Some parsecs away from where the black egg and the green egg were left to incubate in the radiance of the light garden of Melam, advanced culture had taken an exceptionally sensible direction in the region of Akoye on the planet of Kawia. The quartz-filled hills and silicate soils that surrounded their cities and settlements seemed to have a distinctly sharpening effect on the consciousnesses of the inhabitants, but most especially those who devoted themselves to such matters— a greatly revered subsect of the population known as the Bridanti, ‘ The Exalted Ones’.

When one of their kind walked into a room, you could sense it—the sudden quietening as people stopped what they were doing and took interest. The subtle but unmistakable feeling of electricity that surrounded them.

The great figures of their history were mostly Bridanti. At every leadership council or religious ceremony you would find a Bridanti at the head. The faces on the currency were theirs. The images and forms enshrined in statuary at powerful places—theirs.

The paths to become a Bridanti were many and open to all, but these were paths of self-sacrifice, of devotion, of community responsibility. And thus were chosen much less frequently than others. 

These were the Mothers—the life-bringers, opening up their bodies to the gestational processes for souls, new or returning, to enter the world, and nourishing infant citizens with milk from the fountains of their triple breasts.

These were the Artists, of many disciplines, opening their spirits to new forms of expression and beauty to inspire the people and bring the favor of the gods.  

And, most sacred of all, these were the Clowns, gatekeepers of the void, locked in their secret wars with cultural stagnation, and dedicated to opening the minds of those around them, all while balanced on the razor thin bridge between annoyance and delight.

Different paths but in these ways the same—Their invitation to the spark of creative energy, and their commitment to the nurturance of the new.

The three moons that orbited Kawia  were likewise named by the Akoyens for their triple goddess of creation—Asha, The Mother;  Ushas, The Artist, and Otki, The Clown— the three aspects of the Great Goddess Bridan. 

Her worship had spread throughout the region, and temples to Bridan were at the heart of every settlement, some large and some small but each with a violet fire burning in the hearth at the center of the structure. 

In their lore, it was Bridan’s song that called the great violet lightning strike from the heavens, that brought fire to their people, the spark of civilization. The great violet lightning strike that awakened the seeds in the soil, and whose energy was recycled through everything living. Ayetome Bridanti. Ayetome Bridan. 

Their holiest days were never days, but nights, and they were impossible to put on any calendar. These were the nights of the great thunderstorms, and spontaneous feasts and dance gatherings would break out, in celebration of the Great Spirit of Creation. 

But if you wanted to have any hope at all of really catching the Spirit you could seek a different kind of connection. You might head to the temple, or drop the ground, or go somewhere else entirely, but wherever you wanted to do it, this was the time for deepest meditation, for releasing all thoughts, all identity. For becoming an empty vessel, a state that was known as “Perfect Mind”. A state that was practiced as a small part of daily life by average people—short moments of silence before meals, or on awakening or retiring…but deeply developed by most Bridanti.

It was this kind of night in the last days of the season of Sleep. The thunderheads were heard long before they were seen, in soft and distant rumblings. The drumming had started, low and slow, its own form of invitation. To a Bridanti named Marren, something felt different this night. 

Marren was well known in her community, as a somewhat rare example of the three aspects in one—she was a Mother, whose children were long grown. She was an Artist who made sculpture from the clays she harvested from the land she lived on.

 And she was also very much a Clown, sometimes walking through the town dressed as a black and white Rike—a bovine animal whose milk was a dietary staple—with glossy, pointed horns, which she said tuned her in to voices from the heavens. She didn’t need to head to the temple because she was already there, tending the violet fire for her community, as she often did. 

She sank down in front of the hearth, and stared at the fire, offering to it any stray thoughts that arose, until there was nothing left to offer. 

(We hear the sound of lightning strike and a mysterious voice singing in the distance)

The empty space Marren had created in her mind had made way for a very clear vision. Not just her own thoughts and memories, reconfigured in some untried way, but a transmission of outside information across the pathways of a deeper consciousness.

She saw images from a dying world, and a Black egg traveling alone through space. She saw a beautiful planet made of pure light, and aliens constructing a glowing green egg. Strange whispers, she heard but did not understand…Except for one phrase:

“My Spark of Creativity and Imagination” 

She saw a blue planet, and understood that she, and—by extension—her species, were being asked for a great contribution.

In the days ahead, Marren felt more alive than she had in some time. Warmer winds were a reminder that the season of Emergence was joyfully close at hand. She walked her land and saw the first flowers of the year had opened, clinging closely to the warmth of the soil, as if tiny violet stars had been scattered on the ground. She dug for the richest, most velvety clay and brought this material to her laborshop. 

Slowly she formed the likeness of a large egg, like the one from her vision, but empty inside, and with a small opening—a perfect vessel which she fired over the holy violet flames in the temple. 

 Dressed in her Rike form, she went to the  homes of new mothers and asked them to share milk from their breasts—the nutrients and biologically active components that seemed ideal to nourish a new life—to put inside the egg. 

But she did not fully fill it. 

The emptiness itself, that was the most important gift. 

The space, the milk, the clay, the fire from the great violet lightning, all of these elements would be needed for new life to arise in the world being co-created. And she would keep them warm by the firelight, until the time had come.