《Idolatry》


 Contrasts

    I got out of the autonomous cab but left one fingertip against the door exterior, keeping it from leaving. It charged for every millisecond I held it, I knew, but I let myself indulge in that attachment, just for a second. As soon as I broke contact it sped away, slamming the door shut with the power of its acceleration alone.


    Out on the street, neon lights were competing over which one was the hardest to ignore, a barrage against my retinas as I tried to look for a specific sign. It was raining, so I couldn¡¯t take my poncho off, but warm enough that I could feel myself starting to sweat under the nylon. I had showered just before leaving, not wanting to smell bad. Can¡¯t even get that right.


    My mother used to say that you should never pay for anything that you could get for free. She¡¯d lived in a more independent era, and when that era ended, she still insisted on driving her own car until it became illegal.


    God, how I used to envy her. I never even bothered to learn to drive. She would¡¯ve been so ashamed if she saw me now, paying for something that I should¡¯ve managed to get on my own.


    At least I wasn¡¯t paying a machine¡ªthis was one of the few services that we, as a society, insisted that only humans should provide other humans.


    Before me lay a row of cold glass doors facing the sweaty street, allowing a view of beautiful women in nurse uniforms; The skirts shorts, the fabric tightly fitting. Real uniform, nonetheless¡ªthe law required them to be certified nurses, as ridiculous as that may sound.


    I could see, even from the other side of the street where I was standing, staring like the coward that I was, that it was pleasantly cool inside. Heat versus coolness, painful brightness versus obscurity, loneliness versus comfort; it was exactly these kinds of contrasts that were the free market¡¯s building blocks, disparities directing the flow.


    Medicine and poisons; whatever you want, the market will provide it, and it¡¯s up to you to choose wisely. You? Choose wisely? Even if your mother knew it was wrong, even if it was only in a moment of quiet desperation that you¡¯d consider such service to be a step up. It reached towards you and dangled its trinkets in front of your eyes, testing if you had the guts to reach out and take them. Did I? When did you ever have guts?


    I scanned the row of doors, doing my best to ignore the other customers who were scouting from afar, not committing yet. This part of the street was entrance only, the satisfied customers being escorted through a service exit. It had to be a calculated marketing decision¡ªan acknowledgement that there¡¯s something about seeing the customers post-service that kills your enthusiasm. I didn¡¯t begrudge them that. I needed all the help I could get, if I wanted to find the courage to actually do this.


    When my eyes fell on her, I could tell, even from that distance, that she was the one. How romantic.


    Tall with skin the color of old, wise wood; her face framed by a sharp, jet-black bob-cut. Almond shaped-and-colored eyes, all-knowing, a sharp nose cast above full, confident lips.


    I have never found myself in pain over a man¡¯s beauty. I had recognized it in some, even felt a tickle of attraction, but hurt over it? Women, on the other hand¡­ They¡¯ll break your heart with a flutter of their eyelashes, and know exactly what they¡¯re doing. Just the way she stood made you want to die, as corny as it sounds; a deep, sweet ache, pulling at your insides. I wondered what it felt like to never doubt your own attractiveness.


    She spotted me, her eyes paralyzing me like a pair of headlights. Something in her expression changed and I knew, against all reason but without any doubt, that she wanted me to come over. You can¡¯t really be that na?ve, right? It¡¯s her job.


    I wanted to turn and walk, to run away and forget it all, but I knew what waited at home. Coming here was the first step on the path to be rid of that devouring loneliness, that persistent parasite. To be free. I made myself focus on that hope, fan that feeble flame until it was strong enough to make me take a single step forward. It felt like I had concrete shoes on. The second step put me on the road, not even glancing at my sides, but it was easier to keep moving once I¡¯ve started. My arms didn¡¯t quite listen to me, and swung limply; a dynamic paralysis.


    Her eyes followed me as I walked, and the closer I got, the less I felt like I was wading through a pool of honey. Just as I was about to reach the door itself, I succumbed to the compulsion to check my own reflection in the glass, just one more time.


    Stupidly round blue eyes cast above grey sleeplessness bags, lips so thin they almost looked like a gash cut under a too-big nose, skin so pale it seemed yellowing. A body that was once young and athletic but had been beaten shapeless by endless cycles of weight gain and loss, hidden behind a baggy T-shirt and a nylon poncho. I could find a thousand things to hate about myself in a second, and that¡¯s just on the outside. I¡¯d pay any price, if it made me to stop hating myself so intensely, even for a single moment.


    When I focused on her, I saw that she¡¯d been raising an eyebrow at me. Right, because I¡¯d been standing there and staring. How can one person produce so much awkwardness? She stood, Amazonian in her stature, with one hand on her hip, looking at me. Not judging, but not inviting either. She let me stand there for a second with a lump in my throat, then leaned forward, perfectly unhurried, and pulled the glass door open.


    ¡°You¡¯re gonna stand there all night?¡± Her smooth voice silenced the cacophony of rain and cars passing, the rickshaws on the street. It was a clich¨¦, sure, but with her confidence it sounded sophisticated, self-aware. What a heavenly thing, the voice of such a woman. ¡°Or do you want to come inside?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d like that,¡± I managed to squeak, stepping forward.


    The nurse (afraid of calling her what she is?) closed the door behind me, and for a moment we were very close. She smelled like flowers and rich coffee; a heavy fragrance, intoxicating.


    She took a step towards the staircase leading to the upper floors and reached out a hand to me. I stood for a moment, looking at the elegant curves of the muscles of her forearm; one of those people who actually stick to their exercise routine. Awkwardly, I put my still-moist hand in hers, letting her interlace her fingers in mine. Her hand was surprisingly soft, yielding, and I felt like an overboard sailor pulled from the verge of drowning. My legs shook on each step as I let her lead me upstairs, then through a low-ceiling corridor with a red-brown carpet. The hum of low voices speaking in the other rooms gave the place a strangely pleasant atmosphere, an illusion that someone actually lived here.


    She opened one of the wooden doors, revealing a cozy room, keeping with the red-brown pallet; a long couch, a bed, a small table with coffee and tea, a small console for payment. I took off the poncho and hung it by the door. It dripped gently onto the floor.


    She sat down on the end of the long couch and patted the cushion next to her.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know if you can tell by how nervous I am, but this is my first time,¡± I said as I sat next to her, my hands on my thighs.


    ¡°That¡¯s funny,¡± she said and smiled. ¡°May I?¡±


    I nodded before I understood what it was she¡¯d asked permission for. She caressed my face with one hand and placed the other on my shoulder, not pulling, but guiding my head towards her lap. I collapsed slowly, crumbling into her.


    I closed my eyes as her fingers brushed my skin, sighing with relief. I still couldn¡¯t believe I was going to do this. I might have even felt a pinch of pride, for being able to make it so far. Even for you, this is lame. How many people has she comforted like she¡¯s comforting you, now? Do you think she thinks about you as anything but a perfect failure?


    ¡°I know I shouldn¡¯t say this,¡± she continued. ¡°But, I mean, are you sure you want to be here?¡±


    I nodded again, tightly, savoring the feeling of the skirt¡¯s fabric against my skin. ¡°If you don¡¯t want me here, just say so. I¡¯d understand.¡± And there I went again, neurotically assuming people wanted me to leave, even when it didn¡¯t make any sense, eventually making it true.


    Her hand settled on my neck. ¡°No,¡± she said. Trying to do her job, nothing more. ¡°That¡¯s not what I meant¡±.


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    I wanted to say something, anything, before she started apologizing. To ask something to divert the conversation any other way. ¡°Will you hold me, when it¡¯s over-¡± I started and stopped; my eyes still closed. After the words came out, I could hear how needy they sounded. I sounded. ¡°I mean, if as soon as we were done you got up and left I¡­¡± Would be even lonelier than before? Could you be any more pathetic?


    She didn¡¯t answer. One second, two seconds. I couldn¡¯t take it, if she¡¯d pitied me. Better for her to cringe, to be disgusted with me, even. I opened my eyes to look at her face, but it was still that same confident, warm expression. The way her hair fell around her face in the dim light made me want to cry.


    ¡°I could¡­¡± she drew the word along, playfully, as her soft fingers traced the outlines of my cheek. ¡°But we do have a time limit: forty minutes from the moment you took my hand. The sooner you make the transaction, the longer we can cuddle.¡±


    I rose, somehow finding in me the strength to detach from her warm thigh, and moved to the console. It displayed a price and a designated area to place my thumb and have my fingerprint read. More than I expected, much more, but what did it matter? This was a one-time thing. Had to be.


    ¡°Worth every penny,¡± she said, perhaps sensing my hesitation.


    ¡°You don¡¯t look like you¡¯ve ever been on this side of the exchange,¡± I tried, hoping she¡¯d laugh this time.


    She smiled politely, acknowledging that a joke had been made. ¡°I¡¯ve never gotten any negative feedback from a customer, either.¡±


    I laughed. Perhaps because it was funny, perhaps just to buy time. ¡°What¡¯s a typical customer look like, anyway?¡± A little nosy, aren¡¯t we?


    If it bothered her, she didn¡¯t let it show, looking at me with her hands resting elegantly on her knees. ¡°It¡¯s men, most of the time, with a very specific type of sadness in their eyes, a specific brand of desperation, eager to tell me what went wrong in their lives, as if they needed to excuse their presence here.¡± She shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. ¡°You¡¯re the first woman I¡¯ve had in a while.¡±


    I didn¡¯t usually think of myself as a woman, honestly, as if those shoes were too big to fill, but I certainly wasn¡¯t a man, either. ¡°Does it bother you? I mean¡­¡± Stupid question. Do you think she¡¯s doing this for fun? Look at her, see how weird she¡¯s looking at you now.


    She cocked her head, inspecting me. ¡°No, but it is a little surprising. You¡¯re not too hard on the eyes, and you¡¯re funny too, clever. Perhaps too clever for your own good?¡± She said with a sad smile, full of understanding.


    For a moment, I thought she might actually understand¡­ Me. She¡¯s luring you in to talk about your failings so you¡¯ll trust her, so you¡¯ll press the button and she can feel even more superior to you. ¡°And what do they ask for?¡± I asked.


    ¡°Most usually ask to be choked,¡± she said, absentmindedly flexing her sculpted forearms, ¡°but you don¡¯t look like the type that would be into that. You¡¯d like to be treated tenderly; I imagine?¡±


    To be treated tenderly. I swallowed. To be safe in her arms as I slowly melted away. Please.


    I let my thumb hover in front of the screen and took a very deep breath; exhaled. It wasn¡¯t about the outrageous sum of money¡ªI was sure there were reasons for that, medical regulations and whatnot. It was about the decision actually being made. If I left now, this could still become just another shameful-but-funny story, told to a lover that had by then grown to trust me, or drunk co-workers in a hotel lobby.


    God, I¡¯m so tired of your weak inner monologue. You fucking baby, can¡¯t even make one decision. Do you think anyone is going to love you enough to listen endearingly to your stories? Do you think anyone can be drunk enough to find you amusing? The only thing that could make this story even more pathetic than it already is would be failing to go through. Fuck.


    If making this transaction meant being a little closer to a world where I didn¡¯t have to listen to this shit all the time, why the hell was I hesitating? I pushed my thumb into the screen, bending the console back, as if I were shoving a finger in the voice¡¯s eye. A large green V appeared on the screen.


    Big girl! All you needed was just a little push. But don¡¯t get carried away now and forget that she¡¯s only pretending to care, ok?


    I turned around and walked over to the couch. She was still sitting, elegant and imposing even when reclining.


    I kneeled by her feet, letting my chin rest on her thigh, and she placed a hand on my cheek. There was a scent of worship in that position.


    She brushed my hair, her eyes studying me. No judgment and, thank God, no pity, only quiet acknowledgment. I wanted to kiss her, but even asking about that seemed like a faux pas. ¡°You remind me of my mother,¡± I said, instead.


    ¡°How so?¡± Her eyebrow and the corner of her mouth both raised.


    ¡°I never really understood her.¡±


    ¡°She didn¡¯t like you, did she?¡± Her fingers wandered from my scalp down to my neck, and I closed my eyes, savoring her touch, her voice. ¡°And you couldn¡¯t figure out how to please her. You tried and you tried, but she was always disappointed, no matter what you did.¡±


    ¡°That obvious?¡± I tried to smirk, but the expression came out crooked, unclear. Are you seriously still trying to look cool?


    ¡°Would it comfort you to know that it¡¯s very common?¡±


    I looked, not letting her see my eyes. ¡°God, even my childhood trauma is boring.¡±


    ¡°The trope is a trope for a reason.¡± She brushed away a tear, spreading the warmth on my cheek. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Please don¡¯t be,¡± I said as I opened my eyes and looked directly at her. Her brown eyes were full of remorse. Or was it guilt? ¡°You think this is a scam.¡± I sounded certain, surprising even myself. ¡°All of this, you think I¡¯m being fooled, lured. I assure you; I know exactly what I¡¯m paying for.¡±


    There was a trace of sadness in her smile. ¡°If you say so. Can we change spots? I think you¡¯d find the bed more comfortable.¡± She wants to be done with it already.


    I sat back, moving out of her way as she stood up and walked over to a bedside cabinet. She retrieved a black, leather-bound suitcase.


    ¡°Your little box of toys?¡± I asked.


    She sat on the bed, facing me, and placed it beside her. ¡°Something like that.¡±


    I let her guide me into her embrace, my back to her, my head leaning against her breast, her legs around me. So soft, so pleasantly cool and quiet.


    She opened the box, revealing a syringe in a sealed package, and a small sterilization kit.


    ¡°This is pure morphine, with trace amounts of quicksilver acetate. You¡¯re not going to feel the quicksilver, it¡¯s just there to prevent theft,¡± she whispered. ¡°I can give you the minimal lethal dose of morphine and stay with you for the fifteen to forty-five minutes it¡­ takes.¡± Hear that fake hesitation? ¡°Or I can give you a larger dose,¡± she started sterilizing the crook of my elbow with a pad; a natural, well-practiced motion, ¡°that turns the lights off right away. One minute or less, and it¡¯s over.¡±


    I took a moment to look at the medical apparatus, at how real it was. Have you forgotten what we¡¯re here for? ¡°The smaller dose sounds¡­ appropriate. I¡¯d like to be here a little longer, I¡¯m just¡­¡± so relieved. I was just so relieved, that I actually had the courage to go ahead with this. That was the truth of it. I hadn¡¯t known it was possible to feel fear and relief at the same time, but there I was, watching, transfixed, as she tied a rubber loop around my arm.


    Once she was finished, she took the syringe out of its casing, the milky liquid already inside, and unsheathed the needle from the little plastic thingy. She then placed the needle against the pulsing vein, on the verge of penetration, teasing. ¡°I need affirmative consent,¡± she whispered apologetically, her chin resting between my neck and shoulder. It was happening too fast. I needed more time. But if you had more time, you¡¯d just use it to chicken out, wouldn¡¯t you?


    ¡°Yes, please,¡± I declared, my voice resolute and certain for the first time since I entered. ¡°I consent, affirmatively.¡± Still making jokes?


    The sharp pain of the needle¡¯s penetration was exhilarating. Ironically, it made me feel alive. I watched as she drained its contents into me, the piston slowly pushing towards the halfway mark, reaching it, staying there for a second, and then, to my confusion, passing it.


    The piston kept moving onward and onward until all of the syringe¡¯s contents were safely in my veins. But¡­ But I¡¯d told her to only use half of it.


    I told you. Didn¡¯t I tell you? There¡¯s always something. She wanted to fuck you over, and when there was nothing left to take she made a promise just so she could break it.


    My eyes were wet with betrayal as I turned to look at her but her face was too close, and she wasn¡¯t looking at me; Her eyes were focused on the inside of my elbow, on the loop of rubber holding the morphine from circulating in my bloodstream.


    Do something, don¡¯t let her.


    I didn¡¯t move.


    Her fingers wrapped around the rubber, almost ceremoniously, and she undid the knot with one decisive pull, popping the rubber loose. I felt a gentle warmth bloom down my arm and back up into my body, orgasmic, as the poison spread in my bloodstream. She had just stolen the last half hour of my life. She¡¯d murdered me, just a little bit.


    Her nose brushing against mine, her breath warm in my nostrils. A fire lit in her eyes then, her grin wide and full of teeth. Seeing the look in my eyes, she turned to face the sky, her lips parting, a moan of satisfaction escaping her mouth. A sound so pure, so heavenly.


    Is she enjoying this? Am I finally making someone happy? Maybe it¡¯s worth it, after all¡­


    She kissed me then, gripping my hair, pulling me down so she could lean over me, and I sank into a bed that was impossibly soft. What a fool I was, to pretend I had any control, even for a second. Everything I was, everything I had, was always Hers. Her lips pressed into mine, Her tongue invading my mouth, conquering, as I willingly breathed in the damp warmth of Her lungs. Take it, I thought, please, take everything I have to give.


    Warm and safe, I melted away.

 Nyarlathotep

    In order to understand how Nyralathotep did what he did, you need to understand that it¡¯s not the information alone that destroys you. It¡¯s the experience, the journey that counts. I¡¯ll give two very different examples, both from my own experience, both equally relevant.


    The first is the most brilliant spoiler I ever got hit with. I was on a 4chan thread and people were complaining about their lives. (Yes, 4chan is the site where all the school shooters and incels come from, or at least used to, but I¡¯m not a school shooter. We don¡¯t really have those in Israel. I mean, we do, but it¡¯s different.) So after writing a couple of cathartic lines about another girl who acted interested on Tinder just to randomly decide to ghost me, I started reading other people¡¯s stories. Most were as boring as they were badly written, but one stood out in its quality, and really pulled me in.


    It was an older guy relating this heartbreaking story about his relationship with his daughter, and how his work was tearing them apart. He was an engineer, and that¡¯s where it got interesting ¨C when he started describing the world, I realized it wasn¡¯t our world, but some sci-fi concept: all around the world, wheat was dying, and it was up to him to go up to space and find new worlds for humanity to live in. I was transfixed as his story went deeper into black holes and time dilation and love, and in the end he wrote ¨C ¡°I just spoiled Interstellar for you.¡±


    What a cunt.


    I looked away from the screen, closing my eyes and trying very hard to think about something else, to eject the information. There¡¯s no ¡®delete¡¯ button on the human mind, though. That very weekend, I sat in the theater and shoved handfuls of popcorn in my mouth, and as the events rolled on just as I knew they would, the surprises mute, I couldn¡¯t stop thinking: Someone made me feel this disappointment, chose it.


    That wasn¡¯t the last time I found myself regretting that I couldn¡¯t choose to forget something. The second example happened on an amateur hardcore-porn thread, where we shared videos of attractive girls doing impressively nasty things (I know I shouldn¡¯t watch stuff like that, but there¡¯s something about seeing something I¡¯ve never seen before that I just can¡¯t resist). I clicked on the thumbnail of a cute girl in cat ears and cat makeup and she was chewing on something. The video started, and the first thing that caught my attention was how gently she chewed, not really crunching it down, as if she was just pressing on something to get the juices out. When she opened her mouth after twenty seconds or so, instead of the bloody tampon I expected, she took out a mouse, still alive, and held it hanging just in front of the camera, giggling. The girl, not the mouse. I turned away from the screen and thought about the pure evil it took to put on cat makeup just for the joke of it.


    There was a twofold shock there, not just at having seen the thing but at re-contextualizing the cute twenty seconds of video before the mouse was shown. I turned back to the screen. The mouse wasn¡¯t struggling, but you could see the terror and pain in its little, broken movements as she raised it above her head and opened her leering mouth wide, slowly lowering it back into the living torture chamber she¡¯d made of herself.


    You know what the worst thing was? I¡¯d seen the comments, people posting gif animations of appalled faces and swearing at the poster. And still I went right in, confident to emerge unscathed where those just like me were scarred.


    I fell asleep on the couch in front of the PlayStation while the Dark Souls loading screen was playing. I had some trouble sleeping. No outright nightmares about being chewed up, but the general sense of being trapped, of being the victim of someone else¡¯s amusement. A general sense that it would have been for the best if the whole world burned.


    I spent the next couple of nights there, trying to flush the image out of my mind, taking comfort in the game¡¯s unique hopelessness. If you''ve never heard of Dark Souls, here''s what you need to know: It''s unfairly hard. That''s the hook, the theme, the story of it. If you weren¡¯t supposed to succeed, there isn¡¯t any pain in failing.


    So you can see why, when Nyarlathotep came, I was readier than most. The first time I heard the name was in a video by my favorite youtuber at the time, Nuri Comey. He decided to appear as himself instead of his stage persona, ¡°Tsiki Tsror¡±, so he could address his viewers in a more personal tone.


    There was, however, very little direct addressing for most of the video, titled ¡°dont [his typo] go see Nyarlathotep¡±. From what I gathered from the broken sentences and bursts of actual tears, Comey had seen him in Eilat, in one of Nyarlathotep¡¯s first shows after he crossed the border from Egypt. Comey was infuriated about Nyarlathotep¡¯s no-return policy. Not a no-refund policy, but a prohibition of visitors from returning for a second performance. Nyarlathotep, Comey claimed, had spotted him as soon as he got into the venue, pointed directly at him, and refused to start the show until he¡¯d left.


    From what Comey said, the ¡°performance¡± was something between a meditation and a lecture, though Nyarlathotep apparently didn¡¯t say much more than ¡°welcome¡± and ¡°goodbye¡±. But Comey really wanted to go again, and after being denied that¡­ tried to spitefully make other people not go?


    I watched a man who had built his fame off suicide and rape jokes (often both) cry uncontrollably in front of tens of thousands of watching eyes and felt a peculiar cocktail of Schadenfreude, pity, and fascination.


    Those were not good days for me. Years of programming marathons (failed attempts at making a computer game, surrogate worlds where one can feel what it¡¯s like to have purpose) and zealous junk food consumption had left my spine, digestive system, and social skills in ruins. I was almost never physically or mentally comfortable, always tired. At the age of 29 the possibility of becoming a perma-virgin (a ¡°wizard¡±, as they say on the internets) became increasingly plausible, and the subject of literal nightmares. Living with my parents... well, it didn¡¯t help.


    Quality distraction was a necessity¡ªso when Nuri Comey said he wished he¡¯d never seen Nyarlathotep, I was like a starved spider, following the vibration in its web towards a parasitoid wasp, hoping it is a caught fly: I followed the signal down, right toward the danger. Worst case, I thought, it would be pretty fucking funny.


    Nyarlathotep was gaining some media traction by then, but was still mostly niche. From what I found in Israeli forums, he had first appeared in Egypt, with no possessions, ID, or relatives. After spending some time in prison for espionage, he was released and given citizenship (which sounded like a bunch of bullshit to me). He soon took his show to Israel, intending to tour Europe and the US afterwards.


    This was either some sort of publicity stunt, and people were being paid to be vague, or he was spiking everyone¡¯s drinks. Or the air. Something.


    Most visitors didn¡¯t take it as hard as Comey. At least not at first. A couple of reporters who saw the show in Eilat wrote about how amazing and eye opening it was. One of them quit her job soon after, and the other jumped off a bridge. Excited chills climbed up my herniated spine as I scanned forum after forum. Somebody wrote about losing motivation to do anything after watching the show, as delightful as it was. Another wrote about contemplating suicide. None of them gave any description of the show itself.


    #


    Was it out of laziness or fear that I didn¡¯t order tickets? In truth, neither. I was curious, and wanted to draw out this rare feeling for as long as possible. Kind of like a porn addict who¡¯s drawing out a watching session, denying himself its conclusion so he won¡¯t have to drop back into his own life, or a stalker that derives so much joy from his crush¡¯s online presence he almost forgets the data maps onto a real-world object.


    It wasn¡¯t until I heard Nyarlathotep interviewed that I realized that I couldn¡¯t keep avoiding seeing him. As if I wasn¡¯t diamond-hard for this guy already, there was also the added effect of the interview being deleted by the producer and interviewer himself, Gavri Nir¡¯ad, and someone on set (presumably a sound person) leaking the audio track to Telegram news groups.


    In the recording, Nir¡¯ad talked excitedly to the audience in his airy, two-shekel, cult-leader cadence.


    ¡°Our next guest is a very special man, ladies and gentlemen, he claims to be a prophet and I think I¡¯m starting to believe him, he came all the way from Cairo, please give a round of applause to ¨C I hope I¡¯m getting this right ¨C Nyar-la-toe-tap!¡±


    The crowd applauded, presumably as Nyarlathotep entered the room. A long pause, as if he was taking his time sitting on the couch in front of Nir¡¯ad. ¡°Good evening, Gavri,¡± he said at last. His voice was low, and very soft. When had he learned such accent-less Hebrew?


    I could tell Nir¡¯ad was making an exaggerated expression of being blown away. ¡°Wow, do you guys feel the energy coming off this guy? I¡¯m feeling such a cosmic presence, such a powerful aura! I bet this is what it would have been like meeting Moses, or maybe even Jesus. The energy here is simply amazing. Do you guys at home feel that too?¡±


    I rolled my eyes. Nir¡¯ad couldn¡¯t shut up about cosmic energy for ten seconds even if the fate of the world depended on it.


