Roger’s world was getting smaller. He could feel it in the way it fit. Like a pair of jeans, shrinking with each wash, it was apparent that he could not wear it much longer. There was a smell, a taste to this place, which reminded him of his childhood; but he couldn’t place the exact memory. It was a sunset slanting through a window, the taste of a dusty screen. The smell of mothballs in his mother’s closet, fresh in Roger’s nostrils. His nose ran. His back hurt. He wiped his damp fingers on his grimy coat, holding out his hand, “Some change, please, ma’am?”

Sally usually would have ignored a homeless bum. But today, on a whim, she turned her head toward him as she passed. “I’m afraid I don’t give directly to the homeless, friend. My charity goes to the Friendship Center, on the north side of town. They feed people like yourself; you might go check it out.” She looked directly at Roger’s gaunt face, and with emphasis she repeated: “Friendship Center.” She continued into the café.

Frank was already there sipping coffee in front of his paper, catching moments of scone between paragraphs. He noticed Sally with a nod and a smile, washed down a few crumbs, and asked, “What’s new?”

“Not much,” she replied on her way to the counter. “You?”

Frank shrugged without comment.

The café stereo played something trendy, a soundtrack to Sally’s exchange of cash with the barista. She chose to wait for her drink before sitting down. What is that song? She wondered, trying to hum along with a new-but-familiar-sounding melody. It’s like something from high school. I can almost remember dancing to it – but… different. No, not the same song, but nice. I’ll have to ask, I bet they sell this CD. At the sidewalk, Roger could hear the same melody from the patio speakers. It made him sad somehow, and he walked away.

“I lied,” confessed Sally after sitting down, “I do have something to report.”

“You do?” Frank asked, eyebrows raised. “New lover? Promotion? Patents pending?”

Sally laughed out loud. “No! Nothing so dramatic, but pretty groovy, nonetheless.”

“Your inner-hippie is showing.”

“Shut up and listen!” Sally was obviously smitten by an eager bug. Frank pocketed his next few comical remarks, and waited.

“Okay,” she continued, “I was at the toy store on 3^rd St. The woman ahead of me at the checkout suddenly gasped, and began rummaging furiously through her purse. She kept repeating ‘Hang on…,’ and looking in all the pockets, ‘Hang on…’ She stopped, looked up at the checker, at me, then back into her purse. Turns out she had lost a hundred dollar bill. She’d set it aside to buy Christmas presents for her kids and it wasn’t there! She turned and apologized to me for the delay. She apologized!”

Frank listened impassively, waiting for the punch line.

“I could tell she didn’t have much money. You know – thrift shop clothes, an overworn purse – you can kinda tell. She had picked good but moderately priced toys, and had set the newspaper ad down on the counter. With a coupon, she had come in just under the one hundred dollar limit.”

“Was this my mom, by any chance?” Frank jumped in, “I don’t want to have to return the Justice League action figure set I just know she got for me…”

“Clamp it, Frank!” Sally took a sip and continued. “She started crying. It was a huge setback for her. I mean, a hundred bucks is a fair sum when you make good money. But when you’re broke, well…” She shook her head. “I paid for the toys.”

“Was she working a scam?” asked Frank. “Sometimes people will use their kids to play on the sympathies of passersby…”

“No way. I could tell which pocket she had kept the money in. She kept checking that spot over and over, as though hoping she’d just missed it. She didn’t cry right away, either. I could see the look on her face when it really hit her, and she tried to hide it. Of course, she wouldn’t let me pay at first. But here’s the important part:  I paid, and then refused to arrange for her to repay me. I mean, she offered and all. But I told her to pay someone who needs it, whenever she gets the chance.”

“Pay it forward, then?” Frank had his usual look of holier-than-thou understanding out in a flash, “This is why you’re all glowing and shit, like Kevin Spacey, changing the world – one tea set at a time? Did you ask her to help out three other people?” A parodic tossing of the head.

Sally was expecting such a remark. “This wasn’t a movie, Frank! And I didn’t actually see that one, anyway. But yes, ‘pay it forward.’  Can’t do it any better than that. It’s the true nature of charity – no strings attached. Helping someone who will not be able to return the favor.” Frank had a contemplative nod going now, Sally continued. “It’s one thing to lend money to a friend. It feels good to help somebody out, you know? But it feels ten times better when you know that you are helping someone who cannot repay you. I’ll probably never see that woman again. That’s part of the deal:  she won’t be able to thank me or anything.”

“What about charitable giving?” Frank interjected. “That’s the same way:  the kids at Shriner’s will never pay you back.”

“Different.” Sally shook her head. “That’s detached, abstract and, I don’t know – it’s good, but not the same. Besides, only a percentage goes to the cause. The rest is overhead for the charity administration.”

“True.” Frank was mulling this over, when his reverie was interrupted by the dishwasher bussing the table. The moment was past.

“Hey, I gotta run,” said Frank. “Catch you tomorrow, huh?”

* * *

Roger’s world was getting smaller. He knew that he could not wear it much longer. There was something glaring at him, though, out of the corner of his eye. He turned to look, but it was gone. Like the memory of words overheard and forgotten, gone like a dream of a different person in another life. There was a smell to this place. It was the enemy of light; dank and foggy. Roger’s stomach was an empty sack, filled only with the ghosts of broken promises. But that memory of words overheard, and forgotten – what were those words? He tried to sift them from the ramblings of his tired mind. North. That woman had said, “North.” Roger was hungry, and the woman had told him something about food “on the north side of town.”

* * *

Frank spotted Sally before she got in the door. He set the paper down, waiting anxiously for her to get her coffee and come to the table. He looked out the window, watching the snow fall on the traffic in the street, on the tops of awnings, in the intersection. In some places, you could see the snowflakes in the air; in others, you could not – but you knew they were there. In front of the streetlights you could see a constant fall of snow, moving quickly through the narrow band of colored light, yet no snow accumulation on the tops of the lamps. On the patio rails and posts there were perhaps three inches piled up, yet no flakes were visibly falling on them. An odd illusion, thought Frank, the dichotomy of snowfall.

“Hey!” Sally’s greeting broke into Frank’s little bubble of existence, reminding him that he was excited to see her.

