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Fifteen minutes before countdown I slip out the back door and find a root cellar. 

A false wall conceals a chamber. The Hippocratic Oath carved into an obsidian cylinder throws a voluminous shadow.

My fingers trace the antiquarian code.

Stairs carved into the hard stone twist and turn, spiraling downwards through eons.

I shake a flaming torch free from its wall-mounted fixture.

Flickering shadows on foaming stone echo noble magic.

Noble magic is medicinal, do unto others.

Noble magic is twelve-pointed, do unto others.

Noble magic is soft as gauze, do unto others.

Noble magic is dew casting droplets, salt washing a wound, do unto others.

Noble magic billows, channeling, elementals of the four seasons into a chamber of the wounded psyche.

Noble magic pulses soil flowing beneath the curvature of your spine.

Noble magic pulses ancient starlight invading, bathing, your spine.

Noble magic chanting, echoing, the forest of your heart – as you cascade, wave upon wave, never in a straight line.