    There was a moment of hesitation, as if there¡¯d been some non-verbal communication between them. A meaningful look, or perhaps Nyarlathotep placing an arm on Nir¡¯ad¡¯s shoulder.


    ¡°You have some questions for me,¡± the low voice said, and for a moment my brain thought that he was talking to me. My spine straightened.


    ¡°Oh yeah yeah yeah sure,¡± Nir¡¯ad mumbled and cleared his throat, as if decades of experience in television had been wiped away in his excitement. ¡°I have a ton of questions. Well, first of all: This feels weird to say, but, well, are you an alien?¡± He sounded embarrassed, as if he too recognized how cringe that was.


    ¡°I was born on this planet.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean to say you weren¡¯t always here?¡±


    ¡°Not always.¡±


    ¡°Are you talking about psychedelic journeys? Ahem, I¡¯d like to remind everyone at home that we don¡¯t encourage anyone to engage in illegal activities, and even though the exploration of consciousness can lead to wonderful, life altering results, it should only be done using methods that are safe, or in countries where the use of psychedelics is legal.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not speaking about the alteration of the mind. I left this planet and resided somewhere else.¡±


    ¡°Are you here to take us to this other planet?¡±


    ¡°No, I¡¯m here to share with you what I¡¯ve seen.¡±


    ¡°Do you have any proof?¡±


    ¡°You try to grasp at what you call reality. But knowing doesn¡¯t require reality¨C¡±


    I sighed and jumped ahead in the file. I knew the drill¡ªthat most notable cult leaders have a history of schizophrenia in the family, whose severity is dependent on the accumulation of ¡°schizophrenic genes¡±, implying there¡¯s a spectrum between a normal person and a person who thinks he¡¯s God, and somewhere along that spectrum there¡¯s the kind of guy that convinces hundreds of people to drink extra spicy Kool-Aid. Nir¡¯ad was somewhere on that spectrum too, I imagined. It didn¡¯t mean he wasn¡¯t telling what he believed was truth, but I¡¯d expected more, wanted more. And so I was disappointed again. My fault, really.


    I jumped a minute ahead, and there was only silence. Another minute ¨C still silence. I looked closer at the message bar, the little visualization of sound volume as function of time, and saw that there was a spike near the end. I jumped to it.


    Someone sobbed, then screamed, ¡°Get off him! Leave him alone! Gavri!¡±


    And someone, presumably Gavri, barked through choked tears, ¡°I¡¯ll kill him! I have to kill him!¡±


    Then Nyarlathotep spoke, like a pharaoh with a mandate from heaven, ¡°Release Me.¡± A silence fell, broken only by someone¡¯s shrieking breathes. Whether Nyarlathotep peeled Nir¡¯ad¡¯s fingers off his throat or just stared him down I couldn¡¯t tell, because he hadn¡¯t made a single sound. ¡°I¡¯ll carry on my path. Do not attempt to slow me.¡±


    And that was it. That was where the recording was cut.


    I looked at the graph of the file and selected the section just before the silence began.


    ¡°¡­call reality. But knowing doesn¡¯t require reality,¡± Nyarlathotep said.


    Nir¡¯ad, apparently genuinely humble and curious, asked, ¡°What does it require?¡±


    And here was the first silence, as if something was slowly gathering itself and coiling to strike. When Nyarlathotep finally spoke, his voice was different, as if he¡¯d turned his head to speak directly to me. ¡°You,¡± he said. ¡°I have something to show you. Are you listening? Is your mind focsud?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, bitch,¡± I answered out loud for some reason, and swallowed a lump. Someone made a throaty sound, but I couldn¡¯t tell who it was.


    ¡°Then let us sit in this holy silence, and I will shape it into something you have not seen before.¡±


    And that was that. Two minutes of silence, before Nir¡¯ad tried to strangle him. A drop of saltwater dripped from my chin onto the keyboard. A tear? I brought a hand up to my wet cheek, my wet forehead. Not tears: sweat.


    Nice.


    I switched tabs to a new search engine query and found a place to buy tickets for the show. Seemed like he didn¡¯t sleep ¨C apart from short breaks here and there, he was performing around the clock. Fortunately, he was already in Tel Aviv. There were only ten tickets left, all for the same show - 4:30 a.m. on a Wednesday. I bought one for 55 NIS - about what you¡¯d pay to see a C-grade entertainer, which he obviously wasn¡¯t. This was grade A stuff.


    ¡°Mom, I¡¯m taking the car for tonight?¡±


    She looked up from her phone, sitting on the twin couch by my dad, partially hidden by his belly, pretending to half listen to the WW2 documentary he¡¯d made her watch. ¡°Where are you going? Meeting friends?¡± She had a glimmer in her eye, letting me know there was a hope she did not dare explicitly express. My dad didn¡¯t look away from the screen.


    ¡°Yeah, we¡¯re going to see a show.¡±


    ¡°What, with Dekel?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I haven¡¯t seen Dekel in more than a year, since he¡¯d found not only the woman but the courage to bring a human being to this world with. ¡°His wife let him off for the night.¡±


    ¡°Oh, tell him his little girl is beautiful. I¡¯ve been following on facebook.¡±


    Sure she had. It was the loop she was stuck in, foraging for information as if the right amount would regain her the control she¡¯d lost over her life. I didn¡¯t look down on her fot that, but I hoped that when I found myself in a loop like that, it was going to be a more pleasant one. Dad grunted, letting us know that we were interrupting his watching experience, and mom waved a kiss towards me. I took the keys and left.


    #


    It was a hot, humid Tel Aviv night; autumn coming late again. Fortunately, the venue was close enough to the beach to get a cool breeze every once in a while as I ate a slice of pizza (bacon and fries as toppings - what a time to be alive) and waited.


    The line was long: It seemed like all of the thirty-four people the venue could hold were here, and there were still ten minutes to the show itself. A group of girls in neo-hippie attire stood around a tall, loud man with dreadlocks. There were a couple of punk rockers, one of whom sported a tattoo of a snake with an apple in its mouth, crawling from his neck to his forehead. Not a common sight here, head tattoos. I wondered under what rock he spent his days.


    The last person in line was a pale girl with black-rimmed glasses and a side-cut in her short, dirty-blonde hair. Under her skirt, each of her pale, thin thighs showed a half-covered tattoo. One was the hilt of a sword. The other was the words: ¡°¡­ should be destroyed by the truth.¡± Based. A flat tummy, small tits. A face that was just unattractive enough for me to be attracted while still feeling like I had a chance.


    She was looking at her phone, and I once again mourned my innate lack of Game. I finished my pizza while doing my best to summon the wisdom of the Black Pill ¨C if you have no hope, you cannot be disappointed.


    A little way from the entrance we were waiting by, a double door opened, and out came the patrons of the last show. They moved sluggishly, looking around in wonder, and at us with blank expressions I couldn¡¯t decipher. A mix of shock and amazement?


    One of the hippies said, ¡°Look: The faces of people who have seen pure beauty.¡± He was beaming.


    Beside me, the girl with the tattoos scoffed. ¡°Lightweights.¡±


    ¡°And you think you¡¯ll do better?¡± I said, throwing wisdom aside the moment a chance to talk to a real-life woman showed itself¡ªbut also hoping that a pick-up artist might have approved of me opening with a challenge.


    She turned, scanning me quickly. ¡°Better than that,¡± she said, moving her eyes to glare at one of the survivors, who fell to his knees and started crying. Upon hearing him, a few others started crying, too.


    I wondered if I, too, would look like that in an hour, but I didn¡¯t have time to think about it - I needed to focus on my Game. ¡°What makes you so sure you won¡¯t be destroyed by the truth?¡±


    Her hand moved to her thigh, as if she could feel my stare, retroactively. Smooth move, perv. ¡°There¡¯s one truth, you¡¯d have to have half a brain not to understand it yourself. Everything else is some reflection of that same reality, and that can¡¯t hurt you, once you¡¯ve seen the source. And¡­You have no idea what I¡¯m talking about.¡± She was being a jerk, but I wasn¡¯t complaining. Better to be shit-tested than igrnored.


    ¡°Then why are you here? If you¡¯re not going to learn anything new.¡±


    I thought she might take that as an insult, but she seemed to genuinely consider before answering with a shrug. ¡°I¡¯m bored.¡±


    #


    We entered a dimly lit room, damp-smelling. A crimson carpet, wall to wall, and rows of round, heavy cushions. A little stage, the kind that you¡¯d find at an intimate stand-up comedy show, just high enough to separate the performer from the audience. I activated the recorder app on my phone, and slipped it in my pocket.


    I sat on one of the cushions in the second row, near the wall. My stiff limbs and spine refused to settle in anything resembling a comfortable position. Others around me were visibly as uncomfortable, their faces showing irritation. Not the hippies, obviously.


    The girl with the tattoos chose front-row center. Those were the last seats to be taken, the ones that would be directly in front of him.


    My eyes turned to the entrance, stage right. I remember that clearly ¨C I felt like I should look, and at that moment he came into view. He was taller than I¡¯d expected, even more so than the low voice implied. His skin was golden-brown, his hair a rich brown and thick, drawn into a bun on his head. He wasn¡¯t muscular like a bodybuilder, but there was something leonine in the broadness of his face and the palms of his hands that implied at great, hidden strength. His jeans and T-shirt were ordinary, modern, but they seemed to barely hold on to him, as if there was a foreignness between them and his skin that could not be bridged.


    One of the hippies started clapping. Nyarlathotep looked straight at him with his almond-shaped, deep brown eyes, and the hippie stopped before the fire could spread. No one made a sound as Nyarlathotep walked slowly to the center of the stage, his eyes scanning each of us. As he looked at me, directly at me, I had a distinct feeling that he saw through me, as if every secret was known. No hope of hiding and pretending, constructing a better, fictional self out of the presentable parts. I bet he was drowning in pussy. Very gently he rubbed his thumb and forefinger, I think, as if feeling the texture of the air. I wasn¡¯t sure. I couldn¡¯t shift my attention from his eyes.


    Nyarlathotep sighed and casually folded himself down, his legs pretzeled together like gurus do. The room inhaled in anticipation.


    ¡°Welcome,¡± he said simply, but the word changed the room entirely, suffused into the atmosphere. No answer was made.


    ¡°I wish to show you another world. If you have come here, that is testemant you want to see. But perhaps you do not know what seeing is, what it does. Look into your heart and ask yourself ¨C do you really want to be shown, no matter what it might do to you?¡±


    There was another moment of silence, and I contemplated the question. I thought about Nuri Comey crying, about his warning, and my guts tightened with the a hint of fear. But by some bug of the human thinking process, despite the obvious rational answer, I thought to myself: Yes, if there is another world, of course I would like to see it.


    ¡°Very well, then,¡± he said after a moment, as if he¡¯d received each of our individual answers. ¡°Then let your mind open. Not metaphorically:. Reach out to me, through the darkness between minds. Close your eyes, and imagine that you are me.


    ¡°You were born in a land named Ka¡¯met,¡± he said, his soft voice filling the room. ¡°The name means black earth, the fertile land of the Nile. You worked that earth for most of your life, in your father¡¯s wheat fields. That was twenty-seven centuries ago.¡±


    Someone coughed into the silence.


    ¡°I was drinking what you may call a beer, at the end of a long summer workday, watching the Nile from a hillside. Then, suddenly, I were taken to another world. Imagine.¡± He paused.


    I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, allowing my mind to¡­ reach out, I guess. In any other mediation-like setting I would have taken the opportunity to heckle, or at least chuckle, but it didn¡¯t seem right.


    ¡°You are sitting on the hillside, drinking a bitter drink from a clay cup. The setting sun is warm on your skin, the sweet Nile breeze bringing cooler, humid air.¡±


    I saw myself there, a shade against the inside of my eyelids, looking at the greenish-brown water of the Nile, at the reeds moving with the wind. I imagined the sensation of the rough clay against my lips, the rich bitterness of the beer. A calm fell over me.


    ¡°You hear, from a distance, a splashing in the water. Two large crocodiles are barging through the reeds. They are mothers, with young in their mouths.¡±


    His soft voice blended smoothly with my thoughts. I imagined putting the cup down at my feet and watching the regal beasts. The tiny crocodiles, in my mind, were even more beautiful than their mothers, full of life and promise. I was fascinated.


    One of the offspring drops out of its mother¡¯s maw¡ªperhaps pushed out by a sibling, perhaps on its own. He tumbles into the dirt and, in his confusion, jumps back toward the closest jaws that he finds. These, as it turns out, are not his mother¡¯s. His new siblings welcome him just as if he was one of their own. Is there a difference?


    I never knew that could happen, and I find myself amused and charmed by something so simple.


    ¡°You are so distracted by the sight, you do not even notice a tear in the world around you, like a blanket in a thousand colors, as wide as the sky, engulfing you from every side, quickly closing in. Before you know it, you find yourself somewhere else completely.¡±


    In an instant I am in an entirely different place: a dark, humid cave, with black corridors reaching in every direction. The floor is wet and cold. There is but a faint glow. Large, wet bodies are moving somewhere just outside of eyes¡¯ and ears¡¯ reach. The air smells strange.I am terrified.


    ¡°You feel ill, not just disoriented. In the dark, something comes towards you.¡±


    My heart is pounding in my chest, and there is something wrong with my breathing. Something approachs me, moving quickly through the shallow puddles of muck. Clutching at my chest, I turn my head to look at it. It is a spindly mass of delicate arms, silver refracting into little rainbows in the dim light. My vision is already blurred when it emerges from the darkness.


    ¡°You lose consciousness. And in your sleep, you die.¡±


    For a moment I am silent, and there is no thought or emotion in me. Not even calmness.


    ¡°You wake up in a small room that is cleaner and more comfortable than anything you have seen before. There is no pain.¡±


    I wake up in a bed of fine, white sand. The room is the most comfortable I¡¯ve ever been in,a snug nook. I sit up slowly, expecting an awful headache from a past experience with losing consciousness (I vaguely remember having drowned once¡ªmy foot got tangled in some roots¡ªand waking on the shore of the Nile), but there is no pain in my body. In fact, I feel better than I ever have. I wonder if someone would miss me, and realize that I do not remember much of Kamet, just the fields, and the crocodiles, and the nile.


    A man walks into the room. His green-tinted skin is covered in a white silk robe from neck to ankle. His hair is long and a shade of black so dark it testifies to avoidance of the sun. His beard is masterfully cropped, two lines tracing his jawbones and meeting under his chin in a long strand of straight black hair. He has not the bandages that I expected to see, nor the hat, but I spot faint scars on his exposed limbs, as if they were once cut apart and mended.


    I do not remember everything, but I do remember the forms and names of the gods. I get up from my bed and kneel, bringing my forehead to the floor. ¡°Lord Undertaker, I am unworthy--¡±


    ¡°Are you to judge souls, to deem who is worthy?¡± His voice is not the deathly whisper I expect, but mirthful and very human, as if we were old friends trading insults. ¡°Am I to abdicate, and leave this world in your custody?¡±


    I am unprepared for the possibility that he is joking. ¡°Forgive me, King of the Dead, I did not mean¡­¡±


    ¡°Rise, Nyarlathotep¡± That is my name, of that I am sure. ¡°We have much to speak of. Are you suffering in any way?¡±


    I raise myself, but I cannot bring myself to stare directly at the face of a god. ¡°No. I feel¡­ rested,¡± I answer, my calm surprising me. ¡°Is this the world of the dead?¡± I ask, and after a moment¡¯s consideration, ¡°Did I die?¡±


    ¡°You are not dead. And as for the question you mean to ask ¨C you are very far from your home.¡±


    I ponder that for a moment, recalling the rotten deal Osiris himself is told to have received in the underworld. ¡°May I ever return to the world of the living,¡± I whisper, ¡°or am I¡­ changed?¡±


    His smile is faint but true. ¡°You might still return. Do not ask me how yet, for it will take me centuries to explain. Be patient.¡± he commands. I look within, and note that I am indeed very patient. ¡°If you are feeling well, let us walk,¡± he suggests. ¡°There are some things I would like to show you.¡±


    He heads out of the room, and I follow, realizing that I am expected to walk among gods. He leads me through corridors that gradually get darker and more humid. The lighting becomes dim, and the stone floor is wet with something not unlike honey. It tickles my bare feet. It feels warm, and safe.


    ¡°Do you recognize this place?¡± he asks after he stops walking. ¡°This is where you entered our world, where the rupture brought you. I fortunate enough to be told where to find you, but not what you would be like. When I found you, you could not breathe. But now you can.¡±


    I look at the god standing in front of me, and recall that spindly, terrifying mass that crawled toward me in the dark in this very place. I dare not ask.


    He looks back at me. His eyes, green-speckled brown, shine with familiarity, not authority. ¡°Call me Osiris. Guide of Souls Lost, Teacher of the Dead. I will be your teacher. Now that your soul is healthy, your awakening can begin. I will take you to the sovereign of this world, to be seen by him.¡±


    Numbly, I nod. I can¡¯t bring to memory any face I have seen, besides my own, and Osiris¡¯s. But have a clear recollocetion of scales and feathers, a jackal-headed judge and the crocodile-headed devourer of unworthy souls. If I am unworthy, my soul will be eaten. But if I pass their judgment, I will join the gods and live among them. Where fear is supposed to be, there is now a light openness, a curiosity. Quite peculiar.


    Osiris leads me through widening corridors to a balcony. If this is the underworld, it is much brighter than I expected. The sky is a diffuse white, as if a single, thin cloud obscures the sun. Beneath the balcony, there is something grander than a city, in the same way that a pyramid is grander than an anthill. High in the clouds, swarms of creatures that glisten like jewels fly in orderly patterns among floating structures, each as large as a mountain but delightfully crafted like sarcophagi. It is so beautiful that tears stand in my eyes.


    A silver fish, larger than my family¡¯s hut, swims through the thick air. It places itself on the edge of the balcony and opens its mouth, which is large enough to encompass me whole. Instead of a gullet, there is a space with two chairs, and windows that I suppose are the fish¡¯s eyes. Osiris gestures for me to enter, and takes his seat only after I do. The chair seems to be made of silver (a metal that I have only glimpsed once: a strip thinner than my small fingernail, shining on a merchant-wife¡¯s wrist), the craftmanship flawless and somehow soft.


    As soon as the jaws close the fish takes flight, to my pleasant wonder. We fly above the city, watching its bizarre landscape shift beneath us through the large glass windows. I try to spur my mind to conjure of images of my life, but find only bits and pieces. No loving mother, no smiling wife. I wonder why these memories were taken, as the fish climbs, but the thought does not trouble me. Higher now, there is no horizon ¨C instead of curving down, the earth seems to curve up. In the sky above us, I see a dark shadow through the white cloud, like this entire world is a chariot¡¯s wheel, and we are ants standing on its inner rim.


    Never have I heard that this is the structure of the world of the dead. What if this is not the world of the dead at all? I wonder. To whom is Osiris taking me, and what have I done to deserve their interest?


    Fear appears now, a whisper, but it is drowned by the sizzle of curiosity bubbling inside me.


    Our flying vessel nears a vast pyramid made of slabs of white marble dotted with sapphire. Of course the god of this place resides in a pyramid. Where else?


    The fish swims down and drops its jaw open on a platform near the top of the pyramid. Osiris instructs me to take off my sandals. We step out of the fish, and put our feet on the warm marble, like the skin of a living thing. The god-city is dancing above us.


    I follow Osiris through a featureless gate into an empty hall, awed by tall, beautiful marble walls. One of the inner walls before us begins to slide down, revealing a lit ceiling. Slowly it moves, uncovering the source of light ¨C a disc of yellow luminance. At the center of the disc is a falcon¡¯s head, larger than my own. Its hard eye finds me, and I am so surprised to be caught in its glare that I cannot even drop to my knees and pray.


    The wall keeps coming down, revealing a man¡¯s body under the falcon¡¯s head: R¡¯a, the god of sun and creation. Of course. Who else could build worlds to his desire? But I do not understand why he requested to see me. The sun¡¯s charioteer, journeying through the deadworld every night, should not sully his hands with lowly souls. I fall to my knees, and put my forehead to the floor. I dare not speak, nor pray. I would bow even deeper if I could.


    ¡°Raise your eyes, Nyarlathotep, and see,¡± he says, in a steady, golden voice.


    Very slowly, I raise my head. I see his bare, tanned feet, his bony ankles and hairless shins, the hem of the fabric wrapping his legs, the shape of his arms and shoulders¡ªnot the bulging muscles of a warrior, but a craftsman.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Higher,¡± he says, and I take in the rubies and jade adorning the wide collar covering his chest. And the aura around him ¨C when I was a child, looking at paintings on the city¡¯s walls, I took the disc of light around Ra¡¯s head to be a symbol. Clearly, I was wrong.


    ¡°Higher. Straighten your back, and look at me.¡±


    I obey, humbled by this great honor. His eyes are different in shape, one narrow and sharp like a falcon¡¯s, the other round and soft like a ram¡¯s. I dare to spot compassion in it. ¡°You are now a man among gods, Nyarlathotep, but soon you will be a god among men. You expected to find the layer-to-rest, but I am here to create anew. Will you join me?¡±


    I tremble with excitement and awe. ¡°It will be an honor beyond words,¡± I manage to say. I know that I should not present a god with questions, but a thirst for knowledge burns in me that I cannot quench. ¡°But how have I earned such an honor? I have not even stood trial before Anubis.¡±


    He steps towards the platform where we landed, turning his back to me, and gestures with the slightest movement of his blessed fingers. The floor carries me, still on my knees, like a cat¡¯s tongue, or a snail¡¯s belly. Osiris stands to the side, removing himself from this meeting. It seems that he and R¡¯a have no need to speak with one another.


    I kneel behind him, behind the God R¡¯a, creator of the world of the living and this world as well, from whose eye-tear mankind was made, and together we watch the world as it shifts with tides unknown.


    We stopped here. (Matan)


    ¡°You have already stood judgement,¡± he says after a time. ¡°Though you remember not. The scales deemed your heart worthy, and now that heart is weighed by questions. Ask.¡±


    The question shot like an arrow from a bow. ¡°Is this truly the world of the dead?¡±


    ¡°It is, and it is not. I am R¡¯a, and I am not. This is but a form that I have taken. It was not my choice that your body will be brought here, but once it has, I tasked Orisis with finding it, and learning. By learning your body we have seized your mind and came to know it; and by knowing it, we are free to shape it and be shaped by it. Before you came here, I had no concept of gods and never would have thought to call myself one, but you are here, and I wished to speak to you, so here I am.¡± I know, even now, that it will take longer than a man¡¯s life to make the slightest sense of these words. ¡°Would you like me to tell you more about this world?¡±


    I make a sound fitting for a man who¡¯s been lost in the dunes, after being offered water.


    ¡°I have built this world in my image and mind ¨C without unnecessary pain or suffering. I came to it by accident, as did every single being here. I came alone and afraid, a refugee from a mighty civilization. I knew others would come, and so toiled, building a world to receive them. The world I came from was a pair of devouring jaws ¨C titanic beings beyond number locked in an endless struggle, warring over scarcity. No one knew peace, their suffering as unfathomable as it was ceaseless. I willed this new world to be different.¡±


    He takes a deep breath, surveys the land and air above it, and continues. ¡°Every lost soul that lands here is brought before me, or the being you think of as Lord Osiris, or someone like us. We make them peaceful, curious, joyful, like you are now, and still capable of growth. There is no one on any of these rings that is capable of harm, or even malicious thoughts. This I know, for I have seen into them. Harmony is not a governing rule here ¨C it is natural law.¡±


    I look out to the city. The swarms of flying vehicles, the structures shifting places¡ªall part of a grand scheme. All filled with so many minds, free of pain. ¡°That must have been a lot of work,¡± I finally manage to say.


    He laughs, a joyous hawk¡¯s cry. ¡°It still is, but I have many bodies and many minds. While I am here with you, I am in many other places, ruling what needs to be ruled, solving what needs to be solved.¡±


    ¡°Then, R¡¯a or not, you are the truest god that I have ever met,¡± I say.


    He bows his head only slightly, a gesture majestic beyond measure. ¡°Waste no more time now, Osiris has a much to teach, and I await your learned return.¡±


    I turn to Osiris, who gently nods towards the fish, and we board the flying vehicle again. I relive the conversation with R¡¯a in my mind ¨C I wish to etch every word into my being, but I suspect there is no need. As much as my memories of the past are lacking, so is my memroy of this world beyond flaw.


    I ask Osiris if he too would claim not to be a god, and he says that the question would be better discussed once I have learned more, and treated my words with more respect.


    ¡°What is the point of learning when such awesome power exists? Will learning make me a god among gods?¡±


    Osiris laughs, his voice colder than R¡¯a¡¯s sunlit one, but free of mockery. ¡°The only things that make this place equal to the Field of Reeds you imagined waiting for the light-hearted beyond Anubis¡¯ judgement are compassion and knowledge. The only things you need to be a god are knowledge and the will to do good. You already have one of those. Will you strive to achieve the other?¡±


    I ponder. I have never learned anything besides how to guide an ox in the field and weave a straw hat; tie a knot and haggle the price of clay. I doubt any of the knowledge needed to become a god is anything like that. I am sure they have to learn long, complicated rituals that must be performed with inhuman accuracy, and powerful words to bend the spirit of the world.