“Hey there!” Frank paused briefly. “So, you remember our conversation of a few weeks ago, the one about your big Christmas Toy Purchase?”

Sally wiped coffee from her cheek – she had been taking a sip when her giggle took over. “I didn’t ‘buy’ any Christmas toys. I gave someone money, you nut!”

“Right.” Frank slid on. “You felt good about doing a Good Deed for one who would not be able to pay it back – the ‘pay it forward’ thing.”

“Um-hm.”

“I believe your exact words were, ‘You can’t do any better than that.’ Am I right?”

“Well, I may have said something like that…”

Frank gathered himself, like a kitten preparing to pounce. “I’ve got a better one.”

Sally was intrigued by the expression on her usually blasé and comically witty friend’s face; Frank had definitely reached a new level of smug today. “Go on,” she said.

“I used to go ice fishing with my cousin in Michigan.” Sally gave a quizzical look, but Frank continued. “I haven’t gone in years, and my cold weather gear has just been sitting in the closet. Well, you know that guy that runs the newspaper stand two blocks that way?” Pointing. “He’s been there forever. In all weather – heat, rain, and these icy winter storms. He can’t afford a decent jacket. Have you seen the layers of flannels he puts on? I’ve seen him burning stacks of day old newspapers in the garbage can, trying to warm up.”

“So you gave him your jacket?” Sally was wondering how this was better than her story.

“No! Well, yes! But that’s not the point.” A conspiratorial look crept over Frank’s face. “I snuck it into the back of the stand and left a note on it.” Grinning. “A three hundred dollar subzero parka, and he’ll never know it was me who gave it to him.”

Sally was nodding with approval, but had yet to grasp Frank’s intended point. “So, it was an expensive jacket, as a gift?”

Head shaking. “Not important. It could have been a five dollar sandwich. The point is this: There are levels of goodwill. Giving something that cannot be repaid is one. Giving anonymously is another. Not only can that man never repay me, he will never know it was me who gave him the coat! And before you ask, he loves it. I bought this paper from him thirty minutes later,” lifting the newspaper, “and he was wearing it. He looked much happier than he did yesterday!”

“You looked him in the eye afterward?” Sally was elated. “Did you make any remark, compliment him on his jacket?”

“Not a chance!” Frank shook his head, “I didn’t want to give anything away. He might have guessed, and then it would be gone.”

The conversation paused for a moment as the dishwasher picked up Frank’s plate.

“Okay,” Sally said, “that’s a better one. Let me see what I can do.”

“Are you going to try and out-nice me?”

“Scared of friendly competition?”

In lieu of a reply, Frank leaned back, crossed his arms, and looked thoughtfully out the window at the snow, now just a bit higher on the patio rail.

* * *

Roger’s world was very small. There was only him, and a few others, holed up in this last house. Travelers they were, on the road unknown:  a path leading away from the cracked concrete and wind-tortured rumble of the urban wilderness. There was a fire here, yellow and warm.  And a taste, too:  a taste like water from a warm, summer mud puddle with tadpoles in it. Roger looked at the others. Some shared this place; others came and went. Counselors – yes, that was it – counselors during the day. He looked at the letterhead on the papers he’d been given. “Friendship Center.” How long have I been here? He wondered. Roger leaned back on the couch and drifted off into a light sleep.

* * *

“Sometimes life hands you material.” Sally was beaming, suppressed excitement dimpling her cheeks. She sipped her coffee, waiting, refusing to go any further until asked.

Frank obliged. “Alright. Let’s hear it!”

“Ok,” she set down her cup, folded her hands in front of her on the table. “A few weeks ago, I took on the challenge.” She shot an inquiring look across the table. “You know, different levels of charity? I was thinking it over, and anonymous good deeds are fairly easy to come by – you agree?” A nod from Frank. “That was level two, as I recall. So how do I improve on that? Hmm? Well, this morning I had an even better chance fall right into my lap.”

“A ‘Lap Chance’ it was, then?”

“Punny, Frank. Very punny.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

“I was leaving the townhouse, when I noticed a trashy mess on the stoop of my neighbor Helen’s place. I immediately pictured Helen – elderly, living alone – having to deal with it, and thought I’d pick it up for her.” Frank was gathering an unimpressed look. “Hang on! There’s more! So I walk up to her steps, and I realized she’d been vandalized! Two large clay pots – big ones, tall as this table – overturned and smashed on the stairs. Plants everywhere.”

“Wow,” said Frank, serious for a change. “That’s sad.”

“Yeah, well, here’s the good part:  I’ve been admiring these beautiful pots for some time. Terra cotta, nice design. She got them at Rupert’s; I know, because I asked. In fact, I had already gone and bought two of them for my own porch; they were sitting in my garage!” Frank began to nod, seeing the direction this was going. “It’s 6:30. Helen doesn’t move around until midmorning, and she’s likely a heavy sleeper. I gathered up the scattered plants, took them to my place, had them repotted in a few minutes. By the time I left, I had swept her porch and replaced the pots.”

“Well, she certainly won’t know to pay you back for the favor…” Frank began.

“Frank, she won’t even know that she’s gotten a favor!” Sally was completely ecstatic at this point. “Helen will never know that she was vandalized, nor will she have any idea that a caring neighbor took the time to fix it. It was not about the cost of the pots; they’re not that much. I saved her the pain and the work, which was much easier for me than it would have been for her.”

“A good deed for one who will never even know about it.”

“Yeah.”

“That is a new ‘level,’ for sure – the third, it would seem. I don’t know how I could outdo that.”

* * *

Roger’s world was small. But it seemed to fit. He shrugged his shoulders, stretched his back, and stood up. The house felt empty today. Those residents who could had gone on day passes. There was a smell to the air, like hope. It was the scent of a soft breeze, moving dandelion seeds off to their new homes, the taste of long kept fortune cookies just opened from their plastic wrappers.

“How’s it going, Roger?” asked the counselor.

“Good,” Roger said. “My mind gets clearer, every day a little bit clearer.”

“That’s what happens here, Roger.”

“I wish I could remember the person who sent me here. I’d like to thank her.”

“It was a stranger, right? When you were on the street?”

