(A side conversation, edited out of The Human Scale)

“You know how sometimes, in a grove of oak trees,” Indy began as though they had already been chatting, “sometimes there are little groups of smaller oaks clumped together?  I mean, there might be lots of giant oaks in the grove, of such size as would take two or three people to touch hands around the trunk.  But then every so often you will find a clump of smaller ones, and these will always be arranged in a ring.  You’ve seen this?”  Jill wasn’t sure, but nodded anyway, and Indy continued, “This happens when one of the big trees has been cut down.  Fifty years ago, or maybe a hundred.  Just long enough for some branches to form around the remaining stump, and those branches to eventually grow into trees. That’s why they form little rings.  The stump may be long gone now, leaving only a little circle of sister oaks.”

Jill realized that there were trees outside like this, on the property.  “Yes,” she said, “that makes sense.”

“Sometimes, you will see a forest composed only of such tree-rings. Ring after ring, easily mistaken for branching trunks, but really all growing from old stumps.  A forest like that would have been, as some time in the past, completely razed.  Lots of clear-cutting went on during the Gold Rush. Whole hillsides of nothing but stumps.”  Indy paused, and added, “But now there are how many trees?  Three, or even four of them for every one that was cut?  Like a slow-motion hydra, over hundreds of years, many lifetimes, the forest multiplies in the face of injury.”

“Did you just read that?”  Jill was looking at the stack of books on the coffee table, trying to see which it might have come from.

“No,” Indy said. “I don’t really know where that came from.  It sounds like the kind of thing my mother would have told me, but I don’t recall her saying it.” He paused. “I think of it now, because it describes martyrdom, in a way.  If the tree had lived, it would have grown old, and eventually fallen over.  However, by being cut down, its power is multiplied.” Jill stared blankly, as though the room were on fire, and no one else was noticing. 

“You’re telling me that Desirae’s death will be worth it,” Jill said, “is that what you mean?”

“No.”  Indy was shaking his head. “Desirae is more powerful now that she is gone than she was while she carried the torch for us.  Now her plans have been picked up by a mob of people who will storm the castle in her name.  They will probably make a difference.  In fact, this generation of activists will likely change everything.  But, no, it’s not ‘worth it.’ It isn’t, in the same that the little rings of oaks have not replaced the groves.  The old forest is gone, it is not coming back.  The new forest remains to be seen.  It’s different.  It’s unstoppable.  It’s a miracle. It’s a radical evolution, and an overwhelming wave of progress.  It’s many things, but there is no worth here, no value in conflict.” Indy paused. “There is no trade, no exchange.  More trees do not make more value. The river only flows one way.”

Jill started to speak, then stopped.  After several minutes of contemplation, she said, “I’m going home.”

Indy nodded. “Good call.”  He stirred the embers of the fire a bit and closed the damper.  He gathered the empty teacups from the coffee table and followed Jill out of the room in silence.

---

Note: Adult theme, some graphic content. May not be suitable for all ages or audiences.

1. Friday Afternoon

“Rumor has it this is your super-power,” John remarked casually as he steered the car onto the highway.  The mountain home was perhaps thirty minutes out from the city, and John wanted to make sure he’d learned what he could about his special guest before they got there.  On arrival, there would be other people around, and probably little time to talk privately.

Indy smiled. “Super-power? If that was a text, I’d respond with the laughing-to-tears emoji.” 

John chuckled, then asked, “Well, what is it, then?  The counselors call it ‘magic.’ They say your readings can change everything for their clients.” The radio was playing softly in the background, with Indy bouncing slightly to the music, but now John turned it down further, barely audible against the quiet road noise of the sedan. Indy stopped his microdancing and focused (somewhat) on his host.  John went on. “I’ve known you in passing for a while now, but I have no idea what they could mean.  I just know that Dan said to take you along this weekend.  He said you might be able to reach out to Cammi, get her to come out of her shell.” John paused with a glance at his passenger, then added, “Dan’s not just the director of a successful rehab, he’s a good friend of mine.  He wouldn’t be sending his receptionist with me today without some good reason.”

