Legend has it that a White City in the stars exists, where everything is created from light.

In the middle of this city, there is a great White Fire that burns continuously. The fire is magical, with flames that can take any shape they wish, from roses to sylvan nymphs to grand palaces.

But because the fire is white, everything that comes from it is also white.

From this fire, the White City and all its inhabitants are constantly born and renewed like phoenixes. All the buildings that emerge from the fire are whiter and more splendid than the day, even their walls, floors, and furniture.

All the city’s people too are pale as spirits can be, each a thread of white flame that spins in a dazzling point of light, so sharp as to seem like it could cut.

With fire as their mother and nursemaid, it is no wonder the dwellers of this White City are known as the White Flames. They are most passionate about dancing and singing, of which they never seem to tire. All day, they sing and dance, driven by a fierce and secret fire within that they call their Sephyr. When they wish to rest, they retire to splendid suites in their expansive white palaces.

The White Flames are known to be powerful and fantastic beings. Whatever they desire, they have. Wherever they wish to go, they are there. Whatever they wish to know, they know just by asking.

The White City is a place where dreams come true, and where no desire goes unfulfilled. It is a city where limitations have never existed, for it is the city of infinite possibilities. In that sense, the White Flames are somewhat like djinns, but far more powerful than the most powerful djinn that ever was.

You would imagine therefore that everyone was very happy with life. And so they were, for quite a long time. With infinity as their playground, and their fields bedewed with stars, who could help but be quite content? When the White Flames were not dancing or singing, they were chortling with joy, as children do. Everyone was the best of friends, and they were perfectly pleased with life.

But one day, something unexpected happened.

It all began with the youngest of the septuplets, a family of White Flame children who lived in the White City. They were as magnificent as everyone else, and being siblings split from the same flame in their mother’s womb, were greatly attached to each other. Everything they did, they did together. Wherever anyone went, the rest followed.

That fateful day however, the youngest of the septuplets decided to do something different.

Rather than sing and dance, it conceived of the bright idea to paint a masterwork of art that would celebrate the greatness of the White City and all its magical inhabitants.

Thrilled by its scheme, it proceeded to the art studio in the septuplets’ white palace. The studio of course was white, and its walls and ceiling too were white.

The other septuplets followed, all agog.

The youngest septuplet picked up its paintbrush and paintbox. (The paintbrush was white, and the only colour in the paintbox was white.)  Carefully, it mixed the paint with water and began painting on a large piece of canvas (white obviously). The youngest septuplet was very earnest, and applied the paint in theatrical whirls and dabs to the cloth.

When it was finished, everyone stared very hard at the masterpiece and said nothing.

Finally, the eldest septuplet cleared its throat nervously. “Forgive me for saying this, but it looks the same as before. The canvas is still as white as when you first began.”

“White on white does not make for a particularly good picture,” added the second septuplet, hoping to sound like an art connoisseur.

“Isn’t this who we are though?” pleaded the youngest septuplet, slightly crushed.

“Yes, I suppose this is who we are…” the second septuplet hastened to concede, sensing that it had hurt its littlest sibling.

“It is what we are, but don’t you all agree that this is getting rather boring?” interrupted the third septuplet.

The others stared at their sibling, thunderstruck.

“White, white, white. Everywhere is white. There is too much white. We are too white. It is this: this unending sameness of white that is beginning to frustrate me so.”

“What can you possibly mean?” cried the others, alarmed by such strange talk.

“I was just wondering, if only we could be the remotest bit different from each other, our lives might just be so much more interesting.”

“But the White Fire is all that is,” countered the fourth septuplet. “From its flames, the universe was born, as was our city, and us. How can we hope to be at all different from each other? As long as we have our Sephyr, we will always know that the same fire burns in all of us.”

“And that is exactly what I mean,” said the third septuplet ruefully. “Is there life beyond this monotonous sea of white we live in? Every day, we sing, we dance, we are almighty in our power to do or be anything we desire. If you ask me, I think it’s getting tiresome.”

“Did you have another life in mind?” asked the others wonderingly.

“Well, just for larks,” it answered thoughtfully, “let’s imagine a fantasy world where we are suddenly crippled, or otherwise limited in some way. Where we can’t always have what we want when we want it. Where people are different from each other. Where we don’t always love each other all the time, like we do here. Don’t you think that would be an interesting change?”

There was a long silence after that. No one had ever thought to be dissatisfied with their lives before. But as they considered what their third sibling had said, they too began to secretly feel that life in the White City was indeed rather colourless.

The problem was that they were too powerful. And that was dull.

“I wonder if we can play a game to amuse ourselves,” suggested the fifth septuplet.

“What game?” chorused the others eagerly.

“Since our Sephyr is the source of our sameness, perhaps we could play hide-and-seek: we hide from our Sephyr, but at the same time try to find it…”

“Better yet, we could drink a magic potion of forgetting, so that we won’t remember our Sephyr at all except as a dim memory of seeking!” cried the sixth septuplet, who had a fondness for spells and elixirs.