“Yes, but a regular, I think. I can’t remember her face, or anything, really. It just bothers me!”

“Some memories never return, Roger. You were in a very low place. Just be happy that someone sent you to us.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Time is getting close for you to leave here, you know. Next week, you can go looking for a job.”

Roger’s world began to grow.

* * *

Frank arrived at the café at his usual time. It had rained overnight, but the morning sun shone on the early flowers in the window boxes. In perhaps another month, it would be warm enough to leave the windows open; but the café never did so. They would run the air conditioner when it was cooler outside, and the heater when it was warm, as though the building was its own independent ecosystem, with no rhyme or reason, no relation to the rest of the world. Such is the dichotomy of the mindless enterprise, thought Frank. Yet, it has a life of its own.

There was a wallet sitting on the next table. That’s odd… There was a woman sitting there a moment ago... Frank searched the area with a glance, but the owner of the wallet was nowhere to be found. He picked it up. Perhaps there’s an ID, contact info inside. He sat holding the small leather parcel, unwilling to open it, to unceremoniously tromp across the border of someone’s private space. No one was watching; in fact, only a few customers were seated. Most were in line at the counter or leaving with their drinks.

He turned the object over in his hands. No markings to speak of, beyond an ornamental de fleur on the flap. What would be inside? Wallets often held those things most valuable to a person:  a bus pass, driver’s license, medical information. Pictures of small children, and used theater tickets. Business cards from acquaintances and associates, and the cards you have stamped to get your 10th coffee free. There could be locker combinations, keys to safe deposit boxes, and phone numbers. A wallet could contain directions to the prom, positive affirmations, and recipes given in kindness. Reminders, love notes, and sometimes letters that were never meant to be sent. A man’s livelihood might be in his wallet, or a woman’s life. There would probably be sweat in the leather, tears, and spilt perfume. A miniature time capsule of the person who carried it. This would be sorely missed, and the intimate trespass would be forgiven should it lead to the safe return of the wallet. Frank took a quick look around the café before opening the clasp – and there she was.

The woman was coming from the direction of the restroom, heading directly past Frank’s table for the door. She clearly had no inkling of her wallet’s fate. Now what? Frank was aghast, I’ve got a stranger’s wallet in my hand. What… do I just hand it to her? “‘Scuse me ma’am, but would there be a reward for this little trifle?” The momentary embarrassment was fading as the woman reached the door. She stopped, and turned away from Frank. She was getting her jacket from the coat rack.

Preparing to speak, Frank glanced out the window; saw no chance of rain. When he turned to the woman, however, he saw an opportunity. She had her back to him, was putting on her coat. She had set her purse on the floor at her feet. It was open. Frank dropped the wallet into the purse, and turned back to his coffee.

“Hey!”

Frank nearly farted in astonishment – but it was just Sally, approaching the table.

“What’s new?” Frank asked, collecting his shattered nerves and chuckling wildly inside.

“Not much,” she replied as she sat down. “You?”

Frank shrugged without comment.

“No witty remarks today? What’s in the news?”

Frank looked at the paper, folded on the table. “Oh, uh… haven’t read it yet.” Should I tell her? Does this match her secretive replacement of the neighbor’s flowerpots? That was, what, level three? The anonymous good deed for one who will never know a service was performed…

“I think the weather is breaking,” Sally was saying. “Early spring, you think?”

“Possibly. Good weather for good deeds, wouldn’t you say?” This is nice. I like this. That woman will never know. No one saw me. Sally gave a scone-crumbed grin, and nodded. The game was still on. Unless I tell, no one will ever, ever know – not even Sally. Doing good without getting caught! Level four…?

Frank’s thoughts were interrupted by the clatter of cups and saucers to his right. The dishwasher was bussing the next table.

“Hey, you’re new here, aren’t you?” Frank asked amicably.

“Yes,” said Roger. “My first day.”

Sally turned, then paused in mid-smile. “Wait a minute,” she said, brows slightly knit. “Have we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Roger responded. “But my memory is not what it once was.”

Three grins, a round of shrugs, and Roger went back into the kitchen.

“Hey, I gotta run.” Said Frank, “Catch you tomorrow, huh?”

Letters from Mozher Sound
Correspondence 001

(Excerpted from a longer work, in progress.)

Om Waden,

I think I’ve been at this too long.  People are beginning to tease me for the way I talk, because I have fallen into the habit of speaking the old form of English!  It should be no surprise, I suppose – I have spent so much time reading the books of the twenty-first century, it seemed apropos that I should start writing in the style of the ancients.  After years of it, the language has become part of me, a “step-mother tongue,” which falls as naturally from my lips as Amic itself once did.  I think in English, I write in English, I speak it as well.  But, because it is the root language to our more modern Amic, I am understood by my friends, even if they suggest that I should begin dressing as the people did in the 600 year old pictures we see in the Cheyenne Library!

Speaking of the Library, I recently returned from a trip to the mountain home of our great store of benevolent knowledge.  I found a key piece of information, which has put a few straggling shards of the past in order for me.  I’ve composed a new Essay for you, to be placed in the Nyagrodhic Archive, in which I postulate a solution for the long-standing question of the origins of the super-diversified life in the mazes and mires of the Russian Interior jungle.  I look forward to reading your response to the Essay, which you will find at the end of this correspondence.

The Sound has been unusually quiet.  Ever since the clans who had lived at the northern-end moved on (to the coast, I believe) there has been very little activity here. This is the state I prefer, of course – a thin population, peace in which to do my work – that is why I chose the Mozher Sound in the first place.  As researchers, we dedicate our lives to the re-discovery of knowledge.  I suppose you would not truly understand, being a different type of priest than I, but I am sure you must have an intellectual understanding of my heart.  I felt almost alone when I came to your office in the northern range! Surrounded by your bustling network of priests, coming to and fro, working on projects and ideas the likes of which I can only begin to grasp, I felt like an abandoned child, hungry, and small.  When I am inside the Library, under a mountain of rock, in darkness broken by a lamp so small that it only makes the black air surrounding its circle of light seem even darker, I feel connected to the souls of my millions of brothers and sisters, who rely upon my every thought – every word I read – though they know it not.