“Office manager, actually.” Indy said this absently, his eyes searching the farmland along the road, as though the fields that slid past the car windows held an answer that he might use.  The question John was asking had come up many times over the years.  Friends, lovers, family members, even the occasional stranger had asked essentially the same thing, usually in the form of, “How do you do that?”  Indy had given many different answers to this question.  Usually he would give only a brief response, like “it’s magic,” or “I’m just cleaver,” or “a little bird told me.”  Other times, he would give the long answer, about how empathy works, and his own natural ability to respond to the vibrations of his fellow beings.  Once in a while, he would be honest.  After a few moments of silence, Indy said simply, “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know, or you won’t tell me?” John looked mildly amused, but his tone was direct. “My curiosity is getting, well – is it like, a secret, or something?  Are you a cold reader?”

“No.  That’s not it.”  Indy sighed as he decided to try, once again, to describe what this thing was like for him.   “It’s like this: sometimes when I meet someone, I get this feeling.  It gets my attention.”

“So, you’re saying you’re psychic?”

“No,” Indy shook his head, “I really don’t believe in telepathy.  It’s more like an impression.  It’s like… I blink, and then think, ‘There’s something I need to say to her,’ but I have no idea what it is.  It makes me want to talk to her, to learn more about her.  Pretty much every time this happens, I eventually learn that she has been abused as a child, like molested.  Somehow, I pick up on this, and it generates an emotional response.”

John was clearly skeptical, and more than a little concerned.  “So, you have a thing for abused women?” he asked, “That’s kinda sick, you know…”

Indy would have laughed, but he had gotten this question many times as well.  “When I was younger, I used to believe I was falling in love whenever this thing happened, but I’ve learned to think of it as something else.  Perhaps you could call it a protective instinct.  Like there’s still a scared child inside this adult women, and I feel called to help.  In fact, I tend to think of a woman who evokes a very strong reaction in me as having an emotional ‘beacon’ lit up.  Like she’s broadcasting on some frequency I can hear.”

“You’re describing empathy.  We’ve all heard of empaths – isn’t that what you are talking about?”

“No.  I don’t know, I guess.”  Indy was shaking his head, “I think the idea of an empath is the same as telepathy.  That’s magic. This is real.”

“But you were born this way, right?  If you’ve always been this way, it must be some kind of innate ability.  So, I’m going back to calling it a super power!”

Indy actually laughed aloud – this was a new remark, and refreshing change from rehashing the threadbare explanations he had given time-after-time.  “Yes, I think you’re right!  It’s definitely my super-power!”  His laugh faded, and he added, “But I was not really born this way.” 

John’s eyebrows were raised slightly as he took a longish look at his passenger, but said nothing.

“Here’s what I think happened.  First, I was abused as a boy. I mean, I don’t ‘think’ that happened, I know that part is true.  I was molested by the pastor of a church near my house.  Repeatedly.  This may sound odd, but it was not actually a bad experience at the time.  The man was nice enough, and always seemed so caring and, well, priestly.” 

Indy paused to gather his thoughts a bit.  Outside the window, the landscape had changed from rolling hills to the rocky bluffs of the low mountains they would soon ascend.  Indy was trying to visualize their destination from the descriptions Dan had given.  A “cabin in the mountains,” later said to have “at least five bedrooms.”  Cabin?  Must be quite a big cabin to have such space. 

A sudden stab of curiosity prompted Indy to ask, “How big is your place?  Dan makes it sound like you have a lot of room.”

“Right around five thousand square feet, I think.  It was originally built as a retreat center for architecture students.  Don’t remember the man’s name, but I guess he was a Frank Lloyd Wright wannabe. I got it cheap.”  Brief pause.  “So… you were saying something…?”

Indy sighed again. “This bit is hard to talk about, but not for the reasons you might think.  I’ve come to terms with what happened.  But – like grief – it doesn’t really go away, even if you’ve learned to cope.  In fact, I suppose that is exactly what it is: grief.  It’s a sense of loss. It’s like my internal sense of self, the corporeal home of my spirit, had been invaded by a trespasser while it was still under construction. Boundaries crossed before they even existed.  If you have not had it happen, there is no way for you to understand.  For those of us who have, this feeling of violation is unmistakable, not like anything else.”

John made a small noise, as though he would speak, but seemed to change his mind.  In a moment, he tried again.  “So, I get that you have had a horrifying experience, and I am guessing you feel like you share something with other people who have had something similar?”

