NUEDEN

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Aries New Moon, 2222. A wretched creature reaches a long-ago abandoned cloister amongst the ruins of a Midlands industrial estate. Two mighty, concrete slabs - one black, one white – partially encase the altar she has come to worship beneath.

Knowing full well the biohazardous nature of this deific goo, she is taking no chances. The alchemical vessel with its golden contents is terrific, majestic and – as her mother warned her – only to be regarded with PPE.

She’s bleeding, of course. The womxn chose her for this pilgrimage especially. Curled in fear beneath the sublime shadow of the strange, foreboding relic, she weeps like a baby. She wasn’t ready to die like this. Not for this overwhelmingly unfamiliar destiny.

But she’s not alone. Encasing her in a crescent formation are her kin – sisters, warriors and guardians. The bleeding girl is cocooned as their eyes grow wild in this light, horns erupt from their temples, and prancing in a unearthly rhythm, they howl and bray in solidarity.

The pilgrim is emboldened by their metamorphoses and, tottering to her feet like a newborn lamb, begins to dance the lemniscate. Her mind is empty, like a hollow reed.

She barely notices when her red gown falls to her feet. Entranced, off come her goggles, mask, gloves and she crosses the shrine’s threshold to reach for the vessel, pouring herself a small glass of citrine potency. They say it came from a Chinese snake in 2020.

She drinks. Immediately falls to the earth in convulsions. Hot flushes and froth in her lungs – she can barely breathe. Then peace.

She isn’t herself anymore, altered unalterably. Radiant with the light of compassionate wisdom, she pours a glass for each of the wretched creatures. They drink.

What next for her people; her species; humanity? Drenched with the thicc blood red of Rubedo, someone out there knows. But I guess we’ll all see.