But I wax nostalgic.  I need to let you know about a few things: First, the pigeons will not be able to reach you for a while.  This will probably me the last message you receive until after the incoming storms subside, we estimate 4 weeks, but it could certainly be longer.  If you are travelling, let me know – the birds can probably make the southern route, if you are down that way.  Second, I hear rumors that there will be a gathering of the Southern Guild near the Grand Canyon, presumably in the area of New Flagstaff.  I know you want to keep tabs on this group, so I wanted to make sure you knew of this event. (Again, the pigeons can reach you there, if you go.)  Third, we have decided not to hold Rites at the Chamber anymore, due to interruptions from the local wildlife.  Instead, we are moving all Ritual services to the school, which carries a double benefit: that of recruiting students to priesthood.

That is about all the important news.  However, I did want to mention an odd thing that has been occurring.  At first, I paid this no attention, but now, I am finding it a little spooky.  For most of the past week I have been finding strange coconuts on the shore, one each day.  The fact that these nuts – which have only rarely been seen here – are arriving at a consistent rate of one per day is unusual enough, but the really weird thing is the markings: each coconut, still in its green outer husk, has a single letter emblazoned upon its face!  These seem to be burned onto the fibrous encasing layer, as if something hot had been pressed against it.  There is no actual charring, simply brown patterns on the surface.  The characters are not perfect, but are clear and distinct.  I have no idea who could be doing this.  In fact, I have no idea how someone could do this – to make the coconuts wash up from Mozher Sound at a specific place daily would be no small feat, while the production of such subtle letters seems almost inhuman.

Well, perhaps my superstitious streak is simply running away with me, and this is only a joke on the part of some of the scholars, I can’t say.  I began piling the things together after the first few days, and reviewing them I find five letters: A, L, R and two E’s.  I don’t know the order in which they all arrived, except that the last two were E and A.  I don’t suppose you can spell anything with that?  Ok, I’m really stepping out of reality to imagine that they would, but what could these Letters from Mozher Sound be, if not a message?  (I laugh!)

I hope this finds you well, uncle Waden, and that you continue to have all that you need.

Namaste,

Blake

Essay: The City of Chernobyl

Om Namah Sivaya. I walk a path that leads from the setting sun to the morning light.  My path shall not divide that which is upon either side, nor will it disturb that which is under foot.  My goal is the betterment of my own self, including the shadow selves I share among those with whom I am rooted.  When I see truth, I record it in keeping with the Nyagrodhic Charge, and everything I record herein is true.  I walk a path that leads from the setting sun to the morning light, and along this path I have found a scrap of the greater cloth.

It has long been held that the unusual fauna found in Europe were the results of irresponsible use of the Ritual of Genesis, and that such mutations as are seen were simply side effects of the quest for desirable traits.  A traveller came to me years ago and, although not a researcher himself, he had taken notes of his adventures in Eastern Europe.  His name was Demetri, and by his account, the biological anomalies were more prevalent the further into the Russian Interior he went.  Further, he found that it was not just animals, but there were wide genetic variations in the plants he saw, as well.  At the time, I recorded his findings, but considered the information simply evidence of wild experiments on the part of some unknown group, perhaps rogue priests who had sought personal gain at the expense of safety.  However, my most recent trip to the Library caused me to reconsider the accounts of Demetri and others in the light of new information from the mid twenty-first century.

During my most recent trip to the Cheyenne Library, I decided to focus on the unsorted books piled in one of the main chambers.  As is the case whenever one searches these massive heaps of manuscripts, I was not looking for anything in particular, I was simply combing the past for anything of use.  I ran across a volume which peaked my interest, primarily because of its date.  Written in 2035, it must have been among the very last of the hard-copy books printed, and is certainly the newest major publication I have yet read.  Titled “Economies of Eastern Europe,” the book details the collapse of the industrial system in the west Russian border region, in particular Poland and the Ukraine.  Although the book focused upon the finances of these countries, the authors made mention of many other related things. Among these, I found out about Chernobyl.

Chernobyl was apparently a small city in the Ukraine, although it does not appear in any of our maps. In the book, Economies, the authors use Chernobyl as an example of work unfinished, due to a lack of funding.  It seems that the city was the site of some kind of industrial accident in the late 20^th century, resulting in the outpouring of radiation into the world.  We know about radiation from other references, most notably the World Book Encyclopedia housed in Cheyenne room 2179, but it is not clear what the source of radiation was in this case.  Whatever the source, references cited in this work claim that something called the “Reactor” at the Chernobyl site will be toxic for thousands of years, and marked the beginning of the exodus from Northern Ukraine.

The example in Economies describes a series of events which I believe relate to my thesis.  The polluting radiation was contained in a temporary structure named the “Sarcophagus,” built in 1986.  This containment building was intended to last 20 years, during which time it was to be replaced with a more permanent edifice.  After 30 years, construction began on what was termed the New Safe Confinement (NSC), but was beset by problems stemming from political changes, and – more importantly – finance.  The NSC was less than half complete when the responsible governmental powers suffered large scale economic collapse.  On the heels of this, the original Sarcophagus finally disintegrated. The year was 2031.  The Ukrainian government had no money to complete the project, and relied heavily upon donations from the other major countries of the world, which were not doing well either.  The NSC was hastily completed with extreme shortcuts in materials, and human labor replacing machines which could no longer be maintained.

Economies of Eastern Europe cites this as an example, and poses questions: “How long will this improvised structure last?”  “Will the region be able to support replacement of the NSC when it fails?”  Of course, there exists no literature from any future period which could answer these questions directly.  However, we have records of stories carried out of Eastern Europe and Scandinavia which seem to suggest that the NSC did fail within the following 150 years.  Mario Henskie described a feeling of “pins and needles” in his face as he approached a crumbling heap, in an area he considered Poland.  Could he have been standing at the Reactor in the city of Chernobyl?  The Encyclopedia identifies a similar sensation as an effect of exposure to very high levels of radiation, and these symptoms seem fairly unmistakable.  Since Henskie’s account was recorded by one of our priests in 2165, it seems clear that the NSC had fallen some time before that.

