When Methany and Mathalia, obligate voluptuaries, reached the forth decade of their lives they had begun to crave a measure of escape their essential natures denied. In the halls of their ancestral home where the shadows sprawled velveteen (and had for thousands of years), they writhed, they piqued.
In the world around them a change had begun to flourish, a mirrory delirium that seemed to rise and meet the twins on their own terms: animals fluoresced, fruit became envenomed, the sky arched carnally. A trembling amount of color strained at all things, too vivid and overfilling the eye.
They fondled what grew, kissed what flowered, lay in the arms of a spreading phantasmagoria. But soon they also saw in that changing of the world a queasy reflection of everything they had always been: that slant towards the sumptuous, that tendency towards the torpid. They might, for a time, close their fabulous eyes (all four, between the two of them, the exact amazing orb) to the slight it caused them, but they could not in the end free themselves of the idea that they were being authored over by a rampant rash of the landscape. They could have lain in each others arms and let the crawling chaos consume them. It would have been so easy.
The revelation of the Starhenge and beneath it, on that lonely island, The Introduction site gave their heavy hearts a kind of hope.
They abandoned their ancestral home to the encroaching vicissitude and made a home in the observatory-ruins on the island where they tipped antennae of their own invention at the Starhenge and opened their ears. For nights in a row Methany would stand on the roof, her mouth open, her teeth bared, her long tongue a practiced proboscis tasting for astral secrets.
Mathalia would push her fists against her face where her many rings tangled with her lashes, their stones unfocused blurs at the edge of her vision. Before her sprawled schema of the Introduction. What has been Introduced? Or, what will be Introduced? And what was the relationship of the rising, venomous verdancy in the world to The Introduction?
There was a narrative teased from the folklore of the island that anyone who went into and came back out of The Introduction would be exulted. A crown of stars awaited. As far as the sisters ventured towards the actual site (perched on nearby peaks, peering telescopically) there were signs of passage.
Heavy mists condensed into a shimmery churn sewn about the high peak. The wind, chill and sequined with moisture at that altitude, pushed the long grasses down into what looked like meandering paths inviting the wanderer ever upwards. A kind of wreckage lay at the threshold, huge boulders, areas blighted with new poisonous colors.
They would watch for hours that pearly fog purl, the light rain beading their exotic bodies, then flex their mind-shapes (escaping from underneath each bead of water exactly, leaving a hollow the shape and size of their figure for the moisture to collapse around) and fall back to wonder and ponder.
Each year was an agony slowly worked like soft metal into relief.