An ornate globe made with many layers of lacquered exotic woods spins on its axis. Through the stained glass window diffuse light casts russet hews across the study, Bintus stands with an ancient leather bound tome in one hand, silently looking out over the walled garden. In the orchard great swollen purple and black fruits hang malevolently from mangled moss covered trees. A gentle wind pushes the tangled branches and as they creak and moan the fruits thud lazily to the ground, gathering in moldering clusters on the dewy grass. From two floors down a door slams angrily shut. A snakes head emerges from a bucket of rust. The weight of expectation pushes plants back into their roots and draws the forgotten ones from stygian corners. Here comes a disheveled man, rain sodden, skin blanched like a slab of pre-historic granite. Stumbling over centuries, collapsing galaxies with centrifugal force, crushing asteroids with mind fire. Bintus throws wide his star cloak and beckons that we step through time with him. A black mirror points the way to oblivion. Shango is among us tonight, bringing his wrath but also his forgiveness for those who show willingness to be forgiven.