“Not exactly, and yes, and no.  It was not horrifying.  Like I said, the pastor was kind to me.  It wasn’t until later that I realized it was wrong, and that I’d been violated.  I suppose it worked something like this: I was born predisposed to some kind of intuitive talent.  Then, my own experience fine-tuned that intuition.  I think this perspective does cause me to resonate with certain people, but the feeling I get is not commiseration, it’s – as I mentioned – a protective instinct.  As far as I can tell, this is why it happens with women who were abused.  It has almost never happened with men, and I can’t think of any reason why not, except that I do not feel protective over them.”

“I see.  So, this is why Dan hired you at the rehab – it’s a women’s facility, right?  But, you aren’t a counselor, you’re a recept….”

“Office manager,” Indy chuckled.  “Actually, I’m a writer.  I make more than half my living off of reviews, blog posts, and the occasional article in one of a handful of magazines I freelance with.  I have no desire to be a counselor, and probably would suck at it – not my temperament.  Dan and I became acquainted years ago through a mutual friend, and – Dan being the way Dan is – he saw an opportunity to use me in his front office.  I like it, and he pays me ok – certainly very well for a receptionist.” 

“Office manager.”

“Just checking!  Anyway, it’s not like I report my radar detections to him, he can just tell by the way I act.  When a new client comes in, the more I like her, the worse condition she’s in.  It helps Dan’s staff know where to start, or when there is more to uncover, I guess.  It’s kinda crazy, but I’m Dan’s canary in the mine.  When I stop singing, they know there’s poison in the air!”

“Well,” said John, “we’ll have to see how you do with Cammi.  She came to us by way of some friends, but they wouldn’t tell us exactly why she needed a place to stay.  They just said we’d have to ask her what happened…”

Indy clamped his hands over his ears in mock deflection, saying, “No advanced information, please!  No preconceived notions!”

John, laughing out loud, said “As far as she knows, you’re just one of the guests, here for Saint Patrick’s Day dinner and a couple of days at the lake. In reality, the same is true for you – you are part of my extended family for the weekend, no expectations beyond green beer, corned beef and perhaps a few games of bocce ball.”

2. Saturday night, late

Jill found Indy in the den, perusing her and John’s extensive and diverse collection of books.  There was a small stack of books on the table, while Indy was holding a poetry anthology.  There was a fire in the stove, but the damper was mostly closed.  The flames moved slowly back and forth in search of air, licking the glass black with their sooty breath.  Most of the house was asleep, or soon would be.  Jill had only stayed up to help John put dinner away, and prep for breakfast.  Now he’d gone to bed, but she was too wound up to go to sleep.

Jill remarked, “You and Cammi seem to have hit it off pretty well.”

“She’s nice.”

“Dan told us of your talent. He seemed to think you would be able to help us understand her.”

Indy seemed to pivot. “Where did she come from?”

“She’s a friend of a friend.  They contacted us.  All we know is she needed a place to stay, perhaps to retreat for a while.  Honestly – she came with nothing but the cloths she had on.  We figured we’d get more details from her, but we don’t want to pry and she doesn’t offer anything up.”

Jill was tall, with an imposing air in spite of her slender frame.  Realizing that she was towering over her seated guest, she sat down in the couch across from Indy, who relaxed visibly once the field had become more level.  There was a tacit question attached to the end of Jill’s sentence, but Indy didn’t bite.  Instead, he asked about breakfast.

“Corned beef hash and eggs – it’s a tradition, uses up leftovers.” Jill paused, then decided to be more direct.  “So, is what Dan said true?  Can you read minds?”

Indy set down the book, and shifted in his seat.  Jill was sitting directly across the coffee table from him.  He shifted again, leaning forward slightly, and looked Jill straight in the eye.  “Something happened to you.  You weren’t exactly a child, but were too young to deal with it.  It was sexual, but not something you consider assault.  It was not a family member.”  He paused, watching a mosaic of fleeting expressions spark in Jill’s face, while she tried to look impassive.  For a long moment this silent game of poker lingered, a slight chill creeping into the edges of the room.  “It was ongoing.  There is something about it I don’t recognize, like it was a lover, or a friend, but it changed.  I can’t put my finger on it, but can feel it.  Like you were in the middle of something, and couldn’t – or wouldn’t – leave.  You wanted to will it away.”