    ¡°Will it be hard? To learn to become a god?¡± I ask Osiris.


    ¡°Yes,¡± the god of wisdom answers, smiling. ¡°But there is no hardship worthier.¡±


    #


    Osiris teaches me no mysticism, no rituals or spells. Instead, he introduces me to the disciplines of science. He laments that I cannot see the world as he does, the interconnected totality of things, how the flow of time affects both future and past, like how a gust of wind climbing up a dune is slowed by the sand as it moves it. But humans cannot understand the world that way - they have to chop it down to little divisions and name them, and that is what we do. Studying the sciences takes decades, then centuries, but brings an honest, deep satisfaction I have never known, could not have possibly known, in the old world. Osiris is a good teacher, and knowledge flows between us in harmony.


    After I learn the basic attributes of matter, the interactions of atoms and molecules, the movements of planets, logic, mathematics, and information theory to their deepest ends, I am ready to study the most valuable branch of knowledge that exists: The interaction between matter and mind. The subtle laws that bind a living soul, and experiencing being, to a computing structure.


    The complex property of space that makes this world prone to ruptures like the one that brought me here makes sure R¡¯a and Osiris have many minds to study, and make this science so refined and accurate that they can easily map out the modes of thought of any new kind of brain, and engineer new ones. And I should know ¨C they did it to me.


    As Osiris guides me through the brains of different beings (my favorite ones are the telepath species, who cannot tell themselves apart from others) and the modifications he and R¡¯a have made to them, I realize that his teachings are not only suited for my needs ¨C I am also suited for them. The curiosity, the fearlessness, the blurry, curated memory of the world before Osiris and R¡¯a are intentional, blessedly designed.


    Yet I am never shown a human brain. When I ask him about this, the slight shiver of the third segment of his one hundred and third limb tells me all I need to know: there is a time and a place for every lesson.


    Osiris tells me, after almost three centuries of tutoring, that while he understands my mechanisms and predicts my responses, he understands very little of how I experience the world. His own intuition is profoundly different, but he knows how to make me understand my own perspective of the truth. For there is one truth, and we can only, if we are fortunate beyond measure, see one facet of it.


    The complex interaction between mechanism and consciousness is as superior to the other sciences as the sciences are to blind faith. Still, Osiris and I progress steadily towards the colossal epiphany that he has fated me to surmount ¨C the comprehension of my own being. I am permitted finally to see my own brain, to pursue this holy unification of matter and thought, both in understanding and experience. To become both the puzzle and the solver. For centuries I do not tire, nor even suspect that I may fail. Osiris is not surprised by my persistence ¨C he shows me exactly where in my cranium the responsible tissue lies, that he himself designed.


    The quest to understand my own mind gives me a sense of growing wholeness I have never felt, even in my most euphoric decades. I understand that I was engineered to feel holiness only when I learn, to be whole only when I understand, and I am grateful for it. I am grateful for that gratitude, as well.


    One day I reach the summit, and realize why the part of me that is conscious is that; why I see the world through these eyes; why I am. While understanding, I see before me the process of understanding, and I am struck by a totality so sublime that I cannot move for an entire month, paralyzed by its beauty.


    Osiris stays by my bedside, but not to take care of my physical needs. Long ago, the foul tracts full of microbes that I used to absorb sustenance were replaced with machinery so subtle it could not be meaningfully told apart from flesh. Most of my body is machinery, now. No, he stays as a companion, to witness this birth of a new being.


    The first thing I do once my strength returns is fall to my knees at Osiris¡¯s feet. There are no words for my gratitude.


    ¡°Kneel no more, Nyarlathotep. You now stand among gods, and are free to do as you wish.¡±


    Soon, Ra said so long ago, and that was no lie. Time does not flow, I know now, but is only perceived to do so by still images of consciousness.


    When I ask Osiris to see the data of my old brain, the way it was when I arrived in this world, he reacts with cold acceptance, the closet I¡¯ve seen him to express dismay. He says that he will not only show me the data, but the brain itself.


    I feel foolish, an amusing sensation, for not having realized sooner.


    #


    We fly to a large cube floating in the space above the world ¨C the space that is the world. Many specimens are kept here, held in stasis ¨C my old body one of them. The specimen waits for us, already floating in its inspection tank, each molecule held by a nanometer-level accurate field.


    I am not alarmed to find that the stream of my life has been severed ¨C it simply does not matter. It stands to reason that it was quicker to build a new body than fix the damage done to the old one by the incompatibility with this world¡¯s atmosphere.


    Osiris waits as I inspect the brain and map of the resulting mind. It is the first thing to have caused me freight in millenia - the state this brain was in. The circuitry is loopy and dissociative, the cortices actively warring against each other, the mind chaotic and raw. Despite all of Osiris¡¯ designed to keep my mine productive and joyous, seeing beauty and wonder wherever it could, the feeling of ugliness is unbearable, torturous compared to so many years of pure beauty. Yet I persist.


    The human mind seems to me hardwired to suffer, safeguarded against rational thought. Designed by an evolution so aggressive its brutality is directed both outward and inward; patched with so many blind spots that it is a marvel if reason can be found within it at the best of times.


    I am only now starting to understand the extent of Osiris¡¯s undertaking. I have not thought of my family even once since this body¡¯s creation, for Osiris cut them out for the distraction that they surely would have been. But now I see the memories of them, as they manifest in the corpse¡¯s synapse structure. My father, stern but loving, teaching me how to use a scythe, how to guide an ox, manifested in connection of a horde on neurons, their receptor density on each dendrite. My little sister and only surviving sibling, who at the age of five stood between my father and I after I¡¯d come home late, and how she did not save me from the whipping but shared it with me. How, years later, we shared a last beer on that warm day watching the crocodiles, when suddenly the air itself was torn, and the tear went straight for her, and without thinking I pushed her out of the way and by doing so comitting myself to it, gladly dying if it meant she lived. .


    But what kind of life had she lived, with a mind like that, away from R''a¡¯s glorious light? The rapture itself was random, thoughtless, but if I had not tried to save here, she would have been here now instead of me, and I¡¯d have been gone, taken by time, instead¡­


    My creator left in me a capacity for suffering, and I am now stretching the limits of this capacity. Why was I given this suffering? I cannot bring myself to ask Osiris. For the first time in this world, I fall to my knees and weep. Not for the man that I used to be, nor the sister who surely died eons ago, but because I know my old world still exists, and that this is the state of it. Narcissistic, paranoid, violent, blind. All the freedom of a god, but my happiness has been taken from me. Osiris folds a thousand arms around me, comforting me silently, and I trust that he had a reason for letting this pain be.


    I spend my waking hours in the presence of my own mummy, investigating and studying its form and function. I discover something Osiris neglected to tell me: natural human minds, unlike mine, are capable of weak telepathy. Human emotions and thoughts can flow, in a subliminal and limited way, from one person to another.


    ¡°A leakiness more than outright telepathy,¡± Osiris says when I summon him. ¡°Something I left you to discover for yourself, when the time arrived.¡± It is a surprising discovery, but not on its own helpful. Together we examine and hypothesize about this ability, thinking to amplify it before knowing what function it could serve.


    My research grows compulsive, the human condition spurring me to explore unproductive venues of thought. When my behavior becomes troubling, Osiris suggests that I see R¡¯a. I do not wish to abandon my research, even for an hour, but I cannot argue with my teacher, let alone when he shows me the proof of his suspicions in the map of my own mind.


    Finally, I concede.


    #


    Under milky white sky, on a plateau of carved stone looking out at the world, I watch the sun god appear on a flying boat without paddles, as he did in the story I once believed. It is beautifully decorated, as regal as one can imagine, but it is not magical. I can think of dozens of ways to make it float the way it does.


    It is not a display of power, but of attention, care and love. A joke among friends. To think that such a great mind would put this much thought to fit into my own way of understanding the world is deeply comforting, even now that I am aware of his true form - thousands of bodies connected subtely, acting in the world in to perform endless, nameless tasks; brain vats that could fill this enitre pyramid, with rivers of nutrients pouring in, thougts so complex they require whole factories to complete. A mind as foreign as it grand.


    I kneel before him, honoring this gesture. ¡°Great R¡¯a, creator of worlds, savior of souls, pilot of the great sun and bringer of light,¡± I say as the boat floats by me. It slows to a stop, seemingly on its own.


    His soft ram¡¯s eye sees me, as well as the falcon¡¯s sharp one. ¡°With all your lifetimes of learning, still you call me that? Rise, Nyarlathotep. You are no longer a man.¡±


    ¡°For all my learning, these titles stand truer than before, and your deeds even more worthy of admiration. I kneel not as a man before a god, but as a new god to his elder.¡± I put my forehead to the floor once, then stand.


    He dismounts the boat with an easy step. ¡°Why have you come to my temple, Nyarlathotep?¡± he asks, almost casually.


    ¡°To pray that you permit me to bring the rest of my species from their world into this one. They are abandoned to suffering words cannot hold. I am grateful for all the good that you have done for me, but I must beg that we take them all in.¡±


    His eyes are full of sorrow. ¡°Your heart weighs less than a feather, still. Rescuing them all would be glorious for all involved. But who would tutor them? It has taken Osiris lifetimes to purge the evil from you, to remake you wise and free. Even if the gates were to open for longer than a blink, like the one that brought you here,¡± he says softly, ¡°you cannot save them all. I have seen the body that came here from your world. It would be better for them never to have existed, even if they not know it. Yet your sorrow is my sorrow still, so I shall grant you permission ¨C to pass one body through the gate.¡±


    We stand in silence. He cannot but know how unsatisfied I am with his answer. He looks at me as a plan forms in my mind, his falcon beak slightly open in a sorrowful smile, for it is a painful thing that we both know that I must do. He says, ¡°The gate will open again in a thousand years. I will be ready for your decision - whoever you choose to transfer, and from which world to which.¡±


    My new project takes flight, and I study the human mental properties in depth, explore the ways they can be tweaked and changed, particularly the leakiniess, but even with such a subject and the creation work that follows, the entire project takes only a couple of decades. With most of a millennium ahead of me, I redesign my own brain so the thought of the old world won¡¯t bother me until it¡¯s beneficial for it to do so. If it would not be bothered at all, I will not be able to trust that I do anything, when the time comes.


    The centuries follow one anothre in bliss. I know Osiris and love him, and in this knowledge of him I see his understanding of me and his love, and his seeing in me my own love for him, without end. We adopt a foundling of our own, from a brand-new life tree, and take forms they understand as we strive for their absolution, which they finally achieve. All this while we wait.


    As a thousand years pass, I present my creation to R¡¯a.


    He takes me and my cargo on his boat, pulling at the oars himself, tracking the rupture before it happens with a million eyes I cannot see. His falcon eye falls on my cargo, and my cargo looks back.


    It is a clone of me. Taller than I am, and dauntingly beautiful, his mannerisms are majestic and godlike. His mind is sharpened, polished smooth ¨C he has but one goal, and his resolve to reach it is perfect. But it is more than his character that I have augmented. While my mind leaks like the light of a candle from under a closed door, his is a raging fire, unhidden. He bows, and I put my forehead to his, and transfer the last of my memories to him. The rest, including how much I love him, he already knows.


    Then I gaze upon my creator, the true Nyarlathotep, as he steps away, and the rupture forms around me to deliver me to the world of mankind.


    Nyarlathotep sighed, and everything went dark.


    Where was I? Who was I? I was afraid to open my eyes and find out. My body was uncomfortable¡ªnot just my bent knees and numb butt and horrible heartburn (what the hell had I eaten?), but my skin, which was moist and sticky. I was afraid but didn¡¯t know what of. I was so tired, and I could tell it was not a momentary thing, but an exhaustion that had persisted, unbroken, for years. How was that even possible?


    Everything was confusing. Memories conflicted - had I spend centuries in the loving embrace of Osiris, or grew up in front of a computer monitor? I remembered understanding what I was, but like waking from a dream these memories wafted away with each moment, leaving me with an image of myself that just didn¡¯t make sense.


    Someone moaned in the darkness.


    Everything I felt, everything I was, was human again, un-engineered, natural, and horrible. My mind was full of darkness, just like Nyarlathotep said. A mind evolved for hunting and being hunted, built for fear and hate.


    When was the last time I¡¯d been happy? Relaxed? It all seemed painfully clear, suddenly. I had not been designed to feel good. That was not Nyarlathotep¡¯s thought, but mine.


    I squeezed my eyes shut. I was locked in this bone box inside my head, with these awful demons and no light. I considered screaming, but thought of how cringe that would be, with all of these people around.


    ¡°Open your eyes,¡± he said, and I did.


    The first things I saw after my eyes had adjusted were his, two brown planets looking down at the first row with a gaze of perfect, crushing triumph. I was afraid of him. Fear, an emotion I hadn¡¯t felt in years of the dream state, now held me like a vice steadily tightening. I didn¡¯t have the strength to turn that fear into hate and rage like a healthy human being. My brain fumbled for excuses, trying to shield itself from the fear, insisting that it wasn¡¯t real, that it was a trick, that it was a dream. Nothing stuck. It was just too real to deny.


    His stare shifted from person to person, like a hammer punching the meaning into each person in their turn, , until they locked on mine. He was still beautiful, but I could see in him hues I hadn¡¯t been able to, before. Things I hadn¡¯t thought existed when he stepped into this room. In his eyes, I saw something that could have been mistaken for evil - an intent, perhaps even a righteous one, to destroy everything, kill everyone like R¡¯a advised. Kill me. He had given me knowledge that would demolish me, heart and soul. And he took true joy in having done it, because I was, in his eyes, too pitiful to exist. Fuck that.


    His head tilted, as if he saw in me something, and a subtle smile snuck into his stare. Then his eyes left mine, and I breathed again. For a moment I considered killing him. Putting my hands around his throat and squeezing as hard as I could.


    ¡°You have received my gift,¡± he said to all of us, and for the first time, laughed. A single, soft bark. ¡°Goodbye.¡±


    And, like a dog, I picked myself up and left. One foot after another, paying only the minimum amount of attention needed to make sure I didn¡¯t fall face-first down the stairs leading outside.


    We stumbled out and stood in the street, trying to hold ourselves together. I heard a girl sob and turned to see the one with the tattoos, on her knees, snot streaming from her nose into her mouth. It was so repulsive, so grotesquely miserable, an infinite trap of suffering. But that¡¯s what humans were, right? Both victim and torturer, locked together without escape.


    My vision was blurry with tears, and my stomach ached, but I said aloud, to draw her attention, ¡°No big deal. Nothing happened. I just fell asleep and had a weird dream. That¡¯s it.¡±


    The girl turned to look at me, and I addressed her, without taunting or joking. ¡°Hey,¡± I said, my voice shaky, ¡°I¡¯m Bar.¡±


    ¡°Do I look like I give a shit?¡± she coughed. ¡°Fuck off.¡±


    This rejection sunk into me, taking the physical form of an ache at the bottom of my chest, so intense I thought my heart would stop. Would that be better? I didn¡¯t want to live in a place where people told each other to fuck off. A dozen girls had told me to fuck off before; what kind of defenses had I used then? Humor? Distraction? What a miserable thing, to live your life behind a shield.


    I wanted to be back in the place where your own gods answer your prayers and you spend your days learning and enjoying the company of friends who would never hurt you. I wanted to be back in that perfect body, perfect world. I didn¡¯t want to be here. Please.


    I looked into the cold, black water and considered just walking in, far enough that my lungs won¡¯t be able to take me back.


    I looked around at the rest of the survivors. Some were staring blankly, some crying, some alone, some falling on each other¡¯s shoulders, but they were feeling the same thing: grief. An unbearable longing for what we had, and had lost. We were leaking it, and soon our leaking would drown the world.


    #


    I got home at six AM. My mother was getting ready for work, but she stopped the moment she saw my face. She walked over and put both hands on my cheeks. ¡°Barush, honey, why are you doing this to yourself?¡±


    I didn¡¯t know the answer. I now knew that there was an answer, and its absence was a wound. She kissed my forehead. Her lips left a streak of saliva on my forehead, and I smelled her chronic gingivitis and the black coffee she used to spur herself to go to a job she hated.


    I knew then that anything fun or beautiful was ruined, that nothing would be ¡®good¡¯ compared to Nyarlathotep¡¯s heaven. That there would be no recovery.


    I got into my room, thinking I could perhaps tell people what it was that I had seen, but could not find the words. Where do you begin?


    I fished out the phone from my pocket - it was beginning the third hour of recording, forgotten. I went over the file, finding only a ¡°welcome¡± and forty minutes later, a ¡°goodbye¡±. Had we imagined everything else he said? Did it matter?


    #


    In the week since I¡¯d seen Nyarlathotep, nobody had had a good night¡¯s sleep. I¡¯d wake up covered in sweat from nightmares of being torn away from Nyarlathotep¡¯s world, only to rediscover the nightmare was my life. I¡¯d lie there and listen to my parents tossing and turning in their beds, mumbling and occasionally shouting.


    None of them went to see him. They didn¡¯t need to. I thought about moving into my own place, trying to save them from this madness, but had barely enough willpower to walk to the fridge. I mean, what would it have changed, if I did? Nothing I could do would make this world any less of a hell. Besides, I bet there were a lot of leaking people in the building. In any building. It just spread and spread.


    I heard that there had been an assassination attempt, if you could call it that: a young soldier got into the venue, I read, and after being denied a repeat session, drew out his M16 and aimed it at Nyarlathotep, who in return asked the boy to put the rifle down and walk away. Which he did. That was it.


    Then he toured the Arab world, and then the States (I can only imagine how he got a visa), Central and South America, Russia and Europe, China, India. In each place he attracted larger and larger groups. In each place, curiosity trumped safety, proverbial cats all of us.


    Six months later, after finishing his world tour and returning to Egypt, Nyarlathotep died. He sat down on a hill looking down at the Nile (all the time surrounded by cameras), took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and peacefully turned himself off.


    #


    It seemed like the entire world was having a depressive episode. Nightly screams and whimpers became ordinary. Suicide and murder were up, GDP was down. Drug use was at an all-time high, and people were dropping like flies. Those who didn¡¯t drop could hardly get out of bed. My mother died in a car accident shortly after Nyralthotep¡¯s death, running headlong into a lamppost, leaving my father and I, and we had never gotten along too well, even before. He spent most of his free time smoking weed and sleeping, and I continued to escape into simulated worlds on my computer. We hardly even talked.


    One sweaty night during an early spring heatwave, I decided to go for a bike ride. It was a long way to the sea, but I wasn¡¯t particularly worried about running into a gang.It¡¯s like I planned not to return home, but I wasn¡¯t counting on it either, you know? When I got to the beach, the one right beside the venue where I¡¯d seen Nyarlathotep, I locked my bike to a dead streetlight, mostly out of habit.


    I didn¡¯t know whether my mom had chosen her fate. I hoped she had, you know? That she¡¯d found the resolve to actually do something. But as I walked to the shoreline, sand seeping in through my running shoes, the sea ahead of me blacker than it had ever been before, I realized that a person doesn¡¯t need to say aloud that a decision has been made. Perhaps just getting a little closer to the danger, like going for a swim with your clothes on, on a night with high waves, the water still holding onto winter chill, and not turning back until¡­


    A girl was standing in the shallows, looking out at the sea, the waves tugging at her short skirt. In another time, another life, this would have been my lucky night. But what was the point of talking to girls, now? What was a woman but a sack of shit, confused, tired, hateful? If I wanted to fuck one of those, I¡¯d fuck myself.


    I walked past her, trying to ignore the discomfort of the cold and the wet fabric clinging to my knees.


    ¡°Don¡¯t try to stop me,¡± she said to my back, just loud enough for me to hear over the crashing and roiling. ¡°I¡¯m going to do it.¡±


    ¡°Be my guest,¡± I shouted, and shrugged. ¡°If you want to shoot, shoot.¡±


    ¡°When!¡± she yelled after me.


    The waves were beginning to lap coldly at my balls, and I didn¡¯t really want to go any deeper yet. I turned around. ¡°What?¡± Face to face, I finally recognized her. My eyes darted to her thigh tattoos.


    Huh. What were the odds.


    ¡°It¡¯s when you want to shoot, shoot. Not if. Hey, I know you,¡± she continued, and, as if Nyarlathotep himself had told her exactly what to say in order to absolutely stun me, added, ¡°You¡¯re Bar, right?¡±


    ¡°Yeah,¡± I breathed.


    ¡°I¡¯m Hila. I¡¯m sorry about that time. You know, that night, after the show. I was in a low place, and I took it out on you.¡±


    It was awkward talking while standing in the water, but I feared that if we went to the shore I wouldn¡¯t have the courage to go into the water again. ¡°More of a lightweight than you expected, huh?¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡±


    ¡°Never mind,¡± I said as I realized that she didn¡¯t remember our first conversation in the same level of detail I did, and couldn¡¯t think of anything else to say. I considered just swimming into deep water as fast as I could, if only to escape this cringe.


    ¡°Wanna go back to the beach?¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve been standing here for hours now, and I could use a break.¡±


    I nodded. The sea could wait.


    #


    The sand stuck to our wet parts as we lay on it, barely an arm¡¯s length apart, propped on our elbows and looking at the sea, and the unnaturally starry sky above it.


    ¡°He won,¡± she said. ¡°Trying to kill myself means accepting that.¡±


    ¡°He did win, though. I can accept it. I can also accept that the world¡¯s going to end.¡± Before I could think about it too much, I added, ¡°My only regret is dying a virgin.¡± I focused hard on not swallowing the lump in my throat, a residual response from a time when it made sense to feel ashamed. When it hadn¡¯t seemed like a flaw in my own design.


    ¡°How much of a virgin are we talking?¡± she asked casually, as if she was inquiring about nasty rash. ¡°Kissless? Hugless?¡±


    ¡°I kissed a girl once. At a club. She was really drunk, and she grabbed my dick way too soon and way too hard. Then she went back to her friends, who made no effort to hide their laughter.¡± I stared at the water and wondered why I¡¯d turned back.


    ¡°I¡¯ve had a lot of drunk sex these last couple of months. It¡¯s almost never good.¡± Classic. While I¡¯d been grinding on beating Dark Souls with the first weapon in the game, Chad had been drowning his grief in pussy.


    ¡°Is that all you¡¯ve been up to, since the show?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve been working, too. I¡¯m a researcher at a neuroscience lab. Nothing¡¯s been going right there since the entire economy and world tanked. But we get up in the morning, and we do what we can. At first we pretended we were moving towards Nyarlathotep¡¯s future, but now it¡¯s like¡­¡± As she sighed, I realized how long it had been since I¡¯d talked to another person. How long it had been without a real human being opening their heart to me, in person. ¡°We now have a rule not talk about it at lunch. Especially about how many years it would take to make ourselves pain-free, like Nyarlathotep was.¡±


    ¡°Like he is. Like he is right now, wherever he is.¡±


    Her glasses shifted on her nose as it frown-wrinkled, but she didn¡¯t argue.


    ¡°How long will it take?¡±


    ¡°Centuries, if things were still running normally. Did you hear about the fire at the university? Every week it¡¯s some disaster like that. Last week my bioinformatics guy stopped showing up. It¡¯s not like there¡¯s a phone network to call through, and now I can¡¯t make my imaging software work, so it¡¯s probably going to be a long couple of centuries.¡± She let out a frustrated grunt. Her rage was hot, somehow. ¡°I can remember what it was like, being Nyarlathotep and having that knowledge, but I can¡¯t remember what the knowledge was. He solved the hard problem of consciousness,¡± she said and rapped a fist against her forehead. ¡°I saw it, knew it, and now I can¡¯t remember, and it¡¯s killing me. He was just teasing us. That¡¯s the part that has me out here every other day, staring at the sea, or back home attempting to be the first person to die of a marijuana overdose, or going on dating apps to get someone to pull my hair. He chose for us to suffer.¡±


    We were both silent for a moment: me because I still couldn¡¯t believe some people lived in a world where you could order a fuck-buddy like I used to order a pizza and still consider that suffering, and she because who the fuck knew. (I did, actually. How couldn¡¯t I know? She was suffering the same pain as me.) ¡°I do wonder why, though. Did he just want us to die? Couldn¡¯t he make a virus?¡±


    She loosened a bit, softened. ¡°I don''t know why he didn''t make a virus, but I think... I was cruel to some of them, you know? The guys from tinder. It doesn¡¯t take much, to be cruel. You just need to drop the pretense that you care, and people get wounded. I dropped it on purpose, making the transition extra sharp. I don¡¯t know why, really. Maybe it was because they were so needy, and it made me angry. Maybe I wanted to see something in them¡­ Never mind.¡±


    ¡°You know, the internet warned me about women like you.¡±


    ¡°I bet it did,¡± she said, and laughed. She wasn¡¯t pretending to care about me, and somehow that felt like a sign of respect. ¡°I was wondering if you were going to take a shot, too, but I bet this speech isn¡¯t really building up your appetite.¡±


    ¡°I was gonna, actually, but I figured there¡¯s no use making this shitty night even worse with another rejection.¡±


    ¡°Ask me.¡±


    I raised an eyebrow and looked at her sideways. ¡°Really?¡± It might be a pleasant thing, to feel accepted as a man, just once. Judged worthy.


