great tenderness, he lifted out a red leather drawstring sack.  Brushing away a few crumbs of soil, he stroked the pouch as if it was a living thing, and observed, “The leather of a three-horned Sambionne (2).”  A moment of silence to duly study its exterior. “Soaked in Raspberrie rose oil.  Brushed with a floumb (3) to preserve the softness of the grain. ”

Sweetbriar gazed at the ornament for near a full minute (measured in human time) and I, having a clear view from where I stood bent, on the west end of the river stone bridge, kept gazing too.

Tarrying no longer, he loosened the drawstring and removed the contents.  A little brown parcel wrapped in scarlet.  He gave the slender silk band a little tug, undoing the loops. The ribbon slipped out of its knot and dropped away, the brown wrap fell open, and now the parchment was exposed.  Some extraordinary ancient present had just been unwrapped.  Rising to his feet again, Sweetbriar looked at Roseleaf, who happened to be standing nearest him.  Stepping forth, he laid it in her hands.  “Will you represent our tribe today, opening this on behalf of the Raspberries?” he asked.  Those vestal river lights which Roseleaf is known for danced in her eyes as she unfolded the mystery of its quarters, revealing the secret map.   Bramblevine Mountain’s Inner-World!  A stunning recovery.  The formal ceremony was over, and a great clamoring took place, all of us crowding around to glimpse the magic unearthed on that magnanimous day.

The design of Bramblevine Mountain’s Inner-World lay buried under stone before its sacred burial place was uncovered.  The map displayed amazingly well considering its antiquity.  How old exactly?  Our oldest living descendant–our ripestone Sweetbriar–could give no account of it.  Not a vague remembrance of the map’s existence ever mentioned among any of the Gomeii legends celebrated and passed down through the centuries.  The map was that secret; and that old.   Its little place of rest had sustained it well.  Remarkably, the map’s Gomeiic symbols displayed legibly, making it easy enough on the eye for the translation that would follow.

The remarkable life of Fallon R. Raspberrie is worthy of its own discourse. That will occur soon enough. For now, our grand forebear’s cartographic invention and all that it stands for is our given subject and merits further exploration until its import is amply rendered.

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(1) A Raspberrie during the age of youth.

(2) Small creature that inhabits the back bush. Life span of less than one-hundred years.  Friendly to Raspberries.  Sheds its velvety leather coat in the hour preceding its death.

(3) Instrument used to cure Sambionne leather.

copyright © by Smidgen Raspberrie 2008.  All rights reserved.

copyright © 2008 by Smidgen Raspberrie. All rights reserved.

Bramblevine Mountain is awe-inspiring, breath-stopping, a splendid death. Beauty and grace do not measure it fairly.  Not supreme power or omniscience.  Even strung together as a whole choir singing as one, such big-hearted words cannot capture the magnificence.  The royal majestic extends far beyond the bounds of oral language, its silent “being” sheathed in the spirit’s rapture.

I’ve journeyed here to ponder my commission. Except for flurries of songbirds in the meadow, I’m alone.  And in this sanctity of silence, I find myself rapt in a rather curious vision. I am in the closet of Chalicetine Abbey, praying in a whisper. That ancient sacred stone house sits some miles away from here, near to the hamlet. The simply built grey-stone has two rooms.  Chapel, and bell tower; and the sweet musk stairwell leading up to the triolet bell (1). No closet in the abbey, yet there I am cloistered in it! I suppose there are three of me in this moment then. Smidgen in the meadow. Smidgen in the closet. (Smidgen’s) Little Inner.  All of us preparing.

Not any sort of grand commission.  Just a little book.  But the duty assigned me is to render a competent translation of Raspberrie thought–the common substance of it–so I wait here in the meadow gazing, until I’m at the proper starting place. Doing my best to listen for it. Waiting for Little Inner to carry it outside.  So many possible points of entry. I’m in no hurry. It’s lovely here.

Peering up to the top of the mountain, I celebrate the magic voiceless.  Even Little Inner is hushed now breathing slow, and the imposing power in the absolute stillness shouts from deep within me.  I am not engaged in thought as to my starting place when the brainchild strikes like a hatchling busting out of its paper skin house:

The top of the mountain is the place to begin.  You know–Raspiritis and the invisible.  Hooray for bliss! Write about the top of it.”

Atop Bramblevine Mountain, there is a tower.  It rests on the pinnacle, on Pointy Peak. Borbel’s Tower cannot be seen from the meadow or from anywhere within the circumference of the mountain below. Every Raspberrie has been up there at least once in the lifetime. According to Gomeii custom, one travels the distance alone, guaranteed safe passage by following the map issued for the journey. And Sapphire will spot you, although you may not see her hovering around. Nearing the top, one can see the spire and the dome. Once you are there traveling the narrow dirt path, and you are yourself again after recovering from being awe-struck, knock twice at the entrance and abide there. Raspiritis will let you in. He is your pilot for the journey back down.

That is the short of it.

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(1) The bell rings out in song at dawn and at sunset. A poem inscribed on the south wall of the belfry celebrates the sound.

copyright © 2008 by Smidgen Raspberrie.  All rights reserved.