On top of this, the Mario Henskie records make mention of animals with extra limbs in the area we now call the Russian Interior.  Although we have no direct knowledge of radiation causing such mutations, however, I have made a connection in this way: the Ritual of Genesis mentions the Energy of the Sun as the mother catalyst for the natural process we control in the Rite.  In other words, it is this energy which naturally causes minor mutations in plants and animals, leading to the slow changes in species known to the ancients as evolution.  Since we have been given the Ritual of Genesis, we have taken control of this process, of course, but here is the interesting bit: There are books in the Library which refer to the sun’s energy as “radiation.”   Is it possible that there is a commonality between “solar radiation” and the toxic emission from the Reactor at Chernobyl?

I now suggest that there is.  We have long noted that there exists a tract of nearly impenetrable jungle in a land once filled with dense cities, surrounded by continuous farmland.  While the world abounds with abandoned cities, nowhere else do we find such a profound splendor of life supplanting the Old World as we do in the Russian Interior.  Furthermore, our more recent records show that the deeper one penetrates this dense forest, the more bizarre the biology becomes: there are forms of life – beings – which exist in the Interior which do not seem to have parallels anywhere else in the known world.

As I mentioned above, we had once thought that experiments in Europe had gotten out of control, and been release into the wild unchecked.  However, that does not really explain why the plants and animals both seem to become more removed the further east you look.  And now, there come very recent rumors from our reclusive friends in Finland.  An unidentified group of gleaners travelled out of Helsinki, scavenging the old ruins of Sankt Peterburg.  Failing to come up with much of interest beyond a few scraps of metal, several of the group decided to continue south, while the others headed back.

As the story goes, they began to have difficulties as they entered the fringe of the Russian Interior.  Several of their pack animals were lost to predators, and the small band became disoriented in the woods.  Apparently they holed-up for a while in an area that they later decided must have been the outskirts of Moskva, working to replenish their provisions by foraging in the dense jungle.  They remained camped for several weeks, sending out short expeditions in all directions.  The journals of these people have been copied and sent to the Nyagrodhic archives, and present the only account we have of exploration into the northern edge of the Russian Interior.

The gleaner’s stories bear a striking similarity to those of the well-known travelers from Europe: the further one travels into the densest parts of the interior, the more unique the beings become.  I found this so interesting, that I began to map the positions of the different records that we have explorations, recent and old, of the jungle.  From these points of reference, it became apparent that there is a definite mid-point of its density. It seems that the mutated plants and animals all radiate outward from a center, getting more diffuse as the distance increases.  On my map, the center of the Russian Interior is not even in Russia at all, but Ukraine: it is exactly on a city named Pripyat.

I have no way at this time of determining the proximity of Pripyat and Chernobyl.  It is possible that the cities are near each other, but one is on the maps we have and the other is not.  Perhaps Chernobyl lay across the border in Belarus, for which the maps we have are not as good.  However, the location information given by Mario Henskie coincides with my projected center.  All indications are that the radiation pollution leaking from the Reactor at Chernobyl is responsible for the lush and remarkable jungle which today covers most of Eastern Europe, and constitutes the most densely teaming mass of beings found anywhere in the known world.

What does this say about our methods?  The Ritual of Genesis gives us command of the living world, shaping it to be what we decide is best.  We have been performing the Rite for at least 460 years, since the founding of the order of Nyagrodha, and with it have removed many beings from the random influences of evolution.  Perhaps I am making assumptions which are incorrect.  Was it really an industrial accident which took place in this ancient city of Chernobyl?  Perhaps the myriad mutations were by design, intended by the inventors of this Reactor, whatever it is.  It could be that the powers which sought to cover the Reactor up were actually in opposition to these plans, and sought to destroy the work of these forward thinkers.

I walk a path that leads from the setting sun to the morning light.  My path shall not divide that which is on either side, nor will it disturb that which is under foot.  My goal is the betterment of my own self, including the shadow selves I share among those with whom I am rooted.  In keeping with the Nyagrodhic Charge, I have recorded the truth I have seen.  I offer this, a scrap of the greater cloth, to my shadow selves.  Namaste.

Evidence:

In the Cheyenne Library there is a book named Economies of Eastern Europe, which tells us that the Reactor was leaking radiation in the ancient city of Chernobyl. All of this has been recorded in keeping with the Nyagrodhic Charge.

In the Cheyenne Library there is a set of books named The World Book Encyclopedia, which tells us about the principles of radiation. All of this has been recorded in keeping with the Nyagrodhic Charge.

In the Nyagrodhic archive there are copies of journals from an unidentified group of gleaners in Helsinki, Finland, which tell us about the number and diversity of beings in Northern edge of the Russian Interior.

Stories have been told about the number and diversity of beings in the Western edge of the Russian Interior.  I have recorded this in keeping with the Nyagrodhic tradition of namaskar.

Other stories have been told about the number and diversity of beings in Western edge of the Russian Interior.  Fellow priests have recorded these in keeping with the Nyagrodhic tradition of namaskar.

Vern read the article no less than three times, then set the paper down on the table next to his half-eaten breakfast. Why was this in the B-section?  “I don’t know which is more incredible,” he spoke aloud to the empty chair across from him, “the fact that they can make you younger, or the fact that this is not on the front page!” The empty air seemed to nod in agreement with Vern.

He gazed out the kitchen window for several minutes in sun-dappled silence. There were no animals to feed. There was no work to do. His shoes were on. The mental checklist of self-discipline that had served him so well was falling into a state of disrepair. There were no letters to write. No car to wash. The garbage had been taken out by the little boy next door who came by every morning on his way to school – or was it work? Did Danny have a job now? Yes, that was it – on his way to work. But Vern did not have a job, and hadn’t for many years. The grandchildren were back to school now, and the house was once again silent – probably until Thanksgiving. Vern was bored. And there was no reason he could think of why he should not call that company right now. No reason at all, except that there was no contact information in the article…

* * *

It wasn’t until Tuesday afternoon that Vern got his first real lead into locating the Fountain of Youth.  Knock, knock, knock, at the door.  “Who’s there?”

“Pizza delivery.”

“Come in, come in. Let me get you the money.” Vern left the young man in the foyer and stepped into the next room. “Are you on foot?” he asked.