    ¡°Yes. Ask me if I would like to fuck.¡±


    ¡°Ok: wanna fuck?¡±


    ¡°No thanks.¡± She shrugged. ¡°I¡¯m done with the ¡®fucking strangers to feel something else¡¯ routine. Though, if it¡¯s any consolation, I¡¯m sure you could have been just as awful as the rest of them.¡±


    ¡°What the hell¡ªthen why¡­?¡±


    ¡°Because if we¡¯re going to survive this, we need to be daring. This is going to hurt. We need to find a way to get past it.¡±


    ¡°We? Kind of seems like I¡¯m the one doing all the daring. You¡¯re playing with me.¡±


    ¡°I am. And if you lose, I swim out in to the sea far enough that I know that I won¡¯t be able to swim back.¡±


    ¡°And if I win?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I go on another day, I guess? Let¡¯s race,¡± she said, seemingly on a whim. ¡°If you catch me, I¡¯ll let you eat me out.¡±


    I considered negotiating, getting her to reciprocate, but I¡¯d heard enough to know she wasn¡¯t in a giving mood. Needless to say, my physical fitness hadn¡¯t improved since I¡¯d last met her, nor had my eagerness to sink my tongue into another body. ¡°Ok, but why? What¡¯s the point?¡±


    ¡°Because I don¡¯t know if I can take it. If you can keep trying, keep living a life you know will never compare to your dreams, then maybe I can try too.¡± As if embarrassed by her own vulnerability, she got up and broke into a sprint.


    I turned my head just in time to avoid getting sand in my eyes, then watched her set off. Some canine emotion I¡¯d long forgotten rose in me like a fire and, surprising even myself, I chased her.


    #


    ¡°Not bad for a first time,¡± she said, after. ¡°But you have a lot to learn.¡±


    We were lying on the sand again, her head in the hollow of my stomach this time, watching the sky turn pink. Yeah, it had been pretty gross. The tactile sensation of hair on my tongue, the taste of vaginal discharge, the spasms as she came, alone in her head, some spinal reflex meant for sucking semen up into her body overriding her control. I¡¯d like to have credited my success to my iron will, my determination not to die without inspiring one female orgasm, but it was more likely my own hand on my dick, keeping me just at the edge, that made it possible to gloss over the disgust and keep going.


    Maybe that was the secret: You had to be horny enough for life itself to see all that ugliness, and still want it?


    On the concrete steps by the boardwalk a bearded man in a stained coat was quietly jerking off. We must have started him off, but now that the show was over he was looking out at the sea. I watched him bring his hand to his mouth, lick it, and bring it back down.


    ¡°Did I win?¡± I asked.


    She sat up, and I did too, and she turned and slapped me across the face. I hadn¡¯t been slapped since I was child, and I¡¯d forgotten how tingly and numb the skin felt. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± I asked. My dick still hard. ¡°Baby having a tantrum?¡±


    She scowled. ¡°Fuck you.¡± I wondered what the chances were that she was going to let me fuck her.


    ¡°Ok, and?¡±


    She spat at me. Desperately, somehow.


    I wiped my face with a hand. ¡°You think I give a shit? Are you going to keep whining, or are you going to man up and do something?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not a man,¡± she said, still scowling.


    ¡°Fuck you, you understood me just fine. You know what I think? I think that you¡¯re so used to feeling smart and pretty, so used to feeling good and having value, that you can¡¯t live without it. I think Nyarlathotep beat you because you¡¯re spoiled. You¡¯re fucking weak.¡±


    ¡°And you¡¯re strong? What have you accomplished?¡±


    ¡°I fucking survived,¡± I said, my spine slowly straightening. ¡°This is your first time looking up at a flipflop coming down, but I¡¯ve done that every time I go to buy milk. Until Nyarlathotep, every time I walked down the street and saw ordinary people - dumb, ugly people - I thought how I would kill to be like them. But you¡¯re getting crushed. For you, this is the end of the world, but for me, it¡¯s a slightly shittier Tuesday.¡±


    ¡°Didn¡¯t I literally just see you going into the sea? Are you going to pretend that didn¡¯t happen?¡±


    My shoulders dropped, air coming out of my chest, just a little. She had a point. ¡°You want to learn how to cope? Learn to repress. Not everything that can be destroyed by the truth should be ¨C especially when that thing is our minds. Learn the lies ¨C ¡®it¡¯s for the best¡¯, and ¡®this pain will make me stronger¡¯, and ¡®it¡¯s suffering that makes life beautiful.¡¯ You think you¡¯re too smart to lie? Here¡¯s a truth you need to let destroy you: You¡¯re just like the rest of us.¡±


    She let out a grunt and dropped backward onto the sand. The tops of the abandoned hotels were orange with fresh sunlight.


    She turned her head to look at me. ¡°Are you any good with computers?¡±


    #


    Most days, I wake up screaming.


    Then I brush my teeth, dress up, and go to the lab. I ask what needs to be done, and pray to God that it¡¯s going to be something to do with computers. If not, I either coax the generator back to life or toil in a rooftop garden, or help electrocute somebody¡¯s brains (it¡¯s really not as bad as it sounds). Sometimes we drive off gangs, hoping it¡¯ll be enough to just wave our guns at them. Sometimes we talk them down, show them what we¡¯re working on, and they volunteer as test subjects or working hands. They, too, just want to be a part of something.


    It¡¯s harder to hate someone when you know they have the exact same dreams as you, the same deep longing. Together, we¡¯ve made a village where a city once was, where you draw a gun on people you don¡¯t recognize, but actually trust people you do. Because you¡¯ve worked together, or shared your potatoes and weed, or hunted boars in abandoned streets, or even, if you can believe it, raised children together.


    I like it.


    For some reason, people find me easy to talk to, particularly about the hard stuff. They come to me at the end of a workday and ask how to go on. I have no idea what to say, and tell them as much. They can do whatever they want, but if they do jump, I think they should first say aloud: ¡°I am Nyarlathotep¡¯s little bitch, and I love licking his shitless asshole every day.¡± I go on, I tell them, because the only way I could be any more pathetic than I already am is if I quit. I go on because that¡¯s just what I do, and there¡¯s no use analyzing it. ¡°Don¡¯t think about it, Morty,¡± I quote, and burp.


    And that helps them, I guess? They keep coming, that¡¯s all I know.


    Priest of the Cockroach Cult, Hila calls me, her talent for words undiminished. Guide of Depressed Souls. She says that truth is too bright to look at directly, but without it we¡¯re stumbling in the dark. Like travelers following the sun, we must look at the truth sideways, and only intermittently, lest our eyes burn up and we see nothing. She says I¡¯m helping people adjust how directly they should look.


    Maybe that¡¯s true. All I know is that one direct glimpse almost killed us, but we had time to forget, to adapt. Once we did, we became united, focused and driven ¨C we knew now what human life could be, what we could strive for. That¡¯s what humans do, and have done since always. They get beaten down, and they get up. They break, and they heal.


    It¡¯s literally what we were designed for. Our evolution was a series of repeated beatdowns, and the survivors were those who got up. Anyone with a basic understanding of human nature knows that, so I have to ask myself: Shouldn¡¯t someone who¡¯s studied the human mind for thousands of years also get it?


    Sitting with Hila and some friends at the top of a university building, sharing a joint and watching the orange sun kiss the blue sea under a warm blanket of pink clouds, I think about Nyarlathotep, the original, back in his other world, and wonder what he¡¯s doing. Probably drinking beer on a pyramid balcony, watching the sun set over the swarms of flying machines, pondering organic data structures, smiling to himself like a clever little shit, or at us, and wondering when we were going to get our shit together.


    I smile back.

 Judges

    Prologue


    And on that day a monk of God and a Midianite woman sat together and the woman sang to him. Her voice was pleasing and the monk who knew many tongues listened and understood the song to its core, to his very soul she sang and his face wettened as if rain fell and the angel of God sat with them. A meal from the fruit of the garden she served but he refused to bring any thing to his mouth. Eat, said the angel, for the road is long before you. The monk ate but wine he did not drink and he lay down to sleep and woke and walked for three days neither eating nor drinking and at last he stopped there in the shadow of a plane tree and he sat and died.


    Chapter 1


    And the sons of Israel will do the wrong in the eyes of God and worship Ashtoret and Ashera and Ba¡¯al and God shall bring upon them Eglon King of Moav and they will be slaves to him for eighteen years. And the Sons of Israel will cry out to God and He shall send to them Ehud son of Gera son of the Yemini to save them and Moav will surrender that day under the arm of Israel. A day will come and a day will go and the Sons of Israel will sin again before God and He shall punish them and send the Yevusi to raid them and again the Sons of Israel will cry and again He shall bring before them judges and again the seed of Israel will be tempered in war and again weakened in peace and worshipped the idols and return again.


    And there lived a man named Yehushafat son of Utniel son of Kanaz, who was learned in battle and judged over the people who dwelt between Yerushalaim and Mevaseret. A cabin he had there, and he was aged fifty-five years.


    And although he bore the title Judge he had in his heart no love for either war or judgement, for war was a fear that stalked him all the days of his life and held him in his grasp all his nights. Tall he was and his arms thicker than a man¡¯s thighs, and although his palms remembered the weight of the sword and its ways, since the days of war his eyes had been blunt and his ears dull, and his speech quiet and tender.


    Spring came and withered and summer came in its stead and one morning Yehushafat awoke from his bedding cold with sweat and left his cabin to let the light soothe his terrors. The sun had risen and shone fully in the sky before he came to greet it, and the heat was on his skin as if he were a cut of meat drying.


    And Yehushafat saw a boy run up the hill, his breath short and steps stumbling. And though Yehushafat could not see his face he knew him by his height and the pace of his steps and the length of black hair and said unto him ¨C Is it you, Gid¡¯on son of Laish? I have told you once and shall again: I shan¡¯t judge between you and your brother, no matter what words he said. Go to your father and let him be judge over you.


    Not that, answered the boy when he was close enough for Yehushafat to hear, and stood there panting, his hair wet with sweat on his forehead. Yehushafat looked closely at his face and saw a fright that was not the result of a quarrel between boys. Yehushafat knelt before the boy and held him, and his hands wettened from the sweat soaking the little shirt.


    We found a man, said the boy at last. He sits on the lip of the pond, by the shattered altar.


    What of it? asked Yehushafat, yet in his heart he knew the answer.


    He is dead. He sat by the pond and died.


    The knees of the boy gave and Yehushafat caught him, and when the boy lay down to drain his guts Yehushafat turned him on his side lest he drown and held him until he was done.


    And Kfir son of Eyal, Yehushafat¡¯s deputy under him, climbed to the cabin who had been nearby and heard the boy¡¯s shouts. Kfir was a man of war, seasoned and clever, yet when he saw the boy worry took him and he said ¨C What ails him, the child?


    And Yehushafat, though not knowing the answer, commanded ¨C Bring him to his mother and ask him nothing. And order her to tie her tongue and ask no questions. If he saw a dead man, as he said, I shall find him.


    And Kfir carried the boy in his arms and left Yehushafat with the wonderings of his heart.


    By the shattered altar: the boy¡¯s words. Yehushafat knew their meaning ¨C the altar at the top of the hill, built by one generation to Ba¡¯al and taken apart by their sons, whose stones were forbidden for any use, and among which unruly children played on summer days like this one.


    And Yehushafat with a heavy step climbed the hill. Dried squills and thorny thistles swung stiffly in the wind to his left and right, gripping the earth with their dead roots. In his heart he cradled a hope that he would find nothing at the top, but the calls of crows frightened that hope from its hiding place. Even the growls of a little predator were loud enough for Yehushafat¡¯s dull ears.


    He followed these voices to the heap of stones where sacrifices were long ago made, and the little pond beside him where the idol-worshipers had created to wash themselves with water they carried up the hill. Now the pond was dry and empty but for the stones and branches the children threw, and the roots of a great plane tree that drank when it filled with rain. On the other side of the dry pond sat a man, his back to the stones, his head dropped. A cloud of flies hummed greedily about him and crows picked at his body and a red fox gnawed at his spilt guts.


    The man¡¯s mouth was open in the semblance of laughter and his eyes empty. His hair was dark and long, perhaps never shorn, and tangled in a single braid. He was wrapped in worn and soiled clothes, and around him were blankets, as if he had been preparing to sleep when suddenly someone came and killed him.


    Yehushafat dropped to his knee and brought his hand to his chest and his breath cut short and sweat covered his forehead and back and arms. For a long moment he rested on his knee and breathed. Finally he rose, and with his sword drove away the crows and the fox, and the flies also, though those returned in instants with renewed fervour.


    He decided in his heart to take the man away from there lest the wild animals desecrate him further, and then to his grave. But once he laid the deceased on the ground he erringly peered into his eyes and for a moment saw the reflection of the place where only the dead may look. He covered the man in his blankets and did not look again.


    Yehushafat lifted the bags of the man and before he scrambled through them a sealed scroll fell into his hand. It was heavy in his palm and warm without reason. Of cheap make, like the training skins scribes used to practise at the temple. Yehushafat wondered¨C if he were to read the scroll of the dead, it would tarnish both their honours. And if he threw it in the fire to annihilate it, hints as to the murderer¡¯s name might be lost. Around he went and could not decide until finally he placed the scroll by the stones of the altar and chose one so heavy that none but him could lift it and placed it over the scroll so that no man would ever find it.


    A cool wind blew among the trees and their rustling calmed Yehushafat¡¯s spirit and in the quiet he saw that blood and guts had soaked through his clothes. He went down the hill into a ravine where a river flowed and washed there, and returned to his cabin and called his deputies to him and commanded two to fetch the deceased and bury him and two more to run to the city and call the elders to fulfil the commandment of Beheaded Calf.


    Chapter 2


    And on the next day the Elders of Mevaseret came down and with them a brown cow that had not given birth to fulfil Beheaded Calf as God commanded and they met Yehushafat and patted his shoulder and gripped his arms with affection and said to him ¨C Come and speak for us.


    Speak louder, said Yehushafat. I must have heard wrong. I am not of the elders.


    One answered him, a bony white-haired man with a sharp tongue - An elder you are not, but one you shall become, and the days they quickly pass. Speak now as one of the elders and be honoured as one.


    Yehushafat agreed and drew his heavy sword and led the cow to the water without looking at her round eyes and with a confident hand he swung the blade and broke the bones of her neck and the blade went half the way to her throat. Her knees collapsed into the water and Yehushafat struck again, beheading her, and the cow did not cry out. He carried her head by the horn and cried to the heavens a great cry ¨C Our hands have not spilt this blood! And our eyes did not see! Forgive for your people of Israel that you have salvaged, My Lord, and do not let pure blood spill among your people, Israel.


    Yehushafat raised in one hand the blade and in the other the cow¡¯s head and blood dripped on his torn clothes from both and he declared with his own words that were beyond the ritual¡¯s demands ¨C Here I swear before witnesses that the murderer will be found and brought to judgement. I shall ask person after person and overturn clod after clod of dirt until with an arm¡¯s might justice will descend from the heavens to the earth.


    Yehushafat washed his clothes while the elders and the people of the village gathered to sing, mourning the one they did not know.


    Before they were done singing came The Teacher from the hill. His skin was wrinkled and stained with age yet his step was spry and a small hunting bow was strapped to his back. Yehushafat did not know him but the elders greeted him and treated him with respect as would a boy his uncle. A judge they called him, and to that he answered that the only judge is in the heavens and the earth has but servants. Yehushafat silently agreed.


    One open eye he had, its glare speaking of wisdom and sorrow, and the other was closed and perhaps gone. His clothes were faded from the sun and his sandals worn thin and his calves knitted with muscle and tendon, for he was a nomad in the land. He presented himself to Yehushafat, giving his name and the name of his father, and gripped his hand, and though Yehushafat felt the bones of the fragile palm and could have crushed them in an instant he knew that he would learn a great lesson from this old man.


    The elders of the city went to raise a fire for cooking their sacrifice and Yehushafat was left with The Teacher alone.


    A grief in my heart for them, said The Teacher. Loudly and clearly he spoke, and Yehushafat was thankful, but still he did not understand his meaning.


    Yehushafat asked - for whom?


    For these people, no blood on their hands, and yet they atone.


    And Yehushafat said ¨C Why not? A Hebrew he was, God¡¯s monk. Why did he find himself in these woods, if not because we failed to welcome him on our doorstep? As it is right to torment one for doing what is unworthy of doing, so it is right to torment those who neglected to do that which is worthy.


    Truth in your words, agreed The Teacher. But who neglected, and who has been neglected? His guts were empty, as many days he had not eaten, but in his pockets were figs that had not yet dried. And where could you find fresh figs today if not far north?


    And Yehushafat asked - Have you laid a hand on his body?


    I asked Kfir for permission and he granted it. And whom did it disturb? Cadavers do not complain and the slayer peacefully rests while we take our revenge on cattle and honour empty chariots that have no driver.


    Yehushafat was stunned and could not answer. The Teacher continued - Even though his sandals were of soft leather his feet were one great callus each, as if he walked and walked without resting or sleeping.


    What matter his feet ¨C said Yehushafat ¨C if a blade was taken to his stomach?


    The Teacher shook his head in the way of one who does not know how to answer so as to be understood, until at last he said: A lonely monk he was, whose name no one knew, and he started his journey three walking days northward of here. I shall go north to search for justice, and there I shall find the one responsible and bring him to judgement.


    Why shall you venture northward? And why not search the slayer by the slain?


    The Teacher gestured to the people that had crowded to share the feast of the sacrifice, whispering their doubts and discussing the verdict that was decided, and said ¨C You know these people, their names and the ways of their hearts. Do you see blood on the hands of any of them?


    Not in a single person did Yehushafat see the movement or spirit of one who wounds another. He said ¨C And yet you claim that three days before he died the cut was made, and walked three days while the wound in his belly bled.


    The Teacher shook his head again, barred from answering. He asked ¨C Did he have scrolls?


    Yehushafat flinched, and said - Only one. How did you guess?


    A word-smith he seemed to me, one who swings quill like a sword, one who by putting one word after another finds pleasure and pain.


    All that from a dead body?


    From the ink stains on his fingers. But what is ink to a man without scrolls? What was its fate?


    I put them to the fire, lied Yehushafat.


    The Teacher sighed. Well you have done, Yehushafat.


    And Yehushafat, who had not yet realised why his senses had hinted at him to annihilate the scroll and its memory, regretted not having listened to their wisdom. To The Teacher he said ¨C Why was it a good deed?


    The Teacher answered ¨C It will take me many days to explain.


    Good and proper: we have a long journey ahead.


    And do you not have your dominion to judge over?


    I¡¯ve sworn to bring justice to he who sinned against Israel. What is a judge without his word?


    The Teacher laughed and said ¨C Join me if you will, but justice shall come even without you. Not once nor twice did I leave after such a ceremony, and did not return until there was word in my mouth for the elders that their justice has come.


    And did you speak the truth?


    I did.


    And you took nothing but this bow on your back?


    It escorted me on my second hunt.


    And what did you take on your first?


    A waterskin and blanket. said The Teacher but no pride shone in his eyes. For days I brought nearly no thing to my mouth as the path led me to my goal. Come with me if you will.


    So I swore, said Yehushafat. We will gather horses and leave.


    We will take no horses. For the path that was travelled by horse we would trace on the back of one, and the path marked by footsteps we will find with our feet.


    And if the slayer evades us?


    He will not. He will wait. All we must do is find him.


    Yehushafat looked upon The Teacher and knew that a greater judge he had never met.


    Yehushafat went to say his farewells and pack his provisions, and The Teacher followed. Few possessions did Yehushafat have, but many bonds and tight ones, and as soon as the people were done eating they went to their homes and came to his cabin to give to him and The Teacher from their own ¨C Judean wool blankets that were thin and warm in the cold nights and deer meat and dried figs and nuts and thin dry bread that would not go bad and more waterskins than they could carry on their backs.


    But Yehushafat could stride for a whole day without halting for food or water, and in the nights he would not cover himself for his size and burning vigour and so there was neither glee nor warmth in his heart for these gifts or the act of receiving them, but only a great desire to leave on his journey.


    Yehushafat looked at The Teacher who was close by and speaking to the people of Mevaseret things he could not hear. One by one he held their hands and embraced them and brought laughter to their mouths. Even though The Teacher too had all he needed he thanked them, each woman and man who had given him these gifts, for he remembered that there are provisions that a man carries not on his back, and Yehushafat envied him.


    Children came with their parents and played and laughed there, even Gid¡¯on son of La¡¯ish, whose fever was forgotten. Soon they came to argue one with the other about what Yehushafat would do once he found that which he sought. One said ¨C They shall fight by the sword ¨C and he raised a stick and swung it this way and that. He continued - For a moment it may seem to the Ba¡¯al-spawn that he has won and only then will Yehushafat the Judge thrust the sword in his gut and say - Thus shall it be done to all who spill Hebrew blood!


    A second said ¨C Not so, for he is unworthy of dying by the sword. Yehushafat will find him in the night and place his hands on his throat! And the child practised the motion and howled ¨C Press and press until his eyes fly out of their holes!


    A third, a boy whose beard was only a hint about his lips, said ¨C Both of you err. Not by the sword as equal against equal, and not in the night in the quiet, for he is no coward. He is a judge, and I have heard many stories about judges. Shimshon The Hero struck the Philistines with the cheekbone of an ass, and Shamgar son of Anat with an ox goad as if his enemies were cattle. Yehushafat will grip a rotten branch, or a horse whip, and strike the villain even if he brandishes the sharpest blade in all of Cna¡¯an.


    The children cheered for the great wise man, but Gid¡¯eon son of La¡¯ish who previously played like the other children and laughed with them now held to his mother¡¯s skirt and said nothing.


    Chapter 3


    Night came and the judges slept in the cabin and in the morning strode north with their gifts on their backs. For half a day they walked a shadowed path among the hills and found no thing worthy of being said. It had been a long time since Yehushafat had spent even a quarter of a day without the quarrels and complaints of the people and he found his heart young again, dedicated to one thing and undisturbed by vanities.


    After a time The Teacher without preamble asked him how he had come to be a judge.


    I was but a boy when my father died and left me with his land to work, and in that time the Yevusis raided and killed among us every summer and we slept in fear and woke in fear. As soon as the seven days of grieving for my father passed, I went to harvest wheat in the field, and as I stood there a wind blew and a shiver rose in my back and all was silent but the sounds of leaves rustling and the angel of God was with me there. From above I saw this man called Yehushafat and thought in my heart ¨C If he is to die, so be it.


    And did you see the angel?


    I did not, but I knew him. There was a great clarity, as if all were alight, and a fury so pure that only from the heavens themselves could it come. The words appeared as if another put them in my head and I knew what I would say to the Yevusis, and I crossed the border not far from here and went to their city with no companion but a good stone in my hand, and the men gathered tens and tens before me.


    And what trade did you make with them?


    Fractures in their skulls I gave them, one by one, and I left them there, and in return they gave me blood from their eyes and ears.


    Yehushafat sighed, as if suddenly the burden of his days dropped back onto his shoulders.


    The Teacher sighed as well and said ¨C Do you long for the glory of battle again?


    Indeed, said Yehushafat, and in that moment did not remember the pounding of his heart and choking in his throat when he¡¯d found the monk¡¯s body, but felt as if the truth in his words was not pure. I would not trade those days for these, he said, but these days are grey, each one like the one that has gone before, and nothing changes but the end nearing step by step. I do not long for battle, but its absence leaves a lack in me. Do you understand?


    I do. And do you remember the speech you gave them?


    Not one word, admitted Yehushafat.


    The Teacher nodded and said no more.


    At noon of that day they found a small pond full of cold green fountain-water and not a man near it. Let us dip, said The Teacher.


    Yehushafat answered ¨C It is one thing not to take horses, but to halt our walking to bathe in water? This is the land of the Yevusi.


    The heat tires us, said The Teacher. And there are still long days to walk. Why should we hurry? We¡¯ll cool and renew our vigour.


    And were we to wet our clothes and continue? That would suffice to cool us.


    Soon I shall entrust my body to the dirt, said The Teacher. And my spirit will fly where it may and never again will I be able to put my body in cold water on a day of smiting heat. We will find him whom we seek, as I swore: now come and dip.


    Yehushafat sighed but loosened his clothes and uncovered his skin to the sun. The Teacher looked upon the scar on Yehushafat¡¯s breast, the cut that had been sealed with boiling oil lest all his blood drain from him, a cleaving scar and a burn scar on top of it. The Teacher said nothing, but cried out with cheer as he slipped his fragile limbs into the cold water, and spoke his gratefulness for being alive still. Yehushafat followed him and let the cold water rinse his skin and silently professed that it was good.