“But who can help us?” asked the eldest, ever practical as usual.

There was a stricken silence as they looked at one another.

“Only one,” said the fourth septuplet eventually. “The Master of Illusions. He can put us into an enchanted dream where we forget who we are, but imagine that the dream was very real nonetheless. Such is the power of his magic.”

“Oh, like acting!” exclaimed the second. “Except that we will not remember it’s all an act. We will ham up our scripts, mistaking them for reality.”

They decided to see the Master of Illusions at once.

He was an enchanter who lived in the White City, and like everyone else, was also a White Flame.

The enchanter of course knew what they had come to see him for. “You have grown tired of your whiteness then?” he asked neutrally.

The septuplets looked uncomfortably at each other, but no one could deny it.

“No matter, it is to be expected of course,” he continued cheerfully. “White is the mother of all colours, a ray of light begging for rain to split it like a rainbow. It is the nature of whiteness to be always seeking to cleave into its parts, if only to experience itself. That is who you are.” He nodded sagely to himself and looked very pleased.

“Then what is black?” asked the youngest septuplet. It knew of black because it had noticed that some of the star-fields it played on were dark and empty of light.

“Ah black…” sighed the Master of Illusions fondly. “Black is the enfolding of all that has been split, back into the cradle of its bosom. Black is the womb from which you came, before even the White Fire was born. In blackness is a coming home again to oneness…”

The septuplets were greatly impressed.

“Since you say it is in our nature to split, do you know of a game we can play to help us understand our whiteness better?” asked the fifth septuplet.

The enchanter pondered a while. “There is a play world I know of where the Sephyr is so well sequestered, that the players can no longer remember their origins in the White Fire. They parade around in disguise, as in a pageant, acting their parts like the best of thespians, all the while not knowing that they are only playing…”

The septuplets cheered. “This is what we want!”

“But there is a curiosity peculiar to this play world,” cautioned the enchanter. “There, everything is dressed in the disguise of duality. As a result, the players in this world believe themselves to be separate from each other. It is a world that perceives itself, and dare I say, judges itself through its differences.”

“How lovely!” cried the third septuplet.

“What is duality?” asked the other septuplets. Duality was a stranger to them, having known only oneness and infinity all their lives.

“In the White City,” explained the enchanter, “we take many forms, but we all know that we are born of the White Fire. And so, regardless of what shape we assume here, be it a White Flame or a chair or the palace we live in, we all know ourselves to be flames from the same fire, and are therefore One.”

The septuplets nodded.

“In this play world, there are many forms too, like here in the White City. But though these forms are born of the White Fire as well (as all our play worlds are), its players do not know that. They look around and perceive a world of separation, based on the different forms they wear. They live enchanted lives of forgetfulness.”

The septuplets listened, enthralled by this curious world of division.

“Would you like to play in this dream world then?” asked the enchanter.

They chimed their enthusiasm.

“But I must warn you: to enter this world, you will need to put on a disguise. And whichever costume you choose will charm you in several ways – ”

He raised a finger. “There is firstly the spell of amnesia, so that you will neither remember who you really are, nor this White City you come from.”

He raised another finger. “Your Sephyr will also remain hidden from you while you wear the disguise, though you will feel compelled to go in search of it always while you are in the play world.”

He raised a third finger. “And finally, the costume will bestow on you the illusion of difference, so that you will never know you are really one and the same in essence.”

The septuplets assured him that they desired all these above everything else.

“Oh, but there is one more thing. When you are in disguise in the dream world, you may fail to recognise each other. Where you are the best of friends here, you may find yourselves the worst of enemies there.”

The septuplets looked at each other incredulously and laughed.

“We are the best of siblings and lovers. It is impossible that we will never recognise each other,” declared the second septuplet.

The rest nodded solemnly in agreement.

The enchanter grinned, somewhat wickedly they thought. “Very well then, don’t say I didn’t warn you! Come with me to the Hall of Mirrors. I believe there are vacancies for all of you in the game I mentioned.”

As soon as it was spoken, they found themselves in an immense white domed hall.

On each wall hung a full-length mirror with white gilded edges. There were too many mirrors for the septuplets to count, but it seemed to them that every empty space in the hall was crammed with a mirror.

“Each mirror is a doorway to a dream world of its own,” explained the Master of Illusions. “In each world, a different game is played, a different dream is dreamt. You can call it what you like: a game, a play, a dream, a masquerade. It is all the same. They are all games invented for the amusement of bored White Flames. And they all came out of the White Fire.” He smiled playfully at the septuplets.

“Can we play all those games?” asked the fifth septuplet.

The enchanter wagged his finger. “One game at a time, my pet. Now come along and choose your disguise.”

They were led to the centre of the hall where an enormous white wardrobe stood. Stopping dramatically in front of its massive doors, the Master of Illusions suddenly flung them open with a great flourish.

“May I present to you, my dear septuplets, the Wardrobe of Disguises!”

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