“No, sir, I drove my car. We get paid mileage for doing deliveries. It works out pretty well.”

“You get around, then? I don’t suppose you ever deliver to Fountain of Youth, do you?”

“Umm, no.” The pizza guy was looking down, fingers pecking at his phone, when Vern reappeared. “You mean the massage place in Hollywood? That would be out of my territory – we only deliver as far inland as Beverly Hills.”

Vern was laughing, holding the cash out, “No! Although I may look them up, too! No, there’s an outfit called ‘Fountain of Youth, Inc.’ It’s a medical group.”

“Yeah,” fingers still flicking the face of the small device, “I see them in Torrance. Yelp has a phone number, but no street address…”

Vern’s hand dropped to his side. “Could you read that to me?” The kid looked so young, so casual, so unconcerned. The phone book had failed to turn up anything. So had calls to his doctor, and to Directory Assistance. Vern had even tried calling the paper, but that had gotten him nowhere. However, a pizza driver with a smartphone had found the company on the Internet in less than two minutes. The boy only shrugged and said “Sure. It’s 310-555-3468. But it’s only got 2 out of 5 stars and looks like the reviews kinda suck.”

* * *

“I’m profoundly glad to meet you!” accompanied the generous handshake in the office of one Rosner Jobe. “Most people just call me ‘Jobe,’ since they say my first and last names sound reversed. Please take a seat…take a seat my friend!”

The office was simple, but well appointed. Black velvet drapes were breaking over a fiery cherry wood floor, with white casings and cream walls lending a stately feel to the place. It reminded Vern of a law office, rather than a clinic. There was a pond visible through French doors, over a veranda…

“Was the ride to Torrance okay?” Jobe asked. “The driver took care of you?”

Vern’s attention was drawn back to the room. “Yes, yes, of course. I was a little surprised. I called to ask some questions, you see, but they asked so many of me over the phone that I never got anywhere with mine. Next thing I know, they made this appointment, for… what is this appointment for again?”

Rosner Jobe had the kind of smile that might bring an early spring, and he was quick to brighten. Although he must have been in his late fifties, he wore a mainstream hipster haircut that one might expect on a man half his age. “This appointment, Vern Wilson, is your evaluation. I’d like to stress the word ‘your.’ I will answer any questions you have to the very best of my ability. Where would you like to start?”

Vern considered this a moment. “Well, I suppose I have one big question, really. Can you actually make me young again?”

A reassuring grin this time. “Mr. Wilson – that is exactly what we will be discussing.” Jobe touched a panel on his desk, and fixed his gaze on Vern’s face. “The questions they asked during your phone interview are intended to screen out unqualified prospects. You have passed that gate. Now that you’re here with me, I will be asking questions designed to match you up with our services. There are many questions, my friend, but we can take a break any time you like. If you want to stand up, move around, use the restroom, get a drink… I want you to feel perfectly comfortable. Ready?”

Vern nodded.

“Excellent! According to the phone interview, you are eighty-seven years old. Health is good. No heart problems, no history of cancer, no major surgeries. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“All of this is true for immediate family as well. No family history of long-term illnesses. Correct?”

“Correct.”

“No hypertension or other blood pressure issues?”

“None.”

“Diabetes?”

“No.”

“Cystic Fibrosis?”

“No.”

“Muscular dystrophy?”

“No.”

“Haemophilia?”

“No.”

“Thalassemia?”

“What the heck is that?”

Jobe grinned. “You’d know, if it was in your family. Have any of your relatives, as far as you are aware, ever been told that they have a genetic disorder of any kind?”

Vern contemplated a moment. “Not that I can think of.”

“Good! No brain issues – Alzheimer’s, dementia, or such?”

“Well, my memory is a bit slow to respond sometimes…”

Jobe let his hands rest on the desk for a moment, fingertips touching lightly in a steeple. “That’s different. When you’ve had a full life, sir, your brain gets very full, too. Ever try to get a can of soup out of a very full cupboard? Well, that took a little shuffling around, right? We won’t worry about that kind of thing.”

Vern smiled at the soup can metaphor.

“How many children do you have, Mr. Wilson?”

“One son.”

“How old?”

“Ray’s fifty-five, I think. Could be fifty-six…” Vern’s brows knit as he tried to recall his son’s birth year.

“Great. What does Ray do for a living?”

“He’s a veterinarian. He has his own shop now, in Pasadena.”

“I bet he’s like his father – responsible, thrifty, saving for retirement, that kind of thing…?”

“Yes, I taught my boy to live beneath his means. He even paid for most of his college with money he saved in high school.”

“That’s fantastic! You must be very proud of him. Did he inherit your good health, too?”

“I am, and I suppose he did. I have a question…”

The tiniest pause in Jobe’s smile this time. “Sure, Mr. Wilson. Ask away!”

“What kind of procedure are we looking at? Will I be taking medicine, or is there surgery? Is this some kind of therapy? Will it continue on and on?” Vern was clearly beginning to worry about the process itself.

Jobe seemed relieved. “Mr. Wilson.” A mock stern look, both hands flat on the table. “Let’s you and I get some fresh air.”

Once upon the veranda, Vern realized that the “pond” was more of a reflecting pool. Neat, marble-capped borders were planted with native reeds and marsh grasses, creating a semi-natural effect. Like a tamed version of nature, very organic, but orderly.

Jobe produced bottles of water from a refrigerated box near the rail. “Mr Wilson,” he began, “that was more than one question.” A chuckle seemed to dance in Jobe’s eyes, though his lips were pursed. “What if I told you that none of those things would happen to you? Would that ease your concern? I can assure you that you have nothing to worry about, for reasons which will become clear to you very soon.”