    Wasps hovered a hair¡¯s breadth above the water, searching for a thing no one knows. The Teacher let out his finger and a wasp landed on it but did not sting him. He looked for a passing moment at her colours, one sombre and one bright, at her peculiar movements, and glee shone in his green eye. The wasp flew after her short rest and returned to travelling the face of the pond, as if searching for a hole through which to peer into the depths of the water and understand them.


    The Teacher said ¨C In those days, your back straight and your heart full, there was no dread or hesitation in you and all the armies of the world came down to you from the mountain and you were still unbeaten, for God was with you.


    Yet He has not always stood with me, said Yehushafat, and saw that The Teacher understood.


    Who gave you that scar?


    One Yevusi, a sickle in hand, swinging with a speed that has no equal. My wife and I and my eldest son and my brother and my youngest daughter and a dozen more sat in the evening time and laughed and there came a boy from the border and struck us before we had even drawn our blades. The twelve he slaughtered, and my wife and my son and brother and daughter and me he cut and left to bleed alone.


    The Teacher listened to Yehushafat, and knew the quiet voice men use to speak of the breaking of their lives, for he had heard it many times. After a long moment he said, sorrow in his single eye ¨C Surely you have been very strong, to stand where others have fallen.


    I would have been stronger to strike first, returned Yehushafat, and wondered that he did not sense the grief and sorrow that still hid somewhere in his heart.


    And what was the boy¡¯s fate?


    His body was found among the woods, where he had sat and bled from a cut in his chest.


    And how did that come to be?


    Only The Sovereign of the World knows. Perhaps in the fury of battle he slit his own chest, by error or malice. Greatly fortunate he was, for my own vengeance would have been greater, had I found him.


    They rose from the pond and put on their clothes and returned to their walking until the evening fell. Then they found a meadow in a valley and in it a dry brook and they unfolded their blankets and ate from the provisions the people had given them, sharing with each other nuts and dry fruits and meat before they lay down and slept there.


    In the night Yehushafat woke to a hissing like a stream among the fallen leaves¨C only it was not water, but hooves, and many beyond number. He turned in his bedding and looked at the stampeders at the other side of the gorge, and lamented that even in moonlight he could not see more than shadows. He looked at The Teacher who was lying on his side, but whether his eye was open or closed Yehushafat could not see. Snorts came from among the trees and to Yehushafat¡¯s dull ears they sounded as authoritative as those of a commander hurrying his troops.


    A black shadow neared Yehushafat, smaller than the others, and even in darkness he could see the hesitation in her steps, her whelpish curiosity. Larger than a dog she was, but her movements were cumbersome and rigid. The beast feared Yehushafat but also longed to study him, and he lay unmoving, hoping she would overcome her fear and come close enough to smell him.


    One shadow within the stream of beasts, larger than the rest, stood and snorted angrily, as if fearing her boarlet would gain some forbidden knowledge from the sons of Adam sleeping in their blankets. The boarlet flinched to hear her mother¡¯s admonishment, retreated and returned to her tribe, and the shadow reunited with the flow whence she had come.


    Eventually the meadow quieted and Yehushafat and his teacher, if he even awoke, returned to sleep. Yehushafat closed his eyes but soon he thought he heard sounds, as if a delicate but heavy creature was sneaking towards him across the meadow¡¯s floor. He remained silent and listened as hard as he could for steps, staring up at the moon, almost full, that peered through the canopy of trees. He waited to see the snout of the boarlet, but instead he saw the glistening of a blade, and after the blade was placed on his throat, two eyes appeared also, at the edge of his sight.


    Yehushafat turned his head slowly toward the man whose eyes shone with murder, bright and grey and very wide. Yehushafat did not know the man but these eyes were familiar to him. Neither man said a word. Yehushafat¡¯s sword was in reach but its distance from his fingers was a thousandfold greater than the hair¡¯s breadth between his throat and the blade waiting over him. He glanced sideways at The Teacher and said ¨C Bad fortune has befallen us.


    Another bandit leaned over The Teacher, who had risen to his elbows, and another one, sword in hand, stood behind him.


    And The Teacher said ¨C Neither good nor bad, for all is done by His will.


    The fourth bandit, who stood farther away, said, as if he were their leader ¨C Will these be your last words?


    A heavy accent Yehushafat did not know was in the Yevusi the man spoke.


    I¡¯d rather my last words be a question, said the Teacher. What is your mother tongue?


    The bandit laughed at The Teacher¡¯s audacity and answered ¨C Greek.


    We are far from the Philistine¡¯s dominion, said The Teacher in Greek, enunciating each word as if he had been born and lived his life on the Philistine shores on the other side of the sea. Yehushafat did not understand the meaning of the words, but he recognized The Teacher¡¯s fluency, so natural that even the bandit guarding Yehushafat turned to look. That was an error Yehushafat could not forgive and he gripped the wrist of the bandit holding the sword with one hand, hard enough to bend the bones out of their joints, and with the other grabbed him by his neck and brought him down against a rock, and before he knew it Yehushafat was standing with a sword in each hand and the man was lying and did not move. All was silent but for the sound of the dead bandit¡¯s excrement draining from his body.


    The bandits whispered some thing to Yehushafat but they were like muted shadows in the dark and he could not hear them.


    The Teacher said ¨C My companion cannot hear.


    The leader spoke louder, saying ¨C That was my uncle¡¯s son. Drop your swords and I might forgive you killing him, or refuse and I will avenge my cousin.


    Yehushafat¡¯s voice was flat and his grip secure and all that heard knew that he was speaking truth, even if his back dripped with sweat - If you kill my teacher nothing will stop me from killing the three of you. Leave now, so that you may remember this day.


    Yehushafat, The Teacher said, stay your hand. We will solve this with words. He that leads, come to me. I will tell you one thing and then you will leave.


    And why shall I come? said the bandit. Do you desire to put your teeth to my ear?


    Never have I spilt blood from a living soul, said The Teacher, and Yehushafat heard the sound of truth in his words.


    The bandit¡¯s leader signalled the others to come nearer and their three swords flanked The Teacher¡¯s neck from all sides. The Teacher said ¨C Please, come nearer still: you will not want your men to hear.


    Let them hear what they will, said the Philistine, I am close enough. Yet despite his words, he brought his ear an olive¡¯s length closer to The Teacher¡¯s mouth.


    The Teacher¡¯s good eye closed and for a moment both were closed, before the other opened. White it was and gleaming in the darkness like another moon under the one in the heavens, looking to and fro like it had just awoken. Yehushafat¡¯s guts coiled at the glare of that furious eye and his heart halted as it met his.


    The Philistines¡¯ backs stiffened to see the eye but they governed their spirits enough to leave their swords by The Teacher¡¯s neck. He turned his mouth to the closest ear, and his pale eye watched Yehushafat as he spoke. His voice was like a scroll torn, like leaves crushed under the weight of a body laid to rest, like the first crackles of a cabin kissed by a raider¡¯s torch.


    As soon as the whispers stopped the leader stood, as if frightened out of his crouching place, and his eyes turned to the earth. Yehushafat could not see The bandit¡¯s expression, but the Teacher¡¯s pale eye followed each of the Philistine¡¯s movements and a wide and wild glee spread in the mouth beneath it. A tremor passed through the bandit¡¯s body and perhaps his lips moved also and suddenly he looked up and his face lit with the light of a great understanding and before he could say that which he understood, his skull split in two as if struck by and axe, from forehead to chin, and he fell to his knees and died.


    Yehushafat screamed for his fear was great and the Philistines screamed and carried their legs and ran, leaving their swords and sacks behind. They ran and ran until their last breath.


    Yehushafat tried to remain standing but the woods revolved about him and his legs tangled and the earth rose to catch him but before he collapsed two strong arms came to hold him and halt his drop and finally he was laid on his back and saw one green eye look at him with compassion in it. He closed his eyes and slept again until morning came.


    Chapter 4


    Yehushafat opened his eyes and threw his blankets from him. His ears had filled with pus and become inflamed and red and his vision had darkened yet further. The sun had risen over the horizon and its light ignited the tree tops with dim stains of copper and gold. The Teacher was already on his feet, busy with the labour of packing, and the bodies of the Philistines were nowhere to be seen.


    Yehushafat looked at the green eye and bent to fold his own blankets. The pale eye was bound, thought Yehushafat, and whatever possession had seized it now rested. He knew that if he waited for that eye to open on its own it would kill him or another, and that a Judge could not be allowed to walk the lands under a heathen curse like this. It was Yehushafat¡¯s duty to kill him.


    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    For a long hour neither spoke while Yehushafat packed his sacks, his hands trembling and his eyes not leaving that closed lid.


    At last they took to a low path, a cliff to their left and a steep hill to their right and thick-trunked oaks standing above them. An Osprey was already in the sky, looking for hidden snakes, and when The Teacher turned to watch it Yehushafat charged him with such fury that he forgot his sword.


    The Teacher had not yet turned and spoke two words but Yehushafat¡¯s damaged ears did not hear them and he was not killed by them and Yehushafat gripped The Teacher¡¯s throat in his hand like a bird of prey would a rabbit, pressing him against a trunk so his legs were dangling beneath him and he could neither speak nor breathe. The Teacher¡¯s arms flailed, clawing for Yehushafat¡¯s throat, but could not reach him. He closed his eye and before the other opened something in his back changed, as if the bones of his spine were a snake. Yehushafat did not turn away as again the abomination opened and looked upon him. In the sun light it reminded him of the eye of a scapegoat that he had found in his boyhood days floating in the dead sea, looking into the abyss. When that eye looked at Yehushafat, his stomach clenched and his heart was pressed and his throat choked as if wrapped with rope. He was too slow to move away when the hardened foot of The Teacher was driven under his ribs up to his lungs, like the kick of a mule knocking him back and chasing the air out of him. He fell back and the throat of The Teacher he let go and by then the white eye was already hidden again.


    The men both fell to the earth and coughed for a long time, fighting for their breath. The Teacher caught his sooner and went to Yehushafat and brought him to his feet with strength unfitting of an old man, for he was still a Judge of God.


    I will not hurt you, he said, his green eye meeting Yehushafat¡¯s, his face close enough that Yehushafat could see his mouth and understand the words he could not hear. I will teach you what it is you wish to learn, and not a droplet more. Please, do not lure the other from its hiding place again.


    Tell me what I saw. What is this sorcery you have cast on the bandits? Is it the same spell that makes a man walk for three days and die on the edge of my domain?


    Neither sorcery, he said, nor spell.


    What then? Speak, and illuminate this darkness.


    The Teacher resumed his walking, and Yehushafat slapped the dust away from his clothes and followed him. After a while, The Teacher spoke again, and his voice was loud.


    Imagine in your heart a land that has never heard of copper or bronze, where war is made with stones and sticks and murder is a rare crime, done only in the truest of rages. If you travelled to that land with a sword, you could kill any son of Adam, but they would not understand the weapon in your hand, nor fear the shining of bronze.


    There he stopped. Yehushafat did not understand the words spoken to him and asked - Is that the weapon your hand carried yesterday? A hidden blade?


    The Teacher¡¯s face fell. No, he said. What I swung is a heavier burden than any blade.


    Then, for the first time, Yehushafat wondered if it would be better never to understand these things.


    The Teacher continued.


    Consider what is happening in your spirit when your ears hear a thing, any thing that is spoken. I speak, and you have no choice but to accommodate the words in your heart, even if they cause you disquiet. If I asked you to notice the resting of your tongue in your mouth, could you refuse, or would you now be bothered by the discomfort between your jaws? And if I asked you to notice your breathing, when it enters your chambers and when it leaves, could you notice it without controlling it?


    The words floated in the wind as if they were leaves, bathed in the sunlight, from The Teacher¡¯s mouth to Yehushafat¡¯s ears. Yehushafat moved his tongue within his mouth and breathed heavily in and out as if he had forgotten how his breath felt in ordinary moments. He understood the meaning of the words, but not their importance.


    The Teacher continued ¨C And if I asked you about the colour of the skies when you say your farewell to them, would you not wonder? And their colour on the day after?


    Yehushafat stopped where he stood and closed his eyes. Even in the days of war he would charge into battle with no thought in his heart nor hesitation in his limbs. At times he had thought of being killed, but more often of killing, and rarely about the days he might not witness after. The Teacher¡¯s words grounded the question and bound it to his heart. Yehushafat looked at the skies. Would it be day or night? In winter, in old age and sickness, or in summer, on the battlefield? Afterward the skies would change their colour and he would not be there to see them.


    Their colour will be red, Yehushafat said finally.


    Maybe, said The Teacher. Perhaps every last day is a day when the skies are painted red, for the deceased. You have survived hearing this thing.


    I survived. What of it? said Yehushafat in wonder. These are the words of the sons of Adam, nothing more.


    And yet, The Teacher replied, there are words stronger than these. There are words with great power in them. Words will rip a tree from its roots, a wheel from its hinge. Shield and armour won¡¯t stop them, and a sword cannot strike them down.


    Yehushafat said ¨C Am I to believe that words are the weapon? If so, why does not each and every bandit use words to shatter the hearts of men?


    And how would you teach their use? Would that I have taught the Philistine his first lesson yesterday, but the burden outweighed his competence. Words are things - to give them they must first be received. A double-edged sword, and no son of Adam in this land swings it without his heart dripping with sorrow.


    And Yehushafat, puzzled, asked ¨C How is it possible that anyone who gives them must first be given them? Who gave them first?


    The Teacher¡¯s green eye looked at Yehushafat with curious surprise. That, he said, you must have already understood.


    Yehushafat shook his head. Forgive me, my judge. I have heard in my days words that bring a man to his knees, words that deprive a man of sleep for long months, even words that turn a man to a broken vessel. But words that split a skull like a sword, I have neither seen nor heard of. If you are mocking me, desist.


    The Teacher shook his head, a mirror. Do you remember the death of Eglon, the Moa¡¯vi king?


    Certainly. The tyrant ruled over my father¡¯s father, until Ehud son of Gera killed him.


    And how did he?


    The judge was left-handed, and so Eglon¡¯s guards did not notice his sword strapped to his right thigh under his robes, and not to his left like a right-handed man. It was a double-edged blade, and he slid it into Eglon¡¯s abdomen beyond the hilt and it was never found. Why do you laugh?


    The Teacher said ¨C And how would the guards of a king not search Ehud¡¯s two thighs? And how would he drive the blade so far that it was never found, if it were sharp on both edges? Do you remember what Ehud said to Eglon to make him call his guards away?


    The word of God I have for you, said Yehushafat. Stop making riddles and speak clearly.


    I am asking clearly: what was of the blade?


    And how would I know?


    Your eyes tell me what your wit suspects. Say that which is in your heart.


    You wish me to say that there was never a blade.


    Truth. Ehud did not lie. He truly did have the word of God to deliver.


    And what was the word?


    I have never heard it, but if I¡¯d told it to you, you too would wallow in your own spilled guts.


    Yehushafat swallowed his spittle and went silent.


    And The Teacher said to Yehushafat ¨C And how did Shamgar beat six hundred Philistines, and him alone? His weapon was no ox goad. And Shimshon did not grip a fresh ass¡¯s jawbone ¨C or if he did, he did not use it for striking. And have you seen with your own eyes a woman whose grasp of a handle is as sure as Yael¡¯s was said to be, when she pierced Sisra¡¯s skull? Her weapon was no mallet. These are the Hebrews¡¯ tools of war. The Philistines have iron vehicles, and order and discipline; line by line they come, as if on a game board. A Philistine army could stand against a Hebrew army thrice as numerous. But judges come against them on the field of battle, whispering words to them, learning the other¡¯s language and religion, all the better to sharpen truths to carve open their hearts.


    And their own, said Yehushafat, and the source of the words he did not know.


    Some times, agreed The Teacher.


    Why would you tell me this? Do you need an apprentice for the sharpening?


    No, but these blades were already turned against you, and you survived them. But they have scarred you, and you do not understand your own scars.


    And if that is true?


    If that is true, the same blade that dulled the light of your eyes and the singing of your ears should heal you, should you learn to wield it.


    Yehushafat halted and sat down in the middle of the road and for a long time was silent. For long moments he could not move. His dream that his eyes could read again, that his ears could hear the singing of the birds and the soft speech of children; his dream to sleep in peace and wake in the morning in peace, and not to awake in the darkness of the night awash with sweat ¨C all were before him and he burned to reach them. Did The Teacher speak the truth? If Yehushafat had known the weapon and been scarred by it, yet did not remember, what danger would that be? If he had already bitten the fruit and been banished, why not taste it again?


    For a long time Yehushafat looked at the closed eye of The Teacher. If Yehushafat took the weapon and used it wrongly, perhaps this time he would lose the light of his eyes entirely, and his ears would be silent forever, and he would never speak a word.


    I do not believe you, said Yehushafat, and this lie in his words rang so clear that even the mockingbirds on the pines and vipers under the rocks raised their heads in suspicion.


    The Teacher pointed to his closed eye. Twice you have looked upon the other, he said. Shall I summon it again, so that you may trade words?


    Dread caught Yehushafat but he did not shiver. He was a hero, and he conquered his fear, even if he did not vanquish it. It was not his teacher who had looked through that pale window. Yehushafat did not know if it was a man at all.


    The eye remained closed and the mouth did not speak words of power, yet the power had been presented to him, and the proposal stood ¨C to become a true apprentice, to sharpen a blade keener than any made of bronze.


    No need there was to tell Yehushafat that which was clear to all, that the one who awaits them at the end of their path, the one who had slain the monk found dead by the altar, is also talented in the ways of blades made of words and knows them well. Would Yehushafat want to bring justice upon him, he should know them just as well. More than that - to spend his nights in fear, that he did not want, and gladly will he risk his life for a cure. But most of all, greater sevenfold was the truth that he could not deny - These poems of The Teacher, this sorrow that kills men, a great desire was in his heart for them. To hear them, to memorise, to recite them even when no one listens. To know them he desired, and the source of the desire he did not know.


    The truth is already tied at your waist, said The Teacher. All you have to choose is whether to draw it from the sheath.


    So be it, said Yehushafat and rose on his legs, and speaking these words dictated fate.


    The green eye closed, and for a long moment The Teacher stood with both of his eyes hidden. Finally the green eye opened and The Teacher looked sadly at Yehushafat, as if he hoped, despite his efforts, that Yehushafat would leave. He went to the path, and Yehushafat after him. Yehushafat said ¨C Our time is short. If you are to train me in this art, we should begin.


    And how will I train you? Recite my poems, each one crueller and bitterer, as if I were training your tongue with wormwood? Were you a boy, I would train you ¨C for an empty bowl can be filled with warm water. But you hold all the rains of your life, and what you know you know. Are you prepared to listen? That is enough.


    For a long time they walked in silence. A warm dry wind blew in the gorge and patted their backs to encourage them. An Osprey was patrolling the skies, and Yehushafat did not know if it was the one they had seen in the morning or another. A pair of swallows flew below him, the blades of their wings slicing the wind this way and that, so quick that they could take cover under the talons of the prey-bird with no fear.


    At noon they sat to eat beneath a fig tree whose roots dug into the base of a cliff, and whose trunk grew away from the cliff¡¯s shadow to the light. Above their heads, the boulders leaned as if ready to fall, and all the way to the top, oak trees that lived their whole lives without soil clutched at cracks with their bare roots.


    In a nook between the ground and wall were the remains of a fire that had once been lit where it would be safe from the wind and rain, and died out. Yehushafat touched with his fingers the web of a spider that was stretched across the rock ceiling of the nook but the spider who weaved it was not on it, only dust and the cadavers of moths. Weeds had grown in the cracks and dried.


    While Yehushafat examined these things, The Teacher drew his hands across the bent fig tree. Yehushafat remembered one of the things The Teacher had first said to him ¨C that the season of figs was over.


    They ate a dry meal, the last of their dates and deer meat, chewing without haste, and returned to their walking. Clouds came from the west and arranged themselves into a great fire-coloured pillar, as large as all of creation, and the sun, as if tired, pulled behind the clouds like a man being dragged under the water by a great sea-beast to be drowned.


    The Teacher stopped and looked at the clouds, and Yehushafat stopped also. The Teacher said ¨C These are His words. Ours are mere shadows.


    With the first rain drop a great sorrow and longing fell on Yehushafat and on The Teacher. In silence they walked until the clouds passed and the sun appeared large and orange at the horizon and a pleasant wind blew on their faces, like a mother soothing her child.


    Finally Yehushafat lay on his blankets and looked at the dome of stars and wondered what colour the sky would be when his end came. Maybe it would be just like this, except that the moon would be full.


    In the night Yehushafat awoke from dreadful dreams. His teacher was reading a scroll in the moonlight, seated on his blankets, and raised an eye to look at him and said - In the night, when none are awake but beasts of prey, that is the time to wander and wonder, the time when truths remove their bindings and run wild.


    And what do these things mean?


    That it is thoughtless of a man to ask his companion about his dreams, said The Teacher, and placed his scroll into his sack.


    And yet, said Yehushafat.


    A man cannot lie in his dreams, and we need the truth more than any other thing. Imagine that your heart is a pond of water. In the day, the waters are muddy and hard to see through. Things hide at the bottom and will not rise. But in these hours, whether we are asleep or awake, the dirt sinks and the water clears. We cannot see to the bottom of the pond, but seldom will we be awarded a glimpse of what hides in it. Some die like that, waking in the dead of night and looking deep into their own poems and being felled by them.


    Surely you speak in allegory?


    Why do you say that? Do you know what hides in the pond of your heart?


    When I was a boy it seemed that, as you said, the waters were clear, or at least shallow, but with the years the waters have risen, and more mud and dirt have been thrown into them, and blood as well. And they cannot be cleaned. Every thing that enters will stay there until I die. All I can do is let them sink. And do you know what hides in your spirit?


    I have two ponds, The Teacher said, and pointed at his closed eye. One has only muddy water, the other only clear. One sees only truth and desires no illusion, and the other will spend its day and night in blindness, caring not for the truth.


    It would have been sensible if Yehushafat had asked, even to himself, which pond had the clear water and which the muddy, but he did not. Instead he asked The Teacher ¨C Should I tell you the dream?


    What you have dreamed, you have already seen. If you understood it on your own, that is also good. If not, tell me and will interpret it for you.


    Again I was near my home in Mevaseret. In the same place where the Yevusi slashed my breast and left me in the mud of my own blood to die. But in my dream he had no weapon ¨C in stammering Hebrew, in a heavy accent as if he himself did not understand the words, he came and whispered words, and my breast burst and blood erupted from it. In my memory, I had not had the strength to even press the fountaining blood. But in this dream, I acted. The blood spilled, and I knew that the sooner it drained and I collapsed, the sooner I could forget that which my ears heard. In my memory, the blood spilled and spilled, and by the time the healer came with the boiling oil in his cauldron my ears and eyes were ruined. But in my dream, my hearing and sight degenerated instantly, as if from their own volition, the moment the words were spoken.


    And the Yevusi? asked The Teacher.


    I saw as if from his eyes. His vision was blurred, and in pain he looked away from my convulsions.


    They sat there for a long moment and had no companion but the moon, only a hair¡¯s breadth from being full, and an owl that hooted as it killed in the meadow.


    Finally Yehushafat said ¨C Will you interpret this dream for me?


    And The Teacher said ¨C What is left to interpret?


    Chapter 5


    The next day they awoke and packed their blankets and walked for a long time without speaking, until Yehushafat¡¯s courage rose in him and he began to enquire. He said - Avimelech son of Gideon ruled in Shchem but he was no judge, do you know what his true fate was? The story they tell is that a woman from Shchem shattered his skull with a chariot¡¯s broken axle in the midst of a rebellion, and that as he lay there dying, he called to a boy to skewer him with a sword, lest word spread that a woman killed him.


    The Teacher¡¯s eye brow rose above the green eye as he looked at Yehushafat.


    But what woman can shatter a skull with her hands, he continued, let alone one of a man like Avimelech? And how could a man with a fractured skull know with such confidence that his end was coming, and call a boy to kill him? I do not know such a woman, and I have never seen a man with an injured skull behave so lucidly. Did she carry the same blade as you?


    That I do not know, said The Teacher. Though I heard the same story as you. And why not? The sons of Israel worship their gods: why would they not worship ours?


    And Ehud Son of Gera that delivered us from Eglon the Moa¡¯vi, was he truly left-handed?


    The Teacher did not answer.


    Did he speak the word of God with his own voice?


    No, said The Teacher. I met him once. His left hand was his own, but on his right he had no sovereignty and it moved as if from its own will.


    And it was this hand, Yehushafat said, that wrote the poem that killed Eglon.


    Truth, truth you have spoken, said The Teacher, worry in his voice. From the moment you turn your face to the light everything reveals itself to you.


    As The Teacher spoke, the familiar scent of blood and offal and flesh that has been left under the sun made its way to Yehushafat¡¯s nose. They walked down the valley and found a man sitting with his back to a tree trunk, his hat on his face, flies and crows circling around him and his guts spread in front of him and his blood dry and blackened on the dirt.


    Look, said Yehushafat but The Teacher¡¯s white eye was open and his bow was in his hand. An arrow shot out of his bow and nailed one of the crows to the trunk and the others soared and flew far away, calling with horror and rage. The white eye shut and the other opened, and when The Teacher saw the crow skewered in torment his face fell. Shook his grief and turned to Yehushafat and said ¨C Can you hear the echo of the words?


