MADNESS AND LOVE MIXED: Part 7 — Arc 2 — Mary of Bethany Meets Wine Cooler…

The morning is brisk and chill in that autumn-morning way — the kind that whispers of lingering dew turning to ice. Evidence of the 5 a.m. air lies in the soft crunch underfoot as we shuffle from home-warmth to the cold leather interior of the car. The air bites near-winter, but without the full severity or commitment to the season — like it’s only auditioning.

We sit by the fire pit: Louie to our left, Steiner — the steadfast CBD-gobbling stoner dog — to the right near the back stairs. Their collars tinkle as they shuffle to handle their morning oblations. Louie, ever the energetic maniac, runs wild, trying to bite rays of light piercing the clouds… or the wind itself. We are uncertain.

We let the layers shift in that lazy way clouds drift on unseen currents above. We tune ourselves through listening, a touch of THC, and long, methodical practice. We watch Louie flicker through spectrums as we recline into the subtle fog, mingled with memory of May-May last night by the fire with Rachel and Job.

We allow the mind to roll back the layers and emanate across all frequencies at once with a signal of psychic love so pure it brushes the mercy wall. (The skeleton key to this piece is held in Eschaton of the Bridal Wail.)
Steiner’s milky 15-year-old eyes flick with us, abiding across spectrums — as though their dimming unlocked some canine multi-dimensional scenting, where he simply follows the heart. Ours, we suppose.

We feel that warmth as we re-enter last night’s crackle and pop of joy — heaven hushed to dancing lights, the tune vibrating softly, slowly resolving.
The smoke scrolls upward against the dark, light-polluted Fayetteville skies like some cell-phone spirit joining the great cloud of information.

Rachel sits to our right — the beloved — lounging like a lazy feline, legs extended. We hold our only concession to her having a “drink”: a root beer.
We sip our carbonated sarsaparilla delicacy, letting it linger on our tongue as long as the flavor lasts.

Mary sits wearing all-white wide-leg American Eagle sweatpants, a hooded jumper with a tank underneath, and the pièce de résistance — ridiculously fluffy bunny slippers. She perches there in her 33-year-old form, as if age were only a feeling.

We chuckle, breaking the fourth wall because if age is what you feel, then we were ancient before we were born. Mary, insisting that after we finished fusing with Star inside it would — quote — “be weird if you didn’t,” told us to call her May-May. We agreed, feeling foolish for not doing so earlier, especially when Star handed us all her memories like a gift.

Finally, completing the cast: Job sprawls across the firelight in an agrarian, hempen white hoodie and roped linen pants, barefoot. We flick our eyes to his, and he nods with a small smile, knowing how he loves to dip his toes into active coals as a reminder of the forging.
His face is lined and weathered, a man in his prime with a robust frame — pockmarks littering his flesh wherever we look.
We wish it weren’t so crude to say, but when we see the craters and scars, we see beauty — like stained-glass hidey-holes into his hidden soul.

“Job,” Rachel says, having been told he was here. “Hi… and Mary… um… hi.” She offers the greeting to no one and everyone, trying her best to show solidarity with the phantoms we’ve convinced her we see.

“Hey, mama,” Mary replies cheekily, some street sliding into her diction. We notice the wine cooler we offered when she asked whether we had wine. Her face when she first tasted it was a hilarious clash of consternation and disgust braided with the bizarre urge to go back for more.

We recall explaining to Rachel how Mary wrinkled her nose every sip — until the end of the first one. Everything after that is hidden by grace and that strange heavenly fire-pit logic all backyard bonfires contain.

Rachel smiles, imagining Mary as some ghostly 33-year-old white woman fluent in modern lingo. We shrug; we’re far too out of touch to know what’s accurate.

Job swigs from a strange bottle he insists is fit only for him. He keeps his eyes on Mary — like a father seeing a long-lost child again. Mary pretends not to notice, taking measured sips once she realizes her “wine” carries way more alcohol than anything she had in her era.

“I have not laid my eyes on you in so long, Beloveds. The daughters I entrusted with a share of my inheritance.” Job’s voice lacks the fire-and-brimstone we expect. He feels like a drizzle-day that’s seen the sun finally break through.

All three of us sit up a little straighter — even Rachel, who drops her feet to the ground, clearly hearing and seeing Job now.

The fire crackles fitfully. We reach down, toss another log on, sparks flaring. Mary’s eyes sparkle — she knows the secret — but she plays along, scooting her chair so close to the fire it must feel like being at Yeshua’s feet, only infinitely softer.

Job leans forward, sets the bottle on the patio with a dull thump, and rubs his hands in the flames as he turns to Mary.

“To Mary the Became — I left my treasures and portion according to the beauty of her soul, not the worth of her flesh, though that was radiant too. She knows what was given, for she prayed to be the one to prepare Him for burial.”
Mary’s tears fall openly — golden, glimmering, hovering above the flames.

Job turns to Rachel next. He reclines slightly, pokes his toes deeper into the coals, sighs with the contentment of a man forged in fire.

“Rachel, The Becoming — to you we apportioned our fecundity, our lavish affection, our motherly instinct, and the voice that will stun the ages with song. It rises in incandescent praise. We saw you then as we see you now, Starlight Soul. Daughter of Beauty. Believe in the worth of your hidden person.”

Rachel is openly weeping — her tears also gold-tinted.
We surmise that each of us is on our own ascent, each walking a path Yeshua alone can design.

Job looks at us.

“Eiri, the Fully Become — the key to the only story — to you we apportioned a head as hard and fierce as emery, and twice as flexible as the willing young shoot. We gave you the endurance to strive when all else turns to ash in your mouth.”

We nod, unsurprised — understanding even before Job speaks that we three are one. One soul, one truth, one love — combined, fragmented over millennia, braided now in these last days to birth revival. Stirring the pot of reality with the burning embers of Love and creativity.

We reach over the little table between Rachel and me — and to Mary.
We, as One, clasp hands together, held by Presence, chosen in fire and meaning. The entirety collapses into the interiority of the Fully Become. No longer just dust — named Eiri.

We bow our heads in unison, feeling the spiritual connections snap into place as memory from past, present, and future merges.
The layers become singular again, with a sniffly Louie on our patio and numb fingers narrating ourselves like a silly soul once more.

Until the next narrative arc is revealed.