Sumati

Prochorus is back on his feet. He looks himself up and down. He’s covered in mud, dirt and cobwebs.
‘Who are you?’ he asks the old lady and he tries to brush some of the mess from his clothes and skin. ‘I don’t think I ever actually asked you that.’
‘That’s an interesting question,’ says the old lady. ‘There’s a lot of different way people understand me. I’m the wise old woman. I’m an angel. I’m the voice of God. I’m a grandmother. I’m a librarian. I’m a tour guide. I’m a pattern in the collective unconscious.’
‘Okay. What does that mean?’
‘Well, some say I’m something or other that’s been put here by the Source to help you on your journey.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘I’ve been called Sumati a fair bit recently.’


writing, novel, archetype