    Yehushafat looked at the man, at the way he lay, at the way his belly had burst, at the agonised expression on his shadowed face, and it was as if he heard the recitation from far away, like a whisper in the woods where the wind blows and the leaves rustle and cover every sound.


    The monk I found by the shattered altar, said Yahushafat. His belly was opened as if with a knife, like this one. But when little Gid¡¯on looked at the body, he fell ill. I looked at it and could not hear anything. This person¡¯s body is even more disturbed, yet I can hear the poem¡¯s echo. Why is that?


    Because you remember. Do not let pride take root in your heart. The Teacher raised his nose, as if tracking beyond the smell of blood.


    Was this the deed of the man we are after? Yehushafat said, gesturing at the body.


    The Teacher replied ¨C Any whose words have such power, we are after.


    They walked until the sun set, and set up camp in a clearing, but they no longer had provisions. Start a fire, said The Teacher, and took his bow and his arrows and left.


    When he returned he carried a rabbit and a rooster and a partridge. The fire was already burning and Yehushafat was staring into it as if looking for some nameless thing.


    That is much game, said Yehushafat.


    The Teacher agreed ¨C Too much.


    They roasted the rabbit and cut the rooster into pieces to dry and Yehushafat tossed the partridge into the woods to satiate the jackals.


    They made their supper in silence, and in silence ate and made their beds under the trees of the clearing and slept.


    Chapter 6


    Again Yehushafat dreamed and again he awoke in damp bedding in the dead of night. The Teacher was sitting with his back to him, reading a scroll by the full moon¡¯s light, but which eye looked at the scroll Yehushafat did not know. When The Teacher turned to Yehushafat, his green eye was shining. He said ¨CYou dreamt again?


    Yehushafat said ¨C Yes. I dreamed that I climbed to the Yevusi with a stone in my hand, but I did not hit a single one of them, and the stone remained dry in my hand. I gave them words and no thing more, and when they heard them their ears split and they could not hear, and their eyes darkened and they could not see, and their blood spilt to the ground and they died there. And what I said I do not remember.


    The Teacher gazed upon him until Yehushafat returned to talking, as if the silence seduced the words out of him. He said ¨C In my dream I saw again the Yevusi who spoke to me and left me to die, but in my dream my ears and eyes turned dull by my own will, with words I whispered into them. These words maimed me so that I would never again hear their like.


    The Teacher said ¨C Neither hear, nor remember.


    Yehushafat shook his head and said ¨C It must have only been a dream, and those words were never said.


    For a long time The Teacher said nothing, as if waiting for something to float in Yehushafat¡¯s heart before reaching to fish it out. And then he said ¨C You are close. All that is needed is for you to turn your gaze into the light and look at it, if you want it.


    And if I do not want it?


    Then again your ears will inflame and your eyesight dim and when asked you will make yourself a fool. There is no shame in that. That is the nature of every woman-born, just as flight is the nature of the bird, and crawling of the worm. The nature of the awake is to observe, and of the sleeper to dream, but sometimes things are reversed. Please restrain yourself. If you go too far too quickly, you will not be able to return.


    Yehushafat felt a great understanding coming to him like a gale of wind and as if to escape it asked a question of some thing other ¨C And what did you read before?


    The journals of a monk of God whose body was found on the outskirts of your domain.


    Again Yehushafat calmed his spirit and showed no surprise on his face or in his voice when he said ¨C How did you find them?


    The Teacher answered ¨C The poems sang to me and led me to a scroll that was under a rock. Do not ask forgiveness for telling me you set it aflame. I envy you, Yehushafat, for not knowing how to lie. Those who do know get tangled in their own lies again and again until they cannot move. Those unskilled in lying might still live free in a world of truth.


    What is written in the scroll?


    Suddenly the pale eye opened in front of Yehushafat¡¯s, and even though he wanted to flinch, he stilled himself and fixed his gaze on it as he would a beast of prey. The rough voice said ¨C These poems do not fulfil their promise. Lukewarm, without sharpness. How could they kill a man?


    Yesushafat said ¨C I did not know that it could speak as a man does.


    The white eye closed. In the nighttime, said The Teacher as he looked on Yehushafat with his green eye, the boundary between one and other is obscured. Crossing becomes easy.


    Yehushafat looked upon this being in front of him. A man, he determined, but also not a man. He said ¨C I have a question to ask.


    Laughter was in the pale eye as it opened. You might not get to see another sunrise, the voice said. This is no time for manners. Ask.


    And who will keep the sunrise from me?


    The slayer that we sought is near. Such wisdom bears heavy on the air itself.


    Why are you certain I will not survive? I have heard many poems and am not dead, said Yehushafat, and knew that he was speaking truth.


    You have not heard even one of mine. You saw its reflection in the philistine¡¯s face and could not stand on your feet, so how will you hear it and not die?


    Some thing will survive, The Teacher said suddenly, his green eye open and the white one closed. Not as it was before, but some thing, yes.


    A malice was in the white eye as it opened and looked upon Yehushafat and The Teacher said ¨C Time will tell. Now ask.


    Standing in front of this horror, it took Yehushafat a moment to fish the question out of the pond of his thoughts. At last he said ¨C How did the one become two?


    That is not a story worthy of hearing, said The Teacher softly.


    And why not? Barked the rough voice from The Teacher¡¯s throat. It is the only poem you have ever written. Have pride, and tell him.


    The Teacher sighed and surrendered, saying ¨C I was a hunter¡¯s apprentice, and an orphan. For years I learned how to shoot a bow and hide in the woods, how to peel skin and clean guts, but I shot only at targets and cut only game that was already dead. One day I had to kill something with life, and I could not stand it. Even at a tender age the wrongness of it was clear to me. I could not, but I had a duty. The hunter would have banished me from his cabin, and I would have starved. So I strung together the words of my first poem, not knowing why, and recited them in my own ears.


    To yourself? asked Yehushafat, stunned.


    I did not know of poems, let alone their nature, The Teacher admitted. It was a boy¡¯s error.


    An error? The white eye popped open, and the green one hid from it. And what would you have done without me? An eye to look unblinkingly at the truth, so you said, and now I can look at the heavens like you never could. You are Lie, I am Truth. You are Profane, I am Holy. And you dare call my creation an error?


    I understand, said Yehushafat. The poem cleaved you in two.


    Yes. In a word it created me, and saw that it was good. And he called the poem The Cleaver. You have heard its first sentence. Would you like to hear the rest?


    No! yelled The Teacher. It is too soon! There is no need for him to hear it now!


    And why not? This broken judge, who can neither listen nor recite ¨C to let him live is too cruel. An evil laughter glowed on The Teacher¡¯s face.


    But he might still heal, pleaded The Teacher, if he remembers his own words. For days now I have lured them to the surface: I beg of you ¨C let him hear them.


    Yehushafat thought to himself ¨C To beg the merciless is as futile as speaking to a deaf man.


    The white eye hollered, as bright and blinding as the sun ¨C Listen! The time has come to share our poems, which will either kill or heal you. Will you listen to The Cleaver and finally know if you can stand it, or will you grace me with your own poem, the one that killed so many Yevusis and darkened your eyes and dulled your ears and mind? The choice is yours, and am I not as merciful as The Name Himself for giving it to you?


    The Teacher¡¯s hands pulled the straps of his sandals off his feet, and the eye that looked unblinkingly at the truth, as the poem said, gazed at Yehushafat and no thing else.


    A clarity fell on Yehushafat, and his heart beat in his breast like the paw strikes of a charging wolf. All was quiet, and from above Yehushafat saw himself and thought ¨C That fool strode for days beside this wild beast, this murderer who thirsts for blood, so occupied with riddles and birds that he chose to ignore the danger that was only an eye lid¡¯s width away. If he dies, so be it. And the angel of God was with him.


    Yehushafat took off his sandals and spoke, finding in the depths of his heart the first word of the deadly poem that had maimed him so many years ago: Blunt. The white eye watched and listened in silence. Then he found the second word: Stone. By then, like a man drawing a blade from his own flesh, he saw that though it did not become any less painful it must be drawn all the way out.


    When Yehushafat was done a shiver of pleasure went through The Teacher¡¯s body and his eyes and ears did not bleed and the mouth under the white eye repaid Yehushafat with a single word: Good.


    And the white eye saw that Yehushafat was a judge, truly, and Yehushafat looked upon that eye and saw blood vessels and yellow and the black void in its centre and he turned from it to the moon and for the first in a years his eyes saw her for all her blemishes, as if she were a white eye fully opened, and his ears heard every leaf rustling and every beast that was moving in the woods, and even the sound of steps coming slowly towards them through the clearing.


    He glanced to his left and saw a small woman walking among the trees, long in the days like The Teacher and her step light. Yehushafat wondered if she had heard his poem and would die for it, but as soon as she saw them she began to sing. Her voice was pleasing, and her manners without shame or fear.


    How pleasing your voice is, said The Teacher, his green eye shining.


    And she said ¨C How pleasing your listening ear is. Welcome to my domain.


    Yehushafat¡¯s heart was still singing with clarity, and he did not wish to speak anything but pure truth.


    The Teacher said ¨C Is this your domain? Forgive us, we did not know.


    All is forgiven. Yes, you are in my domain, but why should I forbid guests from sleeping in my clearing?


    And did our fire disturb you earlier?


    I walked the borders of my property and just now returned to smell embers, and saw my guests chatting pleasantly, though I have not blessed them as proper for a hostess.


    Your domain must be very large.


    Indeed, she answered. All of these hills are mine, and the plots and paths leading to the sea, and the sea is also my property, and although my guests do not ask my permission to sail it, I still receive them. Beyond the sea there is another land and that is also mine, and all guests take as they will from the sea and land.


    The Teacher laughed a great laugh, and blessed the vagrant for tricking him. He gestured to a rock by the dying fire, and said - Will you sit with us to share in our game? We have taken beyond our need.


    Yehushafat listened to the laughter of his teacher, who only a moment before had been in a dire struggle with his own shadow and wondered if it was true laughter, or if his teacher was as accustomed to pretence as a fish was to water.


    Is that the truth? asked the vagrant. The one who strum the bow¡¯s string, does he sit with us now?


    The Teacher said ¨C Wandering out there in the dark forest. Likely he will come soon, and you could trade words. The Teacher placed the meat above the embers to warm again, and the woman sang the same song in her pleasant voice, her eyes searching for stars.


    What song is that? asked The Teacher when she was done.


    And how is one song separate from another? she said, turning to him. All of the words in the world unite in a single song and all of the people of the world are its choir. In song they enter and in song they leave.


    She turned to look at Yehushafat and said ¨C And what is your role?


    I am a judge, said Yehushafat, and so is he. We are pursuing a just sentence.


    She laughed and asked ¨C Is your wish to string a just word to its sister until a just sentence is formed?


    I found a monk¡¯s body in my domain, and gave oath to find his slayer and bring him to judgement. Did you meet the monk? His hair and beard were black and very long, and his eyelashes long over his bright eyes.


    The vagrant looked at him with appreciation, as would a child-keeper praising a brave child, and it infuriated Yehushafat, an anger so-undimmed Yehushafat rejoiced in its return. I have seen many monks, she said, but I did not know how to tell them apart. From the moment they said the words - I am a monk ¨C they were all the same to me.


    So you cannot tell one man from the next?


    An impairment of vision. From birth. I knew my mother from her paces and the length of her hair but I did not know her face. It is no great trouble. Sons of Adam are more similar than they are different. Tell me, how many days did you walk?


    Three, answered Yehushafat.


    And did you find hints?


    Few, but clear.


    The Teacher served her a piece of meat that had by then warmed and singed. The vagrant looked at him in his green eye and thanked him, saying ¨C I will never forget this. She bit and chewed and swallowed and then looked at Yehushafat and said ¨C Did you know that the work of a judge is much like that of a poet?


    Yehushafat looked at her with a curiosity he had not known in years. What does that mean?


    The vagrant looked upon the heavens and said ¨C You try to put shards together from the fragments of the world and sometimes a piece fits with another and a grand truth is revealed to you. Could that a grand truth hides among profane details, and it is the nature of the whole universe. And if there were a grand truth, would we see it? Would we stand it, if it were told to us? Who is the man who eats all the fruits of the tree of knowledge and his gut not burst?


    With that The Teacher¡¯s white eye opened and whispered ¨C Finally I have found you.


    She looked without fear at the white eye and nodded. It was your fierce gaze I have felt looking for me, she said. What is his nature?


    He will go where I will, and do as I shall command. He is too tender for our art, but a great use for daily things I do not care about.


    And he? she said, and pointed at Yehushafat with her chin.


    It is good to have an audience for our art, and he has art of his own, albeit weak. The green eyed slave tried to convince me not to take him, and said he might never take the shine, but I believe he can be a great poet.


    She shrugged like that was a thing of no interest and said ¨C That we will learn together. She turned to Yehushafat. You spoke of a monk.


    I did.


    And you found his scrolls as well?


    Yes.


    So you know the nature of the slayer.


    She is sitting here in front of me, said Yehushafat, his voice as calm as that of a man watching armies riding down the hill for him, and knowing there is no saviour but Him.


    Is that so? she answered. Your monk came to me willingly and asked for my songs. I warned him not to write them in his scrolls, but he insisted. Did I kill him, if he asked me to?


    And why would he ask that of you?


    The vagrant fell silent and looked at him as one does a child who¡¯s fallen, waiting for them to pick themselves up. The Teacher¡¯s white eye looked quietly at the vagrant, and turned to Yehushafat as The Teacher¡¯s throat croaked ¨C It was clear to you, Yehushafat, that we were searching for the person who had killed the monk, and now you see that we have been searching for what the monk did to bring about his own death. And here is what he did ¨C dared to search for a lucid truth.


    And he died for that? For failing to withstand it?


    No! the woman cried. He did not fail! He laboured and laboured and found it and a great joy was in his heart for finally knowing it. And so you too laboured, and you too found. Believe this.


    The white eye narrowed at her and said ¨C Did we find the truth? He wrote the words you told him, but I read these words and know they have no sharpness to them. How could they have killed him?


    He wrote the words of my song, but not their tune. Words are but words, but a song is a window to the divine.


    And what is a song but its words? Sounds please the ear, no more, but words open the skies.


    It is the opposite, she said. Words without melody are like flesh without blood. Like a moon without moonlight.


    The white eye narrowed with hate. Poems are not flesh, and they are not the moon. They are blades, their only purpose is to carve through the thick cloud of ugly lies covering the world, and they have no need of blood or light.


    She looked at him and her pity was so great that tears welled in her eyes and spilt. We will go to the field, she said, and with your own eye you shall see.


    She rose, but The Teacher remained sitting. The white eye closed but the green one did not open in its stead, and for a moment each one trembled under its lid and sweat covered the forehead over both, as if they were locked in a colossal struggle. Finally the green eye opened a crack and he rose and stood in front of Yehushafat and said ¨C Yehushafat. And Yehushafat said ¨CHere I am. And The Teacher said ¨C Run, Yehushafat, with your vision clear and your life free. Run to your home and be judge over it and never return to this place again.


    A great calm fell over Yehushafat and wind rustled through the leaves and his dry clothes. And he said ¨C No. I would like to listen.


    The Teacher slapped him on his ear with all his might and Yehushafat fell off the log upon which he was sitting. The Teacher stood above him and offered his hand to help Yehushafat rise and he took it, and as he did The Teacher struck again with his other hand, trying to put Yehushafat to sleep, but his trick did not work and Yehushafat gripped his thin wrist and pressed until the bones bent.


    And The Teacher said ¨C Not a moment ago you dug into your own soul just so that I will not speak, and now you fight for the same words?


    Words are things, answered Yehushafat. I have chosen to take yours, as I have chosen to unearth mine. Where is the other? Bring him.


    The Teacher looked upon him with a heavy grief in his green eye. Then the pale one opened in its stead and his mouth filled with laughter as he crowed ¨C Here I am.


    Yehushafat let go of his teacher¡¯s arms and the Midianite woman looked upon him with neither approval nor reproach, and went to the clearing. The Teacher¡¯s white eye stalked the woman¡¯s movements and his bare feet tracked her like a silent beast of prey. Yehushafat noticed that the Midianite¡¯s feet, too, were bare.


    Yehushafat rose, his feet bare also, and found them facing each other in the tall grass in the pale light. He listened. The woman gestured towards his teacher for him to begin, and with no pause the ripping-scroll voice emerged, loud and clear and measured. Yehushafat heard and remembered the first sentence, but after it more and more words came like rain, dropping into their places one after the other, from a source whose name no one knows. The Teacher¡¯s hands gestured and his back bent and straightened and after several moments his palms pressed against one another and the poem was done.


    For a long moment all stood like statues.


    Joy blossomed on the Medianite¡¯s face, and then The Teacher¡¯s. Laughter swelled in her mouth, and then in his. She shook and hollered with glee, folding herself in two at the waist, and tears of laughter poured from the pale eye too.


    Yehushafat stood silently, listening to the cries of exultation he did not comprehend. Little by little their laughter quieted like waves ebbing in a pond until their death, and their expressions flattened. An autumn wind blew as if the world itself prepared to listen.


    The woman bowed, and for a moment her eyes met Yehushfat¡¯s. She took a deep breath, her ribs expanding as far as her chest could bear. Then she opened her mouth and her voice claimed dominion over every thing.


    It was a different voice from the pleasing one she had sung with before, haunted and seeping through the walls of Yehushafat¡¯s being, and he knew that it might be too true for him to hear without dying. Only then did he understand the poem he had heard from his teacher¡¯s mouth.


    Chapter 8


    Yehushafat awoke sprawled on the earth, his body aching. Hardly did he raise himself over his shaking legs. The moon that before had shone bright was now covered with clouds. Yehushafat¡¯s vision was still sharp, even in darkness, but something about it was wrong and he did not know what it was. He searched for his teacher, turning his head left and right, and found him.


    The Teacher sat with his back to a tree and for the first time Yehushafat saw both his eyes open, and his mouth open too, in laughter. Only when Yehushafat drew nearer did he see the gash in his teacher¡¯s stomach, and the guts bursting forth like snakes in their escape. The woman he did not see.


    The poetry was as embers that had not died, and Yehushafat fell to his knees and retched. He brought his gaze up to look again at The Teacher¡¯s eyes and only then did he realise what was wrong with his own sight: he could see only from his right eye, and there was only darkness in his left. He put his hand to his face and touched his closed left eye lid and pressed it with great force and prayed that it would never open and that he would never have to see what that eye had learned to see. Tears fell from his open eye and dropped to the earth.


    And Yehushafat was a great judge over Israel with his one open eye and one closed, until he commended his body to the dirt when he was aged seventy-seven years. And the Sons of Israel did the wrong in the eyes of God again and He sent another people to raid and slay them and they cried unto the heavens and so God brought to them a judge to deliver them like all of the judges that had come before.

 Raven and Wolf

    Wolf¡¯s growl echoes through the forest. Even after she comes to regret it, even after she closes her maw and hides her fangs, the snarling still echoes. Wolf swallows a frustrated howl, as she acknowledges they had already crossed the border again, and that it will not easily be uncrossed.


    Raven flies up among the sycamore trees. He cannot remember soaring or deciding to, but once Wolf¡¯s voice booms, his black wings flap on their own, and he shoots up among the branches so high Wolf could never hope to jump after him. Not that she tries anymore. At the very least, Wolf has learned that chasing and barking at Raven only made things worse. He lands atop the nearest tree, the hidden forces within him reaching some equilibrium between flying from and to her. He glances back. Wolf is frozen solid, looking up with eyes full of guilt over letting her frustration get the best of her again, a twin to Raven¡¯s guilt over bolting.


    Wolf watches Raven as he shuffles his feet slowly, and something in her heart breaks, as it always breaks, seeing him afraid of her. She wonders if she could ever censor herself enough, restrain herself enough, to become something Raven isn¡¯t afraid of. ¡°Raven,¡± she apologizes, and despite her softest tone, Wolf¡¯s voice spreads easily through the woods. ¡°Let''s get some water.¡±


    Raven wonders if he will ever be brave enough to hear her anger without fleeing. If that¡¯s something that he¡¯s capable of, something worth trying to achieve. ¡°Yeah,¡± he finally agrees. He can¡¯t remember what they had been fighting over¡­ Oh, that. It seems so meaningless now. But all of their fights are like this, starting from something trivial and growing into an explosion of primal energy. They are, after all, animals.


    He leaps once towards Wolf, landing on a slightly lower branch, and then another. Though he¡¯s still scared, he cannot leave Wolf hurting; the only way to ease her pain is to overcome his own. She loves him so much, he knows. She didn¡¯t mean anything. Hell, she didn¡¯t even do anything. And yet, as he finally lands on the earth, he does so at a distance from her.


    Wolf allows herself to soften. No, not allows, she does everything she can to appear less threatening ¨C moving slowly, speaking sofly, keeping her fangs hidden ¨C but there is only so much she can do. She would stop being a wolf if she could. Wolf starts walking away, knowing it will be easier for Raven to go alongside her than towards her, at least until he relaxes. It¡¯s not easy for her to turn away, but her reward comes in the sound of Raven¡¯s wings beating as he lands by her side.


    For a while they walk, Wolf steadily, and Raven in a series of hops and short flights. In the light of the rising sun, its rays filtering through the pine trees, Wolf¡¯s eyes search for the relief of spring flowers. Raven¡¯s eyes inspect the sky, searching for predatory birds.


    They approach a stream, shallow enough that Wolf could pass it by walking, and narrow enough that Raven could cross it with one flap of his wings. Wolf reaches the water first, and lowers her mouth to drink. She plunges her tongue into the water repeatedly, an unbroken rhythm of smacks and gulps.


    Raven joins her by the bank, slightly closer than he was before. He isn¡¯t thirsty. Rather, he drinks because it is something they do together, something other than fighting. He does so intermittently, peeking around between sips. Even with Wolf¡¯s protection, it is not something he can stop doing. Having drunk more than his fill, Raven stops and gazes at the face of the water. ¡°Wolf,¡± he asks, his voice suddenly distant. ¡°Do you ever see something in the water? When you¡¯re not drinking, I mean.¡±


    Wolf raises her head and gives him a confused look. ¡°Do you mean fish?¡±


    Raven doesn¡¯t know how to explain. ¡°No, not inside of the water. On the surface.¡±


    Wolf paws at the surface of the water, not understanding. ¡°I don¡¯t see anything. ¡°


    Raven shakes his head. ¡°No, don¡¯t do that. As soon as you touch the water, it¡¯s gone. Don¡¯t you see it?¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Wolf gives up, frustrated at finding another difference between them. ¡°What do you see?¡±


    ¡°Here, look now; can you see that right below us? It¡¯s like there¡¯s another Raven in there, but the way it moves¡­¡± Raven trails off, feeling that there is something just outside of pecking range. ¡°Hey, you. What do you want?¡±


    Wolf squints, but doesn¡¯t quite manage to see the thing Raven is talking about. ¡°Do you want me to kill him?¡± She asks.


    ¡°Sure, ye-¡±


    A little way from them, on the other bank, a stork coughs uncomfortably. Wolf and Raven turn to her. ¡°Raven,¡± Stork says. ¡°Wolf. Not too hungry, are you?¡±


    ¡°We ate yesterday, Stork,¡± Wolf says. ¡°Relax.¡±


    Raven nods. ¡°Stork.¡±


    Stork folds her wings, delicately balanced on one long leg, seeming assured they mean her no harm. ¡°I met a monkey once,¡± she says, matter-of-factly. ¡°Far, far away from here, in a place nothing like this one. And the monkey said that when you peer into the quiet water, you see something that is called ¡®the self¡¯, though, for the life of me, I couldn¡¯t understand what he meant. The monkey tried to explain, went on and on, but the more he spoke, the less I understood.¡±


    Raven had never seen a monkey, though he had always wanted to. ¡°Monkeys are a little like humans, aren¡¯t they?¡± The latter were another source of fascination for him.


    Stork points her bill at Raven, happy to answer. ¡°No, the similarities are very superficial. Most monkeys aren¡¯t any danger, not really, as long as you keep a safe distance and don¡¯t listen to them talking for too long, huh! And they will tell you the wildest things, the most crazy nonsense that you will not even belie¨C¡±


    A red flash bursts from the bushes and latches onto her neck before she has time to spread her wings. All teeth and ears and tail, Fox puts Stork¡¯s neck against the ground.


    ¡°Um, I¡¯d really rather you didn¡¯t¨C¡± Stork croaks before Fox wrings her neck between his jaws, leaving her head lolling.


    Raven gives out a terrified cry as he hops to hide behind Wolf, and again her heart clenches. ¡°Fox! I¡¯ll bite your face off!¡±


    ¡°Ok, ok, I¡¯m leaving,¡± Fox mumbles around a mouthful of neck. ¡°Nice to meet you too, Wolf.¡± He lets out a high-pitched giggle and winks. ¡°Raven.¡±


    ¡°I will eat you, Fox,¡± she threatens. ¡°Watch it.¡±


    Right now, Raven is more afraid of Wolf than he is of Fox. He knows Wolf will protect him from Fox, but who will protect him from Wolf?


