Deep. deeper into the sand, through the hole to the palace of the mind.

Deeper into the tree of life, ‘Yggdrasil’, the tree that is our mind, that links our mind, the tree on which is emblazoned ‘Mannaz’ as its rune.

Deeper, deeper into the mind enters daemon, Carolin and Norns.

Daemon born in 1944, time traveller of many minds. Daemon when seen in Wagner’s term, youth or Tom in young Carolin’s mind and awe-filling god in Nostradamus’ time. Fifty five year old greying man each of three Norns see. Daemon, youthful lover, unwitting god these are subconscious presences of a real living man. The man Carolin calls Tomas. Unknowing man, unknowing Tomas, a part of history; its needed catalyst. Knowing daemon seeking to change destiny, knowing youth wanting fuller union and knowing ‘god’ wanting desperate answers.

Musician’s palace and musician’s mind timelessly linked to past and future id.

This is the palace, the empty palace of Tomas’ youthful dreams; an emptiness now gone.

And here within the palace he has another name. Baldr. Baldr is his name. Grey haired man, youth and daemon, aspects seen from the beholder’s eye emerge from a single being. But that being in this palace is known by all as Baldr. All men who come to visit here take that name of Baldr.

Each Norn is aware of him, aware as to their stools they lift their weaving frames. One on high, another just as high , the third a little higher. Sublime, just as sublime , the third upon a higher level.

The palace glows, roused by their presence, transformed to its living role. Sounds of deeply rumbling chords change to twinkling arpeggios, each bringing into life palace walls, arches floor and tower tall, evolving into crystal tree. A tree from which threads streak forth reaching distantly to unique stars. Threads each tied over vast human time to its Norn-selected special spot. Invisible, softly glowing threads that hold celestial notes. Soft sounding notes that in totality enrich without increasing volume. Sound that is a measure of the wind, whistling, humming the tunes of preselected chaos. Sounds that are borne of the wind but have a separate life. Dying, living, rising, falling, sighing sounds resonating in time to node and antinode.

Dendritic tree of the mind from roots to sheath to cerebellum. Yggdrasil! Nordic universal tree.

And at his feet the prostrate form of Carolin.

The Norns eyes link to his. In parts following one upon the other their voices can be heard "We know you", "You have been before", "When we were not here." The sequence set by these Norns is firstly east, and west then northern Norn to follow. Their voices weave each sentence, they weave its parts and never does a Norn state two parts in a row.

"Blood smell we know", "Flesh sound we know." "Aural presence also" this time in north, west, east order.

And now their hands unite to spin a blanket hung partly spun upon their artful weaving looms.

As they spoke the tapestries behind rippled with sparkling empathy. These were the finished form of Norn craftsmanship. Mind palace drapes, tapestries and blankets of Erda. Erda palace holding, in its endless store man’s forgotten histories. Tapestries linking history and destiny where events cannot ever alter. Blankets covering special events based on the whim of Norn, seen by the whim of Norn. Blankets and tapestries where only the whim may be altered, whims that change and as they change, changing man’ s feelings towards his history.

Baldr under weaving gaze of Norn knew the times of his choosing. Spots close together but high within the tree. Slowly these descending spots draw closer to the ground. At his feet each Norn casts three threads with, emblazoned on their short, lustrous shafts, letter symbols of their chosen runes.

And now at last Carolin responds, slightly groaning with her awakening. Above her his arms outstretched her lover youth reaching out to an alien crystal universe. Aware of her he glances down. Take these threads that lie before you; tie these four around your arms. Place these four round your waist and the last wrap around my hand. You must be my courier if you and I are to thrive. Do not remove the threads around your waist and arms for any other man. Hear me, listen for me, listen carefully, for howl I must and you must pick the proper tone.

With arms upstretched Baldr met his spots, each touch a source of screaming, electric howl.

Voices past and future hoist upon the tree. Tied by the hands as man of grey but seen as youth by Carolin. Tied with his hands nearly touching a last remaining thread placed in his left hand’s grasp. Placed into Baldr’s hands by maiden. Her eyes expressing fearful longings, letting her fingers gently brush along his fastened hand. The crystal groans an awesome groan of rending pleasure that tests the strength of its lattice bindings.

And once more a change occurs upon completion of the touch. Gripped by tree and spiralled up howling up to the branches. A howl joined by many voices. A howl overriding the wind.

Rising now in howling spiral slowly through the threadlike sheaths of fate. Howling aware that around him hang crystal skeletons, skeletons of minds broken by this tree. Minds that sought to change destiny, minds that hung on this ancient tree and by failing died. High stakes, high cost for those who seek to change what cannot be.

And in selected spots a change, a passed essence of success, shadowy ghosts that are as one yet each retaining its individuality.

Shadows of Odin so powerful that only the howl retains grey-hair’s life, closing out this power.

Shadows of Pythias the Delphic oracle, mounted on a metal tripod, a breathlike daemon gas wrapping slowly around her female frame. Maiden of Delphi, face of Carolin, eyes of Carolin, all this is one.

Moses and man of the cross, Mohammed in his dreaming cave, each one is here, each presence felt, all those who hung upon this tree and lived.

And now Baldr’s hands are at the appointed times, locked into the spot where he must choose and in choosing, live or die.

Hands tied by destiny that cannot be withdrawn once having entered into contest for the right of Norns.

But near his hand that holds a single thread there is the presence of another who has come, hung in this tree and lived. Another who holds out his hand, a hand that nearly reaches his. Nostradamus. Michel de Nostredame the sixteenth century prophet of St Remy, Provence and of France.