Vern sat down in a chair that seemed to appear behind him. It was like a weight suddenly had been lifted from his shoulders. Without realizing it, Vern had been brooding over this whole thing, slowly becoming more and more fearful in the four days since he had made that call. He had been concerned over the procedure. He had wondered what sort of poking and prodding he would be subjected too. But every year was getting shorter, while every hour got longer. Vern had clung to his resolve – determined that any price would be worth it, if he could just go back in time…

After a long moment of silence, “You can feel it, can’t you?” Jobe’s voice was ethereal, like an angel, while the sun behind him gave the appearance of a halo around his tousled locks. “We haven’t done anything to you – nothing at all – but you can feel the waves of youth coursing through your veins.” Vern was entranced. “Mr. Wilson, there is much more to age than time. Much, much more. Time is like a map. If you follow the map, you will go places, it’s true. The branches in the roads – eddies, currents, and tidal forces; choices, opportunities, regrets for the road not taken. One day, the map is fresh, clean, and new; another, the map is stained, wrinkled, and won’t fold up. Time has passed, and the map has been crisscrossed a thousand times. But going places is not what makes following the map interesting. It’s what you take. The thing that makes it interesting is what you have with you. It is not the car seat that wears the holes in your pants, my friend – look at the shapes of the holes! It’s the stuff in your pockets! You can travel all over the world, brother, but the thing that changes is not the world, or even the map – it’s you. In some cases,” Jobe was leaning forward now, still touching the rail, but bent at the middle to get closer to Vern’s chair, “this kind of change can happen without traversing the map at all.”

Vern made a conscious decision to close his mouth.

“You know what I mean, don’t you, Mr. Wilson? You can be young again, without any help from us. Young inside.”

“Then, is this a trick? You don’t really have the technology…?”

“I didn’t say that.” Jobe straightened up, and half turned to gaze at the wall beyond the reflecting pool, where the purple trumpet vines were just beginning to lose their flowers. “We have the technology, alright. We can do exactly what that article said.” He turned back to face Vern. “In fact, I think we can help you, but it will not be what you came here hoping to find.”

Vern was feeling somewhat confused, but the smiling face, and uber-friendly demeanor of his host had put him at ease. He waited.

“Mr. Wilson, the miracles we perform take time. They take eleven years, to be exact, plus another seven years of adjustment. While it’s true that your health is very good, I cannot say with any certainty that it is sufficient to hold out long enough to take advantage of our service. That is only part of the bad news. The other part is that you cannot afford it. While you have retired well, you possess less than one quarter of the required capital.”

This was spoken with such a matter-of-fact tone that Vern almost missed the indication that he would not be able to get what he came for – what he had so fervently hoped for. Then Jobe continued.

“But there is good news. You are the kind of man we are looking for. We will work with you, and you will find that everything we’ve told you is true. The Fountain of Youth will be given to you, and you will feel it quicken your pulse. It will breathe new life into you, and quiet the creak of your aging bones. But you will not drink from the Fountain yourself – you will pass it on to your son.”

* * *

Ray Wilson was slightly taller than his father, although this had only been apparent in recent years.  He stood up and began pacing the short length of his living room. He turned to face the other three. “Why haven’t I heard of this? This sounds like a scam. Why isn’t everyone doing it?”

The brief pause that followed was intentional. Everything had been discussed in advance, and this question had been anticipated. It was Joshua Rentin, founder and advocate, who defended Fountain of Youth, Inc.

“Mr. Wilson,” he began with a carefully calculated sigh, “please believe me when I say that I know how this sounds. People have been searching for a magical fountain of youth for centuries, with no luck. Now that we have the technology, why isn’t it mainstream? Why is it not advertised on every channel? How come the major news outlets are not flinging feature stories in every direction? I truly wish it could be so, but it is not.” Joshua paused to look around the room. Rosner Jobe sat placidly, his beaming smile on idle for the moment. Vern Wilson was enthralled, anxious to jump in and market this opportunity to Ray, but restrained by his promise to withhold evangelizing until the end of the presentation.

Joshua continued. “The best way to help you understand is to explain the process, and how we got to where we are now. What we will do, Mr. Wilson, is to clone you a new body. When the body is ready, we perform a brain transplant, putting your current brain in your new body. Everything that makes you ‘you,’ gets trans –“

“Isn’t this illegal?” Ray interrupted. He looked quickly back and forth at Jobe and Joshua. “I mean, cloning humans was outlawed before it was even possible. There’s no way you could be doing it in this country. Are we going overseas to do this, or…?”

“You are, in part, correct.” Joshua Rentin conveyed sympathy with his voice, but his face remained stern. “There are ethical concerns, which is one reason for our lack of advertising. Our only ‘marketing’ is the occasional press release, and that – well, we intentionally spin that to sound like a scam. To be blunt, it keeps the protesters off our backs. As long as they think we’re fakes, they aren’t concerned.”

“But, the law…”

“Yes, you are correct when you say that ‘cloning humans is illegal.’ We have a loophole. As currently defined, a ‘human’ is not only the physical body, but must include a mind. If there is no mind, and no potential for one to develop, then the body cannot – for legal purposes – be considered human. Your cloned body will not actually have any higher brain functions, we’ll see to that. The first ‘mind’ to occupy your new body will be the one that you carry with you right now, or rather, just over eleven years from now.”

There was a pause, designed to allow the new information to sink in. Ray sat down, his thoughts settling, but with new questions beginning to form. Jobe was watching Ray’s face, observing this marker. He glanced quickly at Joshua, and stepped in with the next phase of discussion.

Now it was Jobe’s turn to play his hand. “Imagine,” Jobe’s face conveyed awe, his quiet tone sifted by the evening air, “just imagine standing at the beginning of your life, and looking forward – not with the undisciplined, meaningless mind of a child – but with your adult mind.” He stood, and moved slowly about the room. “You will be eleven years old. For all intents and purposes, it will be for the first time – all debts, regrets, and everything you own will be gone. It will be like a tornado came and wiped your life off the face of the planet. But you – the person who sits in that chair – will have been blown to Oz. You will begin the trip down that Yellow Brick Road, but this time, you will already know the way.”

Another pause. Ray looked as though he would speak, but seemed to think better of it. He took a sip of tea, his brows furrowing.