They broke gazes, and sat in electric silence for several minutes.  Indy picked up the poetry, again, but only looked at the cover.  Eventually, Jill asked The Question: “How do you know that?”

Indy, in all honesty, answered, “I don’t know.  Am I right?”

Jill’s look became distant. “I was 13.  I had been developing somewhat earlier than the other girls, and I thought I liked the attention I was getting from the boys.  During PE, one of them groped me.  Just a little grab-ass, you know?  And the boy was good looking.  I was embarrassed, but that died away when I realized no one saw.”  Jill looked at Indy before continuing.  “There was another boy in the class – one that I liked.  With only a little bit of choreography on my part, I gave him the same opportunity.  He took it, of course, and that time it made me feel good.  It got to be a regular thing, however, and I started to feel… well… not right, I guess.  I still can’t explain, but I decided it should stop.  By accident, when trying to avoid the boy I liked in PE, I actually backed into another boy – a creepy one.  He grabbed me, by the hips, and pressed himself into me.  I couldn’t get away – he was strong.”  A frown, and another pause. “The whole class saw it.  The thing was, as much as the boy disgusted me – even scared me – I could have just walked away from that.  It was the girls – the looks on their faces.  They made me feel like I did this, like I deserved it.  No one said anything, but you could hear the word ‘slut’ just under their breaths.  So, ya, not really an assault, but it left a definite scar.  You nailed it.”

Indy was nodding in agreement, but said, “That wasn’t it.”  Jill looked shocked, and somewhat offended.  Indy elaborated.  “I mean, sure, that happened, but that’s not all.  It’s not enough to get the kind of signal I get from you.  Something like this happened again, didn’t it?”  Jill was getting visibly uncomfortable, so Indy answered his own question.  “Yes.  In fact, it was a pattern, wasn’t it?”

Jill seemed to be fighting an internal battle, perhaps between anger and grief. While grief was losing, curiosity came in like the cavalry, and anger was dispelled for the moment.  “Supposing it did. What does it mean?”

“Nothing.  It means nothing.”

Jill had that look you get when there’s a thorn in your shoe, but you can’t find it and put your shoe back on anyway.  Only worse.  “Several times,” she said. “Well into college.  I changed the way I dressed, let my hair go, quit wearing makeup.  Didn’t matter. Different circumstances, different places, different people, but essentially just like middle school. It would feel good, then it didn’t, then I’d end up getting mauled by a bystander while others looked down their noses at me.”

“You exaggerate.”

“Not by much.”

“But it stopped.”

“Eventually.  I have never understood why.”

“It was not your fault.”

Jill looked sharply at Indy. “How could it not be?  I led people on!”

“No.  You only played the same game everyone else plays.  Not your fault.”

Back in the battle of Jill’s mind, anger had regrouped and returned to the field.  “But, I put on weight.  A lot.  Looking back, it was intentional.  That didn’t stop it!”

“But it did stop.  Something you did changed it.”

“It never completely stopped until I got into grad school.”

Indy was impassive.

Jill seemed to be struck by a thought, and said, “Wait.  It stopped when I graduated. I even stayed at the same campus for my masters. Nothing else had changed.”

Indy said nothing.

“It changed the way I felt about myself.” Jill didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, at the silly obviousness of it.  “I stopped it.  It was me all along.”

Indy said again, “It was not your fault.”

“But…”

“People are responsible for what they offer us.  We are responsible for what we accept.  It was not your fault.”

Jill pulled up short.  There was a moment in which Indy thought he could see her head dip, like a horse at full canter who has suddenly been made to stop abruptly.  Then she cocked her head to one side, gave a very slight smile and said, “I wonder how many times I’ve heard that?”  Indy raised his eyebrows a notch.  “I mean, people have told me it wasn’t my fault, and on some intellectual level I’ve known it to be true.  But I don’t know if I’ve ever really believed it, until just now.”  Indy just shrugged.  This part always made him feel awkward, as much so as the confidence he felt a few minutes earlier. “You really need to be one of the counselors!” She added, with exasperated smile.

“Can’t do it.  Not my thing.  I’m too unpredictable, and I tend to get attached.”

“Ok. So now that you’ve run me through the wringer, what about Cammi?”

