It was dusky in the green-filtered light of the cenote. A slight, steady drip from the surface swept a regular moiré of rippled light across the gleaming quartz dome that was oXo. At about an hour before noon, and an hour afterward the water in a triangular area around his little “throne” would brighten for about ten minutes as a golden ray of direct sunlight penetrated the bush, threaded into the hole, and glanced off the reflective white sand and silt at the bottom. And for those twenty minutes each day the transparent eyes would transmit a gold-toned glow throughout his entire glassy form.
If a piece of rock could have thoughts, oXo’s would often turn to what he was bringing to bear, midwifing into existence.
And if a stone shape could have awareness, he would be aware of a web of humans with whom he was connected by The Love, his central essence and message. Aware of what they were doing, without having any awareness of it themselves, to bring about his next great Call, the next ringing Tone of his countdown to timeless oblivion.
And if a solid chunk of quartz could have feelings, oXo would feel like he was dying to get high.