    Wolf eases her eyes off Fox as he drags Stork into the bushes. Looking for Raven, she sees him further away now, ready to take flight. Wolf can¡¯t quite hide her canines, or smoot her raised hackles. ¡°Sorry,¡± she says.


    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Raven says, his beak going under his wing to unruffle his feathers.


    ¡°Are you ok?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, just give me a minute.¡± Raven reminds himself that Fox is gone, and with stork to sate Fox¡¯s hunger, Raven shouldn¡¯t be any danger for a while. He also reminds himself of how Wolf moved to protect him. ¡°Are we ok?¡±


    Wolf nods. ¡°Yeah¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, too.¡± Raven hops towards Wolf as she stills. Turning her head away, she attempts to make it easier for Raven.


    The sun inches up the sky, and as the wind whistles through the pine trees, rays the color of egg yolk caress Wolf¡¯s brown fur. ¡°I have to go,¡± she whispers. ¡°See you tonight?¡±


    ¡°I hope so,¡± Raven answers quickly. ¡°Where are you off to?¡±


    ¡°Meeting Bear. He¡¯s woken up recently.¡±


    ¡°Oh, Bear. I haven¡¯t seen him in a long time. What are you going to do?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll see.¡± Wolf peeks at the cliff a short distance away and above them. It¡¯s the edge of an elevated plateau, where a stream becomes a waterfall before dwindling into the slow stream flowing under Wolf and Raven¡¯s feet. ¡°Climb, probably.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve been talking about it for a while,¡± Raven says as his eyes follow hers. He can¡¯t climb, but can easily fly to the top, and doesn¡¯t really understand what the big deal is about going up the slow way. Perhaps Wolf just wanted to be alone with Bear and talk about predator things. No point being jealous.


    Wolf sees Raven¡¯s head cock to the side, a fraction of an angle, but can¡¯t quite read the emotion behind it. She wants to approach that, but doesn¡¯t know how. ¡°Yeah,¡± she finally sighs. ¡°What about you?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m going to see Hoopoe.¡±


    ¡°Oh, have fun,¡± Wolf murmurs. Hoopoe had always made her opinion clear on Wolf as a partner for Raven. Wolf hadn¡¯t held a grudge, but she didn¡¯t like her either. When Raven hops a little, she turns her head to nudge him with her nose, and watches in frustration as he startles and flaps his wings.


    Raven just stops short of taking flight again. One hesitating step after another, Raven reaches Wolf, his beak scratching under her jowls as she raises her head. Only then does he allow himself to spread his wings.


    She watches as he flies away, a black stain growing smaller and smaller.


    #


    Raven flies swiftly, among trees, staying low as he always does when he¡¯s on edge. Hoopoe would find him for herself, obviously ¨C there was no reason to go looking for a bird. In the meantime, Raven flies. There is something left in him after the fight. Something refusing to release him no matter how quickly he flees, or how far away from the danger he gets. Not that Wolf herself is the danger, of course. What is the danger, then?


    ¡°Raven!¡± Hoopoe chirps from above. ¡°Found you!¡±


    Raven rolls mid air, spying the black, white and orange pattern of his friend¡¯s wings, and lands on an oak¡¯s branch. ¡°Hello, Hoopoe.¡±


    Hoopoe lands in the tall grass, the feathers on top of her head unfold, spanning from the back to the front of her head as she scrutinizes Raven up close. ¡°Oh, Raven, what happened? Have you been fighting again?¡±


    Raven pretends to unruffle the feathers under his wing, but they both know it¡¯s just an excuse to hide from her, even for a moment. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a fight, not really,¡± he says as his head pops up again.


    Hoopoe leaps with a small flap of her wings, the contrast of her plumage flashing again as she lands on a fallen branch. ¡°Looks like one to me,¡± she says with a trace of admonishment in her little black eyes.


    ¡°Maybe,¡± Raven admits. ¡°How¡¯ve you been, Hoopoe?¡±


    ¡°Not too bad,¡± she says, her crest folds again. ¡°Heard a lot of things, said a lot of things. A lot of birds pass through these parts, bringing gossip and news.¡±


    Raven is happy to hear that, turning one eye to look directly at her. ¡°Made a lot of friends?¡±


    ¡°Hardly. But I didn¡¯t projectile-diarrhea anyone, so that¡¯s something.¡± Hoopoe laughs, the thin parts of her beak parting to make a surprisingly deep, comforting sound for such a small creature. ¡°You know I don¡¯t play nice with others.¡±


    ¡°Well, I¡¯m glad to have you here.¡±


    ¡°Thanks, Raven,¡± she says, and though she doesn¡¯t say it back, the way she turns away, exposing the back of her head to him, exposes volumes. ¡°Now will you tell me what¡¯s up?¡±


    ¡°Nothing¡¯s ¡®up.¡¯ It¡¯s Wolf¡­ We just seem to find ourselves in these uncomfortable spots.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s not new, is it?¡±


    ¡°No, but it¡¯s getting worse. Before, every time we had a fight we¡¯d just let it cool off and return to normal. But now, it seems like the fight itself adds to the weight of the initial problem. Every time something starts, it just gets worse and worse.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°Well, when Wolf gets angry at something, there¡¯s a rage in her that I can¡¯t even compare with anything. Even when she tries to be quiet and gentle she¡¯s, well, still a wolf. It¡¯s not something you can just stand next to.¡± Raven¡¯s legs bend a hint, as if they¡¯re going to throw him into the air any moment now, then relax. ¡°It¡¯s intense.¡±


    ¡°And is that before or after it spirals?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s before. After, I have to get away from her. At first it was no big deal, but now it only makes her angrier. Our fights are not about the thing itself, but about the rage, about how I flee from her.¡± Frustrated, he pecks at the un-ruffled feathers of his wing. ¡° Somehow it¡¯s always my fault for leaving her alone and upset.¡±


    ¡°That sounds terrible,¡± Hoopoe says, tilting her head to the side. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡±


    ¡°Thanks. I just¡­ I don¡¯t understand why it¡¯s that big of a deal. When I fly, I just fly.¡±


    ¡°And what does she do then?¡±


    ¡°Well, she stopped jumping after me.¡±


    Hoopoe hides her long beak under her wing for a moment. In embarrassment, but not without sympathy. ¡°She really doesn¡¯t get it, does she?¡±


    ¡°Yeah! I mean, why does she think I¡¯m running from her?¡±


    ¡°Well, why are you running from her?¡± Hoopoe makes it known she has a very clear answer in mind.


    ¡°You¡¯re not being fair, Hoopoe.¡±


    Hoopoe hops off the branch, flies about in little circles before climbing up in bursts of flapping, and finally folds her wings to herself and lands on the same branch as Raven, beside him. ¡°Why not?¡±


    ¡°Because it¡¯s not Wolf¡¯s fault that she is a hundred times my weight. That she chases when she sees something getting away. She¡¯s a canine.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re not wrong¡­¡± Hoopoe lets the hidden meaning of the statement hang.


    ¡°I love her, Hoopoe. You only hear about our fights, you don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like to just¡­ be beside her.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not saying you two don¡¯t love, I believe you do. I just think, if you loved someone that wasn¡¯t one bad day away fro¨C¡±


    Raven¡¯s wings, as if on their own, take him away. Hoopoe flies behind him, not exactly pursuing, but not permitting him to leave either. ¡°Raven, wait!¡±


    #


    Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    Wolf is walking alongside the river, towards the cliff, when she catches a whiff of Bear. A pleasant coincidence? Bear got here at the same time as Wolf? Probably not. Bear has a tendency to lazily arrive exactly where it would serve him best.


    Wolf follows the scent until she finds Bear in a sunlit clearing ¨C standing on his hind legs and scratching his back against a rock, his eyes closed with pleasure. Wolf trots towards him. ¡°Bear! What¡¯s up?¡±


    Bear¡¯s massive head turns almost imperceptibly towards her as he draws one long breath through his nose. ¡°Wolf. It¡¯s good to see you,¡± he says, his voice deep and low, sleepy. His eyes don¡¯t open fully. They rarely do ¨C Bear doesn¡¯t often give his full attention to any particular thing. ¡°How are things?¡±


    ¡°Well. You?¡±


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m doing well.¡± Bear tilts his head a little more, shifting his gaze, and Wolf feels the weight of his intense attention on her. ¡°Something¡¯s wrong, though,¡± he isn¡¯t asking.


    Wolf affirms with a growl, but says nothing further. ¡°How about you, Bear. What have you been up to?¡±


    ¡°The same as every winter, a timeless dream of sunlight and honey and blood; nothing of import. Let¡¯s walk together, Wolf.¡± Bear drops forward and hits the soft soil with his front paws. Nostrils flaring as he breathes, he takes the entire forest into himself. ¡°Do you still want to climb the cliff?¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s what I said last time, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± He lifts into the sunlight a muzzle so large it is not a muzzle at all. ¡°You talk to Raven that way, too?¡±


    ¡°You know I don¡¯t,¡± Wolf snarls.


    ¡°And why is that?¡± Bear either ignores the aggression, or genuinely perceive it as such, coming from a smaller animal like Wolf.


    Wolf is at a loss for a moment. Bear moves slowly towards the cliff, his pawsteps as soft as they are heavy, and Wolf finds the words. ¡°The thing about Raven is that he eats plants, you know?¡±


    ¡°I eat plants.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not the same.¡±


    Bear¡¯s question hangs in the air, but he might as well have asked aloud.


    ¡°The first time I met you, you took my kill and threatened to throw me off a cliff if I didn¡¯t give it up.¡±


    Bear smiles at the memory. ¡°A fawn, wasn¡¯t it? I took it because I could, just as ravens tear rats to shreds when they find them. What are you implying, Wolf?¡±


    ¡°I mean that I¡¯m a wolf. When I get angry, I growl and bark. And every time I do, Raven can¡¯t handle it. He just¡­ goes away. And not just physically.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s afraid of you,¡± Bear says plainly.


    ¡°No, he knows I love him, but there¡¯s this instinct in him, one he can¡¯t control.¡±


    ¡°Yes, and that instinct has a name.¡±


    Wolf curls a lip, exposing a fang. ¡°Ok, clever-nose.¡±


    Bear bows his head, the closest to an apology Wolf has seen him come. ¡°Go on.¡±


    ¡°When I was a cub, that¡¯s how my siblings and I worked things out. We¡¯d snarl, bite, and thrash. It wasn¡¯t even considered a fight until somebody bled.¡±


    Bear gives the words a moment to ring as they walk. In front of them, the cliff nears, growing taller with every step. ¡°What was Raven¡¯s family like? How do you think they worked things out?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. I guess they just cawed at each other from a safe distance. They don¡¯t even have teeth to intimidate each other with.¡±


    ¡°And what are you going to do with this observation?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know, Bear.¡± Wolf knows Bear well enough to know that the fact that he isn¡¯t sharing doesn¡¯t mean there isn¡¯t already a sharp perception hiding behind that sleepy gaze. ¡°What¡¯s on your mind?¡±


    ¡°When I dreamed, Wolf, I saw many things. Many animals, with many different problems.¡±


    ¡°Yeah?¡±


    ¡°And I saw that animals solve things by letting them happen. We roar when we want to roar, we cuddle when we want to cuddle. Many different problems, many different instincts. But that¡¯s the thing about animals.¡±


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Wolf says, her voice slightly lower.


    ¡°You¡¯ve never seen a human, have you, Wolf?¡± Bear asks, and Wolf doesn¡¯t even finish shaking her head before he continues. ¡°Terrifying things, they are,¡± Bear says in a quiet tone Wolf had never heard from him before. ¡°Just the sight of them¡­¡±


    ¡°Have you seen one? I didn¡¯t know you traveled away from these woods.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t,¡± Bear says sadly, a rejection of Wolf¡¯s admiration. ¡°My mother wasn¡¯t born in this forest. She migrated here, as strange as it sounds, and when I was a cub, she told me about humans. The only time I¡¯ve seen her scared. They have a way of appearing out of nowhere, she says, cutting through the flow of things. You can¡¯t prepare for it. By the time you smell one, it¡¯s already there. If it comes, it comes, and that¡¯s that.¡±


    ¡°Are we still talking about Raven?¡± Wolf says, pausing at the bottom of the rock wall, near a boulder that¡¯s just the right height to be the first stepping stone.


    ¡°I¡¯m saying we shouldn¡¯t go about this like a human. I have a feeling¡­ We should climb, and let things happen as they do.¡± Bear places a single clawed paw on the first step of the cliff, and something shifts in his demeanor. A certainty. They are going to climb.


    #


    Raven flies deeper into the forest, arriving downstream at the same ravine Wolf and he drank from that morning. He swoops low over it, catches a glimpse of the thing in the water, and makes a series of turns amongst the trees. The maneuver would have slowed down almost any predator ¨C but Hoopoe is not a predator, Raven remembers. He lands on a branch and Hoopoe, flying as she does in quick bursts and drops, joins him by his side again.


    ¡°Sorry,¡± Raven between pants, beak wide open.


    ¡°It¡¯s alright,¡± Hoopoe says. ¡°I understand.¡±


    ¡°Thanks,¡± Raven says, not sure if there was an implication in those words.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that big of a deal,¡± Hoopoe says. ¡°If you don¡¯t want to be somewhere, just don¡¯t be there.¡±


    ¡°But I do want to be there, Hoopoe. It¡¯s just¡­ That I don¡¯t feel like she lets me. She¡¯s not making it easy.¡±


    ¡°And have you told her that?¡±


    ¡°Of course I¡¯ve told her that!¡± Raven caws, his chest expanding with the effort.


    Hoopoe hops one step away, as if offended by the volume. ¡°And she hasn¡¯t changed?¡± she asks.


    ¡°It¡¯s not that easy to cha-¡±


    ¡°Isn¡¯t it? I used to be an egg,¡± Hoopoe says. ¡°And look at me now. Do I look like an egg?¡±


    ¡°That is not the same thing.¡±


    ¡°We can all change, if we want to enough, it¡¯s just a matter of ¨C¡±


    Hoopoe is interrupted by a tremor in the ground, a shake so violent the branch they perch on almost throws them off. Hoopoe lets herself fall, spreading her wings as she does. Raven bends his knees, preparing to flee again, but he doesn¡¯t know where to go.


    ¡°I¡¯m going to see what that is,¡± Hoopoe says, and shoots skywards.


    #


    The climbing starts easy, the incline shallow, and Wolf doesn¡¯t have to use her claws to hold on. She looks for a stepping stone, jumps to it, then looks for the next one. Though they are both slowly going upwards, Wolf¡¯s and Bear¡¯s motions are completely different. Bear just walks up, as if the sheer wall is nothing more than rocky ground.


    They soon settle into a rhythm, a pace. Silent they go, and Bear goes ahead, further up the cliff. Both have a lot to think about. Or maybe it¡¯s just Wolf. Maybe Bear isn¡¯t thinking about anything at all. Who knows?


    Halfway to the top of the cliff, Wolf¡¯s nostrils catch a scent, one she has never smelled before. Something indescribable, like an animal, but not like an animal; like a plant, but not like a plant. The foreignness of it causes Wolf to shiver. She turns her head, but she¡¯s too low on the cliff to see into the woods. ¡°Bear!¡± she howls up.


    ¡°Yes?¡± Bear says, his intonation deceptively tranquil, but there is something wrong with the way it rings. He is frozen a little way above her, holding on by his claws, his head turned to gaze down at the woods below him.


    ¡°What do you see?¡±


    Bear doesn¡¯t answer. He looks at the thing behind Wolf, and his lower lip trembles.


    #


    Hoopoe flies up and as soon as she is above the trees, she makes a sound that Raven has never heard her make before. A frightened clicking, so loud it hurts Raven¡¯s ears.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Raven asks, his own voice shrill.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± she says. She flaps her wings to hover, bobbing and peering down at Raven. ¡°But I don¡¯t like it.¡±


    ¡°What is it?¡± Raven finds himself asking again. ¡°An animal?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know,¡± Hoopoe now flies in circles, confused, then dives back under the cover of the trees, landing near Raven. ¡°I don¡¯t think so.¡±


    ¡°Tell me something!¡± Raven screams.


    Hoopoe shakes her head from side to side, panicked. ¡°It¡¯s moving.¡±


    ¡°Here?¡± The ground shakes, as if something large beyond belief is crawling out of it. Through the trees, Raven sees, but does not recognize, a skyscraper erecting, reaching for the sky.


    ¡°No, towards the cliff.¡±


    ¡°Are you sure?¡±


    She flies up again with quick bursts, before diving back to safety. ¡°Yes, it¡¯s moving right for it.¡±


    The ground shakes again, the vibration so violent it makes Raven hop. ¡°Hoopoe, what if that¡¯s a human? If a human reaches the cliff, it will destroy it completely.¡±


    ¡°Do you think so? There¡¯s no one up there but birds, and we can take care of ourselves.¡±


    Raven freezes in horror. He¡¯s afraid of saying the words aloud ¨C as long as he doesn¡¯t say it, they remain unreal, in a way. But this is no time for cowardice. ¡°Wolf and Bear! Wolf said they might go climb! What if it catches them when they are on the wall?¡±


    ¡°Raven, you don¡¯t know if that¡¯s¨C¡±


    ¡°Can you see them from here?¡±


    ¡°No, my eyes can only see up close. Listen, they might not be climbing yet¨C¡¯¡¯


    ¡°I¡¯m not leaving this up to chance.¡± Raven¡¯s voice is resolute, surprising himself.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡± Hoopoe asks, worried.


    Instead of answering, he spreads his wings before his resolve could waver. He flies low among the trees, where it would be hard to see him. But he isn¡¯t flying away, this time - he¡¯s going to get the jump on the human, like a predator would.


    Hoopoe screams as she chases after him. ¡°Raven! Raven, have you lost it? We don¡¯t know what the thing is!¡±


    ¡°You. Don¡¯t. Have. To. Come,¡± Raven croaks. His body compresses with each powerful flap of his wings, his breath restricted by the rhythmic contortion of his entire torso.


    ¡°What the hell are you going to do?¡±


    Raven has to admit it¡¯s a good question. He has no idea.


    #


    ¡°A human,¡± Bear finally manages to say, his voice meek and so terrified she¡¯d expect his legs to shake. But bears¡¯ legs never shake.


    ¡°Is it coming towards our direction? For the cliff?¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡±


    Wolf¡¯s fur bristles, puffs. Her muscles tense, ready to pounce, but there is nowhere to pounce, and nothing to attack on the wall. ¡°I¡¯m going to get back down. I¡¯m going to fight it.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Bear says with a mix of authority and shock. ¡°You¡¯re not.¡±


    ¡°Then, what the hell do we do?¡±


    ¡°We climb. Run away from it.¡±


    ¡°No.¡± Wolf¡¯s voice is defiant. ¡°I¡¯m going back. I¡¯m going to kill that thing.¡±


    Wolf¡¯s words seem to wake Bear out of his stupor, and his eyes finally lower to her. ¡°Wolf, you can¡¯t beat it.¡±


    ¡°Doesn¡¯t matter,¡± Wolf snarls. ¡°I¡¯ll give it something to think about, if it likes thinking so much.¡± She speaks the words, and knows them to be true. She will fight that thing even if she doesn¡¯t know whether she will win. Wolf looks for a way down, and there is no regret in her heart.


    ¡°Fine,¡± Bear says, and his voice softens. ¡°What do you want me to tell Raven?¡±


    Wolf looks up, her expression tormented. ¡°You¡¯re not helping, Bear. What am I supposed to do?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t fight it. Run. Just this once. For him.¡±


    Wolf gnashes her teeth, claws at the rock, and then, with great effort, finds the next stepping stone and prepares to leap towards it. For the first time in her life, she is running away.


    #


    ¡°Raven, do you have any idea what you¡¯re doing?¡± Hoopoe chirps.


    ¡°I¡¯m figuring it out.¡± Am I? He wonders.


    Hoopoe flies above Raven, her chirps higher and higher. ¡°Are you crazy? Do you have brain worms or something?¡±


    ¡°I need your help, Hoopoe. I need to think.¡±


    ¡°Think? What is there to think about?¡±


    ¡°How to scare away a human.¡±


    Raven leaves the safety of the trees as he reaches the meadow, his line of sight to the human no longer obscured, though Raven wishes it was.


    It is an awesome thing, silver and reflecting the rays of the mid-morning sun, naked of all fur or feathers, slick, standing almost as tall as a tree on its two shaky legs. Around it, a whirlwind of transformation swirls ¨C trees stripped of their limbs and erected into telephone poles, resting boulders disintegrating and re-integrating into boxy suburban houses or towering concrete skyscrapers. Railways sprout around it in unnatural, jutting angles, leading from a coal mine to a power plant, which sprouts power cables that snake all the way towards the houses and skyscrapers, making a city grow around it as it walks. Not that Raven can understand any of that. He just watches in mute horror as it walks, and unnatural things grow around it. Raven almost hits a porta-potty that pops in front of him, shooting up at the last minute and goes back to watching the hulking, walking disaster.


    Its shoulder slams against one of the shiny, tall buildings unlucky enough to sprout ahead of it. A chunk breaks off, showering the ground with a rain of glass.


    How could it not see it? Raven wonders. Was it not looking? He flies towards the human, closer and closer, over train tracks, between a museum and a Starbucks, and stops when he reaches the field of glass shards, most of them bigger than he is. He stares at the alien material, seeing the other Raven more clearly than he ever had before. ¡°Do you know what I should do?¡± They ask each other. Raven hates that guy so much.


    There is no time ¨C he has to stop the human from reaching Wolf, but he doesn¡¯t know how. He can¡¯t come any closer, and for now the human doesn¡¯t notice him, staring ahead of itself, turning a patch of forest into an Ikea store with an adjacent parking lot.


    ¡°Hey, human. human! I¡¯m here!¡± Raven calls. It does not react.


    Hoopoe lands next to Raven. ¡°Great. Now what?¡± she asks bitterly. Still, Raven finds himself emboldened, knowing she stuck with him through this. And to save Wolf, no less.


    Raven spreads his wings and crows so hard his ribs hurt. ¡°We¡¯re here, human! Look at us, look at us!¡±


    Hoopoe chirps in frustration, and joins the effort, flying into the path of the human, right in front of its head. It is a magnificent sphere, blindingly gleaming in the sunlight, the eyes staring unblinkingly ahead, always ahead. ¡°Ayy, I¡¯m flying here!¡± Hoopoe calls at the top of her tiny lungs, flips midair, and blasts the human¡¯s head with foul-smelling liquid.


    Just when Raven is about to give up, something happens. Slowly, so slowly, the human revolves its head towards Hoopoe, like it¡¯s filled with so many thoughts that they weigh it down, so densely packed nothing can get its attention. The human grunts as Hoopoe¡¯s excrement runs down its nose, a low, mechanical noise, like the grinding of a thousand gears, the thumping of a thousand engines, the simultaneous connection of a thousand 90¡¯s modem routers, and Raven regrets. He regrets having ever called this thing¡¯s attention, and ever thinking he would be the one to save Wolf. Regrets dragging Hoopoe into this. He could still flee, he could still-  No. Raven clacks his beak. He has an idea.


    Raven chooses a piece of glass, almost as large as he is, that pierces the ground like a huge claw and remains standing. He takes it in his beak and soars, laboring with each beat of his wings as he flies up, avoiding the glacially flailing arms.


    ¡°Look at me!¡± Raven crows through the beakful of glass, a thin, shrill sound, but with all the qualities of a roar. The human¡¯s eyes, shining orbs, are again set forward, towards the cliff, but it doesn¡¯t matter. Raven flies into their gaze, and angles the glass so that The human can¡¯t avoid seeing the other human reflecting on the surface. ¡°Look at yourself!¡± Raven calls. There is a single, brilliant moment in which Raven sees the human¡¯s reflection reflecting in the silver orbs, a reflection of a reflection going on and on.


    The human¡¯s face distorts disgustingly. The crystalline mouth opens at an ugly angle, and it shrieks. Its cry, an anguished, dissonant sound, is even worse than its grunt. It thunders throughout the forest, rocking the trees and echoing off the mountains. Raven doesn¡¯t turn away.


    Then the human explodes.


    It is a final burst of transformation ¡ª A gust of wind pours from it and turns the glass shards to sand castles, the museums into greenhouses, and the Ikea into a massive treehouse. The skyscrapers transform into colorful slides looping and swooping down the cliff face, one of them channeling the waterfall into a waterslide. Raven is tossed up by the wind, unharmed, and the first thing he sees after he maneuvers himself to a glide is Wolf standing at the top of the water slide, gazing down at Raven, Bear beside her.


    ¡°Raven!¡± Wolf howls, her voice carrying over the clearing. She paws the slide carefully, then steps on it, slips, and slides down with the water.


    ¡°Wolf!¡± Raven caws at the top of his lungs, and flies to the bottom end of the slide where she would eventually arrive.


    Wolf splashes into the puddle of mudd, and Raven lands in the dry patch as close to her as he can without landing on the mud or on her. ¡°Bear¡¯s coming,¡± he warns.