“She’s nice.”

“Seriously, Indy?  I’m asking for your expert opinion here – do you have one, or not yet?”

Now it was Indy who looked distant.  “No.”  He said. “And I probably won’t.  It happens within the first few seconds, or pretty much not at all.”

Jill pondered this for a moment, then, “So, you’re the litmus test, right?  If you don’t react… she’s all okay?”

“I didn’t say that.”  Indy was beginning to look distraught.

“I don’t understand.  You just opened-up my head, reached in, and pulled-out a nasty skeleton from my otherwise fairly clean closet, and in almost perfect detail.  Do you have a read on Cammi, or no?”

Indy pursed his lips, looked at Jill for a moment, then let out a long sigh.  “I don’t know if I can explain. In fact, I don’t really understand it.  This is a new one on me.”  Jill’s expression said, “Keep talking,” and Indy reluctantly went on, haltingly, as though picking his way through a swamp with a walking stick to locate the rare clumps of solid ground.

“Cammi is ‘silent’ to me.  No broadcast, no beaconing, nothing. She is like empty space in the room, like a cardboard cutout and not a person.”

Jill was shocked.  “So, you can’t read her at all?”

“It’s not even like that.  I always feel something from other people, even if I don’t get a clear read.  I think everyone does.  We all sense people – their presence, their moods, whether they are listening or not, whether they’re hungry.  You do this, right?  We are all empathetic in this way, we are all connected.  I have an especially good sense of these things is all, and I seem to be tuned to particular frequencies or something.  That’s how it works.  But even with people who are not on my channel, so to speak, I know they’re there – just like you do – just like everybody.”

Jill nodded, mulling this over.

Indy went on.  “Cammi is not there.  It’s like she is intentionally clamming up emotionally.  It freaks me out.  I feel sucked into this void.  Normally, when my radar actually does get triggered, there are two phases: First, I feel like there is something I need to tell this person, but I don’t know what it is.  Next, I open up a dialog, and I receive a flood of emotional signaling from her.  It gets hard to handle sometimes – like drinking out of a firehose.”  Indy looked up from the table and met Jill’s gaze.  “With Cammi, it’s like looking into a dark room, and I feel like I need to shine a light – a very bright light.”

“So… are you afraid of getting lost in the dark, or of what might come out of it?”

3. Monday morning

Jill was getting ready for work.  John was straightening the living room.  All the other guests had left, either last night, or earlier this morning.  Cammi and Indy were finishing a cup of tea in the kitchen.  Looking out the window, Indy could see the morning mist lingering on the lake in the distance.  He’d never made it down to the water, in spite of every intention to take the short trek.  As he sipped his tea, he noticed that there was smoke coming from the chimney of the neighbor’s house and drifting down toward the lake.  “Perhaps,” he thought, “that isn’t mist at all.  Perhaps that’s smoke, settling on the waters – or even both. Yes, it could be both.”  But he didn’t voice these reflections, instead taking the opportunity to say good-bye.

“I think John’s about ready to take me back to town.” He said.  Cammi nodded.  “It was very nice to meet you, Camille,” he said.

Cammi giggled, “Funny, but a common mistake – my full name isn’t ‘Camille,’ but ‘Chamomile.’  I think it was, like, an autocorrect on my birth certificate or something, but I never got the chance to ask my mom.”

Indy laughed, took another sip of tea, and said, “Well, my full name is ‘Indygo,’ with a ‘y.’ It’s an intentional misspelling of ‘indigo.”

A smile from Cammi.  Two sips of tea.  Outside, on the lake, it was really looking like both.  Indy thought he could see the slight difference in color between the mist and smoke, which was mostly at the shore closest to the neighbors.  Cammi was gazing out the window, so Indy asked, “Do you think that’s mist?  Or smoke from the neighbor’s fireplace?”

Cammi looked mildly surprise for a moment, “What?” Then, refocusing her eyes, asked, “on the lake?”

Indy nodded.  “I thought you were looking at it, too.”

“No, I wasn’t really looking at anything.” Cammi paused for a moment. “It could be either. What do you think?”