Jobe continued. “I know this is quite a bit to digest.” Nodding thoughtfully. “It feels like you would be giving up your life. But you are not – you are transforming into a new being. Like a butterfly emerging from its chrysalis, you become an entirely new creature. People often assume that you would simply continue your current life, but doing so in a new body. My friend, this is not the case at all. You will remember your previous life; that’s part of the fun. But once you leave it and start anew, you will find that you don’t actually think about it. Human nature is such that once we shed the old life, we no longer care about it. Yes, you will give up all attachments: all friends, all property, even your name. It’s a Buddhist’s dream, I suppose, but it’s just a side effect of the process. There are no regrets. You really, really feel like you are at the beginning, but this second time through you have all of your previous knowledge to draw on. It’s a bit like having a superpower; because of your lifetime of experience, you will have a huge advantage over your peers.”

“Peers?” Ray was suddenly electric. “Like, kids? You don’t mean I’ll be back in middle-school….?”

One of Jobe’s winning smiles rewarded Ray’s panicky tone. But at this juncture it was Joshua who stepped in. “You can attend school, if you like, but I suspect you will not. After the surgical portion, the brain transplant, there will be a period of adjustment. This takes years, and you will be placed in a foster home. It’s all included, and part of the process. Your foster family will know what you have been through, but they will treat you as a child. This is actually very, very important. You see, Mr. Wilson, for this procedure to work, the brain must experience puberty in the new body. Post-puberty transplants always fail. Our procedure involves administering drugs which enhance the body’s natural brain development capacity during puberty. By roughly age eighteen, you will be completely adjusted.”

“You never answered my first question: Why isn’t everyone doing this? There are plenty of people with cash. I know they would pay.”

“You are quite right.” Joshua now chose to address the question directly. “Our predecessors once had the same thought: wealthy people would certainly pay a fair price for the opportunity to be young again. The scientists who developed the technology were prepared to go down that path. Unfortunately, this thing we have here, it’s not like other medical procedures. This is much more complex than simply resetting the dial on your life’s timer.

“There are other issues. For starters, there would be public outcry. Imagine if the Fountain of Youth were simply the providence of the very rich.” There were a few nods around the little table. “Once the FDA was involved, they would put a moratorium on the procedure, pending ‘research.’ Pretty soon, the original team would have the IRS at the door, asking questions about inheritance, property ownership, various portions of the tax code that would be – or could be – affected. Then there would be altogether new ideas to explore. Like adoption – could a son adopt his now teenaged father, and put him as a dependent on his health insurance? Too many questions. By the time I came along and formed Fountain of Youth, Inc, the outlook was fairly dim. Jobe here is the one who struck a deal with the government, and that’s why we operate the way we do today – select cases, chosen from the middle class only. We have a deal with the Feds. They let us perform the procedure, but only under strict conditions.”

Jobe slid in from the side. “Yes, there are rules, but I think we can all see the benefits: society wins, the child wins, and the parent wins. It’s like a baseball game in which certain, select players are allowed to run the bases twice. The scores go up, hot dog sales go up, the fans are happy, the coaches shake each other’s hands with well-earned congratulations. But in this case the other players don’t know the difference. No one will be able to tell that you are rejuvenated. Your father, Vern, has brought us here today to offer you this gift, including his own nest egg as a substantial portion of the payment.”

Vern saw his cue coming just in time to gather his words, yet – in spite of the coaching he had received – he found that he need only say what he really felt. “Ray, you are my legacy to the world. Like every parent, I want the best for you. I want you to have the things I never could. My time is over – or will be, before long. Just knowing that I could help give you… this chance, well, it would…” Vern ended his plea with a small sob, which drifted across the coffee table to his son, who picked it up and held it close to his chest.

The deal was closed. There were no questions left. Ray signed the preliminary proposal, and was promised a detailed contract within the week.

* * *

They sat on the veranda, having drinks in the artificially cool afternoon. Joshua looked at Jobe over the tops of his glasses, eyebrows raised. “So how did Wilson pencil out?”

“Quite well.” Jobe touched a panel on the bar. “In fact, you are going to love this.  Between the portfolios of Mr. senior and Mr. junior, our fixed costs for the procedure itself are covered, with a bit of cushion.  My ongoing negotiations with the IRS finally paid off, and they are dropping the disbursement tax. For legal purposes, Fountain of Youth is now essentially a retirement plan – 401(k) funds and such can be transferred to us with no penalty.” A round of grins. “Junior agreed to continue working in his current life to age sixty-seven, and the Feds gave us full credit for all of his anticipated Medicare, VA and Social Security benefits, which he will no longer need. They’re writing us a check for three million, seven hundred ninety-eight thousand, three hundred ten… and… sixteen cents. This will more than cover the foster home for junior, until he grows up and gets back in the game.  In fact, we should be at least a million in the black on that part, probably much more.  But our real profit comes from junior himself:  He agreed to give us a little note, for nine hundred thousand dollars.  Once we factor in the interest accrued during his new childhood and the contractual adjustments tied to inflation, and because this is amortized over the expected period to his earliest retirement at fifty-five, he will have actually paid out about four million bucks.  Of course I’ve already sold the loan, so we’ll have that cash about thirty days from now.” He looked up from the screen, touched it dark.

Joshua turned in his barstool and leaned back against the counter. A waning crescent was rippling in the blue sky of the reflecting pool. “Dad really sold it, you know. We may have had Ray Wilson on the merits of our pitch, but Mr. senior put him solidly in the game.”

“Yes, I’d say several million solid,” said Jobe. “This is the biggest haul yet, you know. With our cost going down on each new contract, we’ve done pretty well on this one.”

Joshua was mildly indignant. “‘Biggest haul’? You make it sound like a swindle.”

Jobe looked at his business partner, paused briefly and then said, “Just because a story is true, my friend, does not make it real.”

Joshua shot back, “He will live a new life. Just like we told him.”

“He will be a slave,” Jobe replied, raising his glass in mock toast.

“Of whom? No one will own this man.”

“You know as well as I do – if our projections are correct, he will forget the pain of losing his well-earned retirement, and do this again in fifty-four years. Only next time he will go deeper into debt to do it.”

“Yes, and again, and again after that. But every time, his reward will be youth – he will not have to endure the wasting away in retirement that others do.”

Jobe’s face held no trace of a smile. “Then why don’t you do it, Josh?”

On the far edge of the reflecting pool, the silvery moon was setting behind the inverted wall, while purple trumpets heralded its retreat.