After a time of brooding into the sinister candle, that is to say the one on her left, she returns to the here and now. Awakened again by the Force, Madam Sosostris considers the table before her. The chain of her amulet growls against its edge, as she reaches to turn a far card, The High Priestess. She studies it in the context of the other previously upturned cards. Taking us to the heart of Starkiller Base, she tells of The Oedipal Marine, a bookkeeper’s son who crossed his old man back in Oregon (as similarly recounted by the Finse SAR team that assisted Dash Rendar in Dak’s retrieval on Hoth: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RrWKpqirvNk).
Behind his steely mask, inside the mechanized hum of another world where no sun is shining, this dan of questionable rank blindly images Slave Leia. A man of his mind can do anything. Removing his mask, he confronts his father on the catwalk over the chasm of fire. And the father, himself a cocky son of Erin, dares him insouciantly to release him from this franchise—be careful what you wish for. And lo, this conflicted Longinus doth pierce him with a lance to his side. With a look of utter pity and surprise, the smuggler Jack Ryan falls into the inferno. And in an instant this Nietzschean creature, this mannish boy of muddied waters now knows who he really is. Knows his destiny and how his action on that bridge of truth and fiction will rebound upon him.
Holy Mother of Rey! Name this child! Son of the Right Hand. Son of the South, your moment is a prelude to a philosophy of the future. No matter, no mind. Oh, ye gods, Madam Sosostris now chants, embrace the glory of the royal road to the unconscious!
At this point, unmindful of our spellbound weary, she enters the spirit of the bear of Bern as he descends backwards on a ladder from Ochwiay Biano’s Pueblo roof. She speaks in Churchillian riddles, each wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. She looks again into the near future, channeling the author and finisher of our work as he semiotically tells of the Hutts and white slavery in the name of the Rose. And how the elders of the tribes came to the emperor of mice in Sarayburnu who thereupon decreed an alchemical council in Nicaea to assay canon and legend. This cupellation will continue into Episode VIII and beyond. Si lunga tratta di gente, those spirits on London Bridge in life know neither good nor evil, she tells us. Yet upstream on another bridge, destined for Paradise, Terry and Julie gaze on a Waterloo sunset.
Fail not to seek Paradise, Madam Sosostris concludes in character, point final. She knows she has wearied us all with this postprandial gibberish that has collectively bound us to her hyper-reality. Do the exegesis, she commands. Follow my thread from the heart of the Minotaur’s maze, then follow the bantha tracks into the twin sunsets of your Tatooine.
Wilder, her partner offers to us in an offhanded pedagogical tone, he too found his destiny on the Bridge of San Luis Rey. Blank stares around the table. Rather like Eliot after the Great War, he hastens to elucidate. I mean, that is his Samuele met with the Cabala in the City of Seven Hills, and after that he was compelled to seek Hanan Pacha on the finest bridge in Peru.
Upon that unnecessary and matter-of-fact footnote, Dak politely steps forth to take his leave. And later passing the Park Slope Food Co-op on his eleventh-hour walk to the car, he returns to his own quest that at times seems increasingly like yet another Artie Bucco errand.