Poor Donovan

It is like this: Often the songs of gods and goddesses arise from our dreams and the lips of priests, poets, and mystics. But this is not the case with Istiphul. She is not a goddess, but an intelligence dwelling within nature, and she existed before the human race was born. In fact, many magicians have met their fates at the hands of her beauty and charms.

Take, for example, poor Donovan, who possessed second sight and could spy into the mysteries of fairy realms. He was a little too adventurous for his own good with those eyes of his.

He once walked the shores of Ireland, not far from Dublin. Donovan knew well the charms and the cold call of the sea, for his father was a fisherman, though, oddly enough, some say he had noble blood in his veins.

At night Donovan could hear the songs in the stars, and they shone even brighter for him than they did for van Gogh. He could see the inner essence of whatever he gazed upon. The ocean waves and their spray continuously called for him to dance and play in a place of pure delight.

Though Donovan had no formal magical training, he did not need to use a familiar or a conjured spirit to gain a woman. He could hold the image of a maiden’s face in his mind’s eye for five hours. As he concentrated, the maiden would walk fifteen miles to his house to spend the night with him even if she were a virgin—such was his telepathic power of suggestion and the nature of his erotic imagination.

One night Donovan dreamed of Istiphul, who dwells under the sea. He saw her dancing naked, and from that moment it was more than wonder and curiosity that motivated him. He wanted to know her charms. He wanted to taste her beauty, though his conscience informed him that he could neither stare her down, nor bind her with his voice, nor hold her with his mind’s might.

One day, agitated and unable to bear the torment of his desires any longer, Donovan sent his mind into the sea. The power of his intuition was such that he could already feel Istiphul’s touch. And so he was not surprised when an emerald path of light lit up as he wandered in search of Istiphul beneath the waves.

Donovan went directly to Istiphul’s palace. She greeted him at the gate and invited him in. For as “the sea refuses no river,” Istiphul refuses none who wish to know the mysteries of love. Her charms, like the beauty of nature, are for all to taste. Her embrace is for all to receive—her magic is like sunlight, moonlight, starlight, dawn, and twilight. Who would conspire to bind or confine beauty such as this? Who would blind our eyes and deny such wondrous gifts because they do not fall within the boundaries of human morality?

What general has ever refused to stock his arsenal with a weapon because it gave him an unfair advantage over his enemy? What scientist has ever refused to probe a secret of nature because some things are best left unknown? What poet has ever said, “These poems I write should be locked away, perhaps burnt someday, because they are too beautiful to behold”?

I do not think Donovan’s infatuation was unnatural or his quest excessive. Instead, I would say this: Donovan did not adequately prepare himself. He did not honor the mystery he sought to embrace. He did not create a sacred space where he and the undine queen could meet on equal terms. He did not hold in his heart that wisdom every true magician knows: when to guard the boundaries of the world and when to dissolve them for the sake of love.

This is what happened: Istiphul’s touch and embrace were so compelling, so mind-altering, that poor Donovan forgot there was a Donovan left without a mind back on the shore not far from Dublin. To wit, Donovan forgot to return to his body.

So strong can be the power of desire that breath, heartbeat, and the hunger of the flesh are not enough to stay the quest for gratification. This was such an example. Young Donovan’s body fell into a coma. Without a soul, the body did not last very long, only a day or so. It soon grew cold, and the heart forgot how to beat—there was no sign that Donovan’s soul would ever return.

So let us say for the sake of argument, if you wish for an explanation, that Donovan’s soul was out of its element. When the season of desire had passed, his soul sought again the shore of life and found another body in which to be born. This was a boy child who, when he grew to be a man, found work far from the sea.

A desert would not be dry enough for his liking! He did not wish to hear any reminder of that terrible, heart-wrenching longing and soul-shattering call of the ocean. Hidden in waves and even in the taste of salt was that specter of beauty with which the sea called, “Come, Donovan, I will be your lover again; come far from land and be with me under the sea—ride your dreams to me, young Donovan.”

However, it was not Istiphul who called but only his own memory and unfortunate obsession. The man was haunted by the choice of another too faint to recall, who unwisely sought to have intercourse with an unfathomable beauty, a beauty wisely hidden in the mysterious depths of the sea.