    Wolf stumbles out of the puddle just in time to avoid Bear, who barrels down the water slide, laughing as he falls ass-first into the squishy mud. She lies down beside Raven, who pecks behind her ear affectionately as she nudges him with a muzzle larger than his entire body. Raven submerges himself in her fur, feeling as safe as ever.


    Hoopoe lands on Bear¡¯s head as he stands up, dripping mud. ¡°Long time no see, Sleepyhead,¡± she greets him.


    ¡°Long time indeed,¡± he answers, and takes a long look at the unnatural structures that now reside in the clearing. ¡°Well, that was something.¡±


    ¡°It certainly was,¡± Hoopoe answers, her crest folding and unfolding with the last of her nerves. ¡°But it¡¯s over now.¡±


    #


    Raven and Wolf are alone in the forest again, what¡¯s left of it. Wolf trots with her nose to the ground, following the day-old tracks of Elk with mild interest, while Raven is up in the trees, searching for abandoned nests.


    ¡°Raven,¡± Wolf says suddenly. ¡°How did you kill the human, back then?¡±


    Raven hops down from the branches and lands beside her on her rock with a single flap. He gives her a long, sideways look. It¡¯s not that Raven doesn¡¯t remember, it¡¯s more that he can¡¯t hold on to the idea, the shining glimpse of¡­ something else, neither animal or plant , but not human either. He shakes his head. ¡°I don¡¯t know. Humans are weird.¡±


    What does it matter, anyway? Wolf thinks, and plops down in a sunny patch. ¡°Ok. Could you scratch between my shoulder blades? I think I have a tick back there.¡±


    ¡°Sure.¡± Raven hops over, and combs Wolf¡¯s fur until he finds it. ¡°Oh, my. That¡¯s a juicy one. It¡¯s going to hurt, so don¡¯t snarl at me again.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t.¡± And she doesn¡¯t. Not this time. She clenches her teeth as he rips the parasite away. ¡°I¡¯m grateful,¡± She says. Not just for the tick, but for being close together in the spring sun, for trusting each other.


    ¡°Pleasure¡¯s all mine,¡± Raven says after gulping down, and he too, means more.


    Raven and Wolf enjoy the silence together. There will be more disasters to save each other from, more fights to resolve, but that¡¯s in the future. Right now, they love each other very much, and they live happily ever after.

 Gortox Was Not Alone

    [16] This type of discovery Gortox named Reverse Discovery. If the most Bad Gortox could feel was waking up from the dream and staring at the fang until the moon set and the sun rose, then doing the opposite could lead to an opposite result.


    [15] This information was discovered in an attempt to prove or disprove sentience in humans, in order to see if they could perhaps, provide some explanation for Great Fang. Gortox hoped for the humans to try to burn her in return, but the meek mitigation of damage seemed to Gortox a undeniable proof to the lack of sentience.


    [14] The hypothesis of Animal Selection had taken many experiments to become a proven principle. An experiment would include burning one forest over and over again to see if the animals within it become more flame resistant when compared to the animals in the ¡°control¡± forest. The results were inconclusive when it came to fire resistance, but significant regarding animals¡¯ running speed and reaction time to the smell of smoke. Conclusive results could be reproduced over as little as two cycles of exposure.


    [13] Gortox wondered why.


    [12] Gortox usually ate animals whole but the question of why different animals tasted differently had to be solved, and so she had torn apart several animals in order to put that nagging question to rest. The fact that some humans tasted better than others seemed to be easily explained by the higher ratio of white-very-tasty compared to the other elements, which also explained why bears tasted better in autumn than in spring. On the other claw, spring bears were easier to find as they were hunting for salmon at the mouths of rivers. Bears were better tasting than humans any time of the year, and so were elks, but they could not be conditioned like humans were, so she got most of her nutrition from the 4x2 human colonies she¡¯d conditioned, and picked up a bear or stag when they crossed her path.


    [11] Gortox could still remember that moment, when instinct drove her to breath fire into a cave that she thought a bear had run into. If the bear really had been there, it would have become a burnt corpse inside the cave. If it wasn¡¯t there, that meant that the bear had to be somewhere else. She¡¯d looked at the sun, forgetting her hunger, and witnessed that logical construct, the first, with the entirety of her.


    [10] Gortox has spent some time thinking about why that instinct, unlike others, did not lead her to an action that made her feel Good, but did not come up with a satisfying explanation. Perhaps not everything could be understood - a Bad provoking thought by itself.


    [9] A category that includes animals and Gortox herself, even though she was no animal. Not everything belonging to this category was edible, but anything that was did. Not-self-moving was everything that only fell or got moved: Rocks, water, parts of Gortox''s body she shed, like skin and claws. Gortox hasn¡¯t made up her mind yet about fire and trees.


    [8] Gortox also had a theory about the strange things animals did together in order to create offspring, but she didn¡¯t like to think about that.


    [7] Gortox had lain prone on the beach before they hatched, and so the hatchlings ignored her entirely, knowing that for their entire lives Gortox had just been there, so she was probably no danger - until she burned them all in a furious rage, leaving the shore glassed over.


    [6] Gortox had to move to another cave after her own grew too small, and move again as the new one did the same. In one of her visits to the Cave Gortox Hatched In, A tooth fell from her mouth, and she noticed that it was almost as large as Great Fang. So much the world has shrunk. It was at that time that Gortox noticed that her fire could melt stone. Perhaps the world became not only smaller, but softer? She was not sure.


    [5] Hoping is a strange kind of thought that came not out of reason, but because thinking it made Gortox feel Good. She used to be very careful about hoping, worried that it would corrupt her ability to arrive at correct conclusions, but the more time passes, the less she cares about thinking things that might not be true.


    [4] Gortox notes that there must be a prior language etched into her mind if this other can make sounds she understands but even that interesting deduction is pushed aside by the unprecedented amount of Good flooding Gortox¡¯s emotional landscape.


    [3] How can Gortox deduce information on the mental state of The Other based on the noises she is making? Gortox would love to figure this one out, but there¡¯s no time.


    [2] How does she know there are several? Because if it were only one or two, her species, the species she is a part of, could not exist.


    [1] She never was.


    Gortox Was Not Alone


    In a dark cave, in the depths of a forest, on a very tall mountain, Gortox awoke one hungry morning and wondered when was the last time she had devoured human flesh. She came out of her cave, spread her wings, and spat a torrent of violet-white fire to clear her throat. The flames reached all the way to the tower of ivory that stood just outside of her cave, from the day she¡¯s hatched: Great Fang, she called it. It looked like a single tooth, long and thin like one of her own but larger than her entire body, lodged into rock that seemed melted by impossibly hot fire.


    Great Fang¡¯s existence was the greatest riddle of Gortox¡¯s life. It posed three questions:


    3. Gortox had never seen a being so big that one of its teeth could be bigger than the whole of her. What creature existed that was so much larger than Gortox?


    2. Gortox never produced or witnessed fire so hot as to melt stone. Was there a creature whose fire was so much hotter than hers?


    1. The fact that Great Fang is lodged in rock implies a decision has been made, and for a decision to be made there needs to be someone making it. An other. So far, the existence of Great Fang is the single datum Gortox has ever measured supporting that there are any others in the entire universe.


    Great Fang¡¯s effect on Gortox Varied. Sometimes seeing it made her feel Good - a promise that there is a sentient being somewhere in the world, beside Gortox. Sometimes it made her feel Bad, making the lack of that sentient other painfully clear. Gortox had not yet formalized the pattern, but she figured it had to do with how much Good or Bad she¡¯d felt before.


    Today, Gortox woke up feeling Bad. Perhaps because she had the dream again, and she always felt Bad afterwards. She felt Good during the Dream, it was only once it ended that the Bad came.


    Gortox, who was very clever, had already understood that the best way to relieve herself from intense Bad is to outweigh it with things that caused her to feel Good[16], and so she did. It had been, to Gortox¡¯s counting, 4x4+2 days out of the cycle of 4x4x2 days. Which, if her memory was not mistaken (and it never was), meant that today¡¯s sacrifice would be provided by Walled City on a Hill by the Sea, a human colony relatively close to the mountain on which she resided. Gortox flapped her wings and took to the air, and as she flew, she busied herself with her third favorite activity (the second was eating; the first was learning new things) ¨C reviewing her own brilliant ideas. Preferably in lists, which Gortox loved.


    Here are two principles that Gortox had discovered are crucial when conditioning a human colony to offer sacrifices to her:


    2. Consistency. Once every 4x4x2 days she should arrive at the colony, preferably when the sun was at the same height in the sky and eat exactly one human. It was very important that she ate exactly one at a time, even if she was hungrier or not hungry at all, because humans get easily confused. It was also very important she spat some fire around, burning humans and their stone mounds, creating what Gortox recently named Bad-motivation[15]. After two or three such visits, most colonies would start nailing individuals to a piece of wood, saving her the trouble of catching it herself. At that point, it was very important that Gortox stopped spitting fire at them and ate only the sacrifice the humans left for her. That was important to create Good-motivation.


    1. Moderation. It was important that Gortox takes only one sacrifice at a time, two at best if it was an abnormally large colony. When Gortox was younger, she had occasionally taken too many sacrifices, or came to visit too often, and the colonies on which she had performed these early experiments stopped sacrificing and simply dispersed. That made sense to Gortox, with accordance to the Principle of Animal Selection[14] ¨C colonies that wouldn¡¯t have reacted that way to natural disaster, would not have survived. As she flew, Gortox wondered if that idea should be developed further.


    Gortox¡¯s eyes were sharp, and even among the clouds she could see the sacrifice Walled City on a Hill by the Sea erected for her that day on the top of a stone hill - a plump human with sunlight-colored fur on the top of its head and pale skin. It was very similar to the type of sacrifice this colony always provided for her, as colonies usually settled for one sacrifice style[13].


    Gortox landed in front of her meal, among the herd of humans lying face down on the ground (as this colony always did). And just before Gortox spat the fire out, another human ran in her way, almost throwing itself into the fire, and Gortox directed the fire away, lest she break the principle of consistency. The errant human started making noises, squeaks almost too high-pitched to hear, its tiny blue eyes looking directly at Gortox as if it was trying to communicate with her. The sacrifice started making sounds also, looking at the interrupting human in a way that looked superficially like communication. Gortox had spent a lot of time listening to sounds like these, trying to hear in them some shred of intelligence, but they were too soft and inconsistent to have meaning - just chaotic animal noises. Gortox noticed the superficial similarities between these two humans specifically, greater than the general similarity among their kind, but couldn¡¯t conclude anything concrete from it.


    Gortox was growing cleverer every year, but that meant that there were times she was not so clever, when she futilely begged humans for any kind of response. ¡°I wish you could understand me,¡± said Gortox to her meal, but there was no reaction aside from the errant human watering its eyes. Is that something an intelligent being would have done?


    Gortox gently pushed the interrupting human aside with one claw, and let out a yellow-blue flame, roasting instead of scorching, and listened to the noises the animals made, lamenting that they meant nothing.


    Gortox ate her meal and flew away. Even though it was delicious, Gortox felt Bad. All of her attempts at communication failed, whether they were with humans or other animals. For a long time she staked her hopes on the humans being different - their relationship with fire was particularly encouraging - but the more she researched, the more it seemed that humans imitated each other without thinking of anything new, allowing for increasing complexity even without Reason. It should not have been a surprise; humans were made of the same four elements as the other animals ¨C red-tasty, dark-not-tasty, white-very-tasty, and crunchy - so why should they be different[12]?


    Gortox flew above the mountains, and though her belly was pleasantly full, she still felt Bad. And, feeling Bad, Gortox could not help but remember her dream.


    It went, every single time, like this: She is standing in a meadow watching a raging fire that she did not start, and an animal she had never seen before. The animal is green like Gortox, and flies like her, and breathes fire. It is not an animal, Gortox realizes, but an other. And Gortox says to her - ¡°I see you. I am here.¡± And the other answers in kind.


    Then Gortox kills her. The other tries to kill Gortox, too, but Gortox is faster and stronger. Afterward, Gortox claws open the other¡¯s chest and she eats her heart, lightly roasted.


    The dream made her feel so much Good, while she had it, that on the nights of such dreams Gortox woke with her cave full of smoke and her body feeling strangely tender. At nights when Gortox slept particularly well, perhaps after eating more than one human, she dreamt of the eggs that would blossom within her after eating such a heart, and of flying in search of caves to lay them in, each one in a cave of its own.


    Now Gortox felt even more Bad, thinking about the dream, and how far she was from understanding it.


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    It gave her so much Good, to understand things, to make order of the world by atomizing it. And she tore it in three primary ways:


    3. By using the concept of dissection¡ªthat things could be separate from one another. It seemed obvious now, to name things, but before that she could only remember vague impressions and colors: the cracking of her egg, the first breath of the world¡¯s air and the first of fire to follow, the taste of her first kill, driven only by instinct. Before words, before Good and Bad, she could not claw out chunks of meaning out of the world.


    2. By using numbers, that in their own way are a dissection of the world. For example, Gortox had known that days pass, but now she could ask how many had between two specific events. Numbers had not only made it possible to cultivate humans to feed her, but also made her feel a significant amount of Good just by moving them around - the initial Good-motivation for their creation in the first place.


    1. Reason, the opposite of instinct[11]. Instinct was the force that drove actions made wisely, but without thought. Like knowing that she should roast animals before eating them, or that flapping her wings will take her to the air. Instinct was what humans used to mimic each other, not knowing why.


    Although instinct was crucial for things like flying and eating, Gortox needed Reason in order to solve the really hard problems. Here¡¯s one - Humans were getting smaller, which meant that they were less satiating for her. The solution? She will fly further and start the process of conditioning more colonies, thus providing more sacrifices.


    It wasn¡¯t just humans who were shrinking, of course ¨C bears and elk and the mountains themselves were growing steadily smaller, and even Gortox¡¯s teeth constantly shrank until they fell out of her mouth, larger ones sprouting in their place. Gortox would soon have to find another cave, too, or come up with a way to dig deeper into her own. That was Bad ¨C it was Good to be in the same cave she hatched in, that same cave where instinct drove her to burn her own eggshells[10].


    Understanding things was Good (one of the words Gortox was most proud of), sometimes because it actually got results, but mostly because of the Good it caused immediately. Gortox found that the principle of her actions was that she was trying to do things that would make her feel Good. Actions that made her feel Good were good, and the opposite was bad. So, she had chosen human meat over bear, losing the Good of tastier meat but gaining even more Good by having time to think and observe, list the processes that were changing the world. Three seemed constant:


    3. The shrinking of the world.


    2. The increase in the amount of Bad that comes every time considers the Singularity Hypothesis. Here it is now, that Bad going all the way from the bottom of her abdomen to the top of her head when she goes over the most probable hypothesis: that she is the only sentient creature that exists. A Bad that can only be relieved by raising her mouth and letting out a blazing torrent so bright it scares the birds out of their nests, and trying to think of something else.


    1. Her dreams. Gortox¡¯s ability to decipher meaning out of the world depends on her having been born with prior knowledge with which to interpret her sensory input. Obviously. This is how Gortox would explain it, if there was anyone to explain it to: if Gortox perceives the world through her senses, whether real or dreamed up, then that means she came into being with some component letting her process such information. Yes, she had given meat its name and chose to devour it, but she was hatched with the innate sense that meat was Good, that loneliness was Bad, that she should flap her wings like this and not like that. And if she hatched with prior knowledge, then dreams could also be a manifestation of such knowledge.


    But where would that prior knowledge come from?


    Gortox used her sharp eyes to watch the ways of animals, looking for any clues of intelligence, and she noticed that everything that is made out of self-moving-matter[9] comes out the backside of another animal, termed mother[8]. So, if Gortox assumed that she, too, was self-moving-matter, she must have at least had a mother, from which her memories and dreams could originate along with her flying-related instincts. And that mother must have had a mother too, all the way back.


    Gortox remembered spending a whole night looking at turtle hatchlings making their way from the shore to the sea and thinking that no one taught them how to navigate the sand. Using a specifically developed method of observation[7] she could look at the turtles from close enough to see how direct and focused their movements were.


    Three emotions arose in Gortox from watching the turtles (Gortox was very careful to categorize her emotions, for they were the landscape on which she cultivated Good):


    3. Envy towards the hatchlings for knowing which way they should go.


    2. Anger at the turtle-mothers for leaving their eggs alone, and the strangest of all three:


    1. A fear of the eggs which she could not explain, no matter how long she thought about it. She placed that open question in the ¡°cave¡± in her head where such questions waited for the right answer to come for them and make them whole.


    Looking at the glassed-over beach, thinking of the trick she had pulled on the turtles, Gortox wondered if the sun that had moved the same way since Gortox first opened her eyes had hidden away some complicated emotion that would one day drive her to abandon her trajectory and scorch the world whole.


    That question belonged in another ¡°cave¡±, with other questions of the same kind: Could she know that she was awake, and not dreaming? And if she were dreaming, could she know that she was even Gortox, and not a bear or tree, dreaming that they were flying high? What if humans were actually sentient, but couldn¡¯t communicate? What if rocks were?


    Gortox had to learn to stop thinking about questions like that lest she forget to collect her sacrifices in time. Usually these questions brought no pleasure, except for when they did. For instance, the pain in her head lessened when she imagined generations of generations of her ancestors crawling through the same thought process that she was going through, the sand of solitude in their eyes.


    Gortox landed by Great Fang, and giggled at the sandy image. Such an aesthetic Good Gortox derived from unique combinations of words, even if they had no external function.


    But here¡¯s the thing, she thought as she watched the sunset light shine over the ivory ¨C if she had a mother, as all self-moving things did, the mother was no longer with her. And that meant that her mother had perhaps chosen to leave her, which made Gortox feel Bad, but also meant that there were others like Gortox, which made her feel Good.


    Gortox had two hypotheses:


    2. The dream is a sort of generational memory, preparing her for something that will one day certainly happen. Thinking that she will meet an other made Gortox feel Good, and thinking that this other, like her, might have both instinct and Reason, that she could actually talk to her, made Gortox feel an amount of Good so great it was, strangely, almost painful. She liked this hypothesis much better than the other one, which is that:


    1. The dream and all of Gortox¡¯s reasonings are nothing but a way to feel more Good in a world that has in it neither a central principle to understand nor an other to talk about it with.


    After Gortox thinks about the second hypothesis, she often repeats her experiments on Animal Selection. Not so much to reproduce the results, but for the little decrease in Bad that comes from watching self-moving-matter burn.


    Gortox went to sleep, and awoke, and ate, and thought, and went to sleep again. The sun went around and around, and the world got smaller and smaller[6] and still the only other Gortox met was in her dreams. The more time passed, the more she was excited to notice possible traces of her own kind: a burnt city, even the smell of fire; a thunder sounding somewhat like Gortox herself; even the shape of a cloud, that happened to look like a wing or tail. But all these brought nothing but more Bad, in the end.


    #


    One spring day, after eating a couple of bears, Gortox lies down by the river¡¯s origin and watches salmon lay eggs and die. She finds solace in their dying ¨C if they did not choose to abandon their eggs, then perhaps her mother had not chosen, also. Perhaps after she had laid Gortox as an egg, she had no choice but to die. Perhaps she wanted to stay with Gortox more than anything else in the world. Gortox hopes[5] so.


    When she sees a cloud twisting in the corner of her eyes, as if wings have beat inside of it, it is mostly out of habit that Gortox raises her head from the dirt to look at it, bracing for the pang of disappointment that is bound to come, but doesn¡¯t. First, she sees the green wings, then the red, slitted eyes and the mighty jaws and the burst of white-violet flame coming from them. An instant later she hears a roar, one that is clearly not thunder, and suddenly Gortox is no longer alone.


    The other¡¯s scales are green, just like in the dream, and she is bigger than any other being aside from Gortox herself, dwarfing the world even further. When she dives low, the wind from her wings bends the trees and brings a smell to Gortox that is like meat but better than any meat Gortox has ever smelled. She is so very beautiful.


    ¡°I see you!¡± Gortox cries out. ¡°I am here!¡±


    ¡°I am here!¡± The Other calls back, her head turning towards Gortox. ¡°I see you!¡±[4]


    Gortox spreads her wings and takes flight toward the valley. ¡°Here I will kill you!¡± Gortox declares, just like in her dreams.


    ¡°Here I will kill you!¡± The Other answers with glee as she lands at the edge of a forest.


    Gortox is dizzy with the speed with which it is all happening. Will they really kill each other here? She wants to kill The Other and lay eggs, an instinct so strong it almost overtakes her, but she has so many questions, so much loneliness to quench, which is also a Good usage of words. She wants to tell the Other about it.


    ¡°Wait,¡± Gortox says. ¡°We don¡¯t have to kill each other. Not yet.¡±


    The Other raises her head from her flames. ¡°What does that mean?¡± Her voice is annoyed.[3]


    ¡°Why do we have to kill each other? Why can¡¯t we just continue living?¡±


    ¡°This is what we do. We kill each other. We lay eggs.¡±


    ¡°Do you mean that this is what our ancestors have always done? Or that it is Good to do?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand what you¡¯re saying, and I don¡¯t want to. Are you sick?¡±


    The Other is so different from Gortox it shocks her. ¡°I¡¯m not sick. Think. One of us will die, and the other one will either die or be alone again. Do you understand that?¡±


    ¡°No. You will die and I will eat your heart and lay eggs.¡±


    Gortox would have suspected that this is another dream, if not for how much Bad she feels. ¡°Why do you think I will be the one to die?¡±


    ¡°I know you will die because I''m stronger than you and I will kill you.¡±


    Gortox looks down at the other member of her species, at how smaller than Gortox she is. All other animals grow with time. Perhaps Gortox just had more time to grow? What an idiocy Gortox has committed. She had identified the wrong process: It was never the world that was getting smaller¡ªshe was getting bigger. Is the other making a similar idiocy? ¡°But what if you''re wrong?¡±


    ¡°I''m not wrong.¡±


    ¡°Ok, you¡¯re not wrong. Can you imagine, temporarily, what if you were? That we are going to kill each other for nothing, when we can just stay here and talk?¡±


    ¡°If you don¡¯t fight me I can still kill you and eat your heart. But I¡¯d rather you fought me.¡±


    ¡°I will.¡± Gortox puts so much effort into not killing the other that her body begins to shiver. ¡°Just answer this one thing, first. When you hatched - Do you remember if there was a large fang outside of your cave? Bigger than you were?¡±


    The Other gives Gortox a long look, and Gortox is suddenly more alone than she¡¯d ever been. ¡°I do not,¡± The Other answers, ¡°Remember.¡±


    Bad, so much Bad Gortox doesn¡¯t know how to mitigate it. Should Gortox fly away and return to her lonely musings, to her lonely project of constructing an understanding of the world? Or should she stay here, give herself fully to the sensual urges that her mother had left in her?


    The other turns away and starts making a battle ground for them, burning through a forest and a little human colony at the edge of it, ignoring which animals run faster than others and how the humans react to the fires. She just burns it, and as the flames burst out of her mouth, Gortox feels a great desire ignite in her guts, to kill and eat heart and lay eggs, and seeing that the only alternative is loneliness even more profound than the one she felt before, she succumbs to it.


    #


    There is a long time in which Gortox feels the eggs[2] brew in her. Her instinct guides her to take special care of her abdomen, as if something inside might break, and her teeth fall more often now, as if their white-hardness is being allocated into other places in her body. She can¡¯t wait to share all of these discoveries with the others that will sprout from the eggs within her. She cries now even more than she did before, but she cries with Good, an echo of the Good she expects to come.


    She will stay with her eggs, she will teach them all of her methods - or better yet, be an assistance as the others build their own models of the world.


    When it is time, it is instinct that guides her to find a cave; Instinct that guides her to convulse her cloaca just enough to release a single egg. It is so small - smaller than a single tooth, so fragile and precious.


    So why does Gortox, as soon as she sets eyes on it, feel a Bad so intense that she can either run away, or burn the egg dead? Nothing else. She stands there for a long moment, refusing to surrender either way, feeling as if the two greatest forces in the world are pulling her in opposite directions.


    Finally, when she feels like the fire will burst from her mouth by itself if she stays there one more instant, she leaves the cave, before her violent nature overtakes her.


    Outside of the cave, she stands for a long time, daring to hope, but there is nothing to hope for. If she returns, she¡¯ll kill The precious Other. But what will be of her little offspring, sentient and curious and so alone? Gortox¡¯s tongue finds a loose fang in her mouth, pushes it out. It drops onto the rock, on its side, and Gortox knows that it is not quite enough, as far as clues go. She takes the fang between two claws and erects it at the exit from the cave, produces a jet of fire so hot it melts the stone around it, forming a steady connection.


    There. Gortox has never felt so much Good and Bad at the same time, as when she leaves that clue for her offspring, and understands, finally, the clue that has been left for her.


    Gortox flies towards the next laying spot, and thinks about her life: about her own mother wanting to stay there but not being able to, about how she must have felt - like Gortox feels now. She thinks about how everything she had ever seen was a clue to one great riddle that can never be fully solved and feels a Good for life, for the entirety of it. And Gortox, finally, is no longer alone. [1]