Indy just shrugged. He felt awkward, helpless.  Indy had long known, with no arrogance, that his intuition gave him an advantage in most situations.  But at the moment, he felt a kind of blindness. It was like what one feels in a deep cave with the lights out.  Inky, oppressive blackness that seems like a physical pressure on one’s eyes.  It was the intuitive equivalent to that.  He wondered if this was how people were supposed to feel.

Cammi broke the silence.  “Have you ever hit someone?”

Indy was taken aback, and didn’t speak for several seconds while composing an answer to this rather startling question.

“I mean, a woman,” Cammi added. “Have you ever hit a woman – lover, spouse?”

“No.” Indy had no idea where this was coming from, and didn’t know exactly what to say. “I don’t think I could, either.”

Cammi did not explain her question, but went back to sipping and looking out the window. The sun was poking a few rays into the smoky mist on the lake, and the early morning birdsongs were starting to fade in advance of the morning buzz that would slowly start up as the bees began to wake.  After a long pause, she said, “Actually, you could.”

 

 

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” —Winnie the Pooh

I stopped just short of the water’s edge.  I hadn’t expected this situation at all, as the trail was well worn, and seemed like it should continue. In this place, there were even stepping stones, poached from the nearby land and placed by some anonymous traveler, apparently for the benefit of anyone who would find them later. There were no signs, no warning whatsoever. Yet there it was: a pond, directly in the trail.  I looked left, and I looked right, but there were no signs of travel in either direction along the shore.  One minute I was strolling along the path, the next my progress was cut short.  The pond itself was not newly flooded, but old, and well established, its marshy clumps of reeds overhanging the sandy earth of the shoreline.  The trail just seemed to end here, as though it were the final destination.

I was perplexed.  I craned my neck, seeking any sign that there might be others in the area. No one; I was alone. Did people come here to wash things – like clothing, or to bathe? That would explain the need for such a path. But there were no real signs of activity here, the trail simply ended at the water’s edge. Did people come here to fish? No way to be sure, but there were no obvious signs of fishing, and no dock, no fishing boats. Did people come here to gather water then?  Possibly.  The pond seemed clear, and fresh, as though it were fed by unseen springs.  Cool water, rising from the depths of the rocky earth beneath my feet.  It was a thought that felt refreshing, soothing, and reminding me that my feet were tired.  I looked around for a clear space to rest on the low grass beside the trail.

Perhaps this is what people do here, I thought to myself.  Perhaps they come to relax, and spend a few hours or minutes in the light of the late sun; to inhale the smell of the mud at the water’s edge; to listen and hear the small sounds of insects about their insect business and the talking breezes which chattered in a language of near understanding.   Perhaps people come here simply to marvel at the tiny waves lapping the shore, whose miniature tongues curl like so many flames, persistently seeking to move, and then to re-move, the division between water and earth.

I may have fallen asleep for a while, but the sun had only advanced by the smallest degree.  Time seemed to scrape its belly on the trail before the water’s edge, hanging low on its tired legs, as though urging me to continue alone.  It was a lazy kind of day anyway, in late fall, with its blend of warm sun and chill draughts of air.  The kind of day in which anything could happen, but nothing did.  I would like to go on record to say that I believe in nothing beyond the present, as the future is unseen, will always be unseen, and each moment slips into the past before we can even put our arms around it.   Why should this philosophical ditty matter now?  Does it need to matter?

I looked back down the trail which led me to this spot.  It was long and meandering.  Sometimes steep, sometimes slick with moss, sometimes rocky, with sharp, dangerous edges, while on other days totally unremarkable, tame, even seductive.  I don’t know what I expected to find, when I began this path, but this place was a surprise.  I should say, “is” a surprise, as there is only this moment, the present – only now.  This is a surprise.  The trail is long.  The water is clear, and calm, and settling into the nest of its vale like a cat settles in the laundry basket.

I am looking out to the lake now. It is bigger than I had thought, and I now see that it is dotted with small islands.  I see trees on some of the islands, shrouded in a light mist, and having a bit of glow about them as the sunset places the leafless branches in soft silhouette.  In my mind’s eye, I can see movement on the islands, but I know this is whimsy, or the work of an overactive imagination.  I can feel that this place is only for me, and the other-worldly shadows that leap from island to island are just that – shadows, of another life, or another place, not really part of this landscape.

I am standing beside my father now, as he was when I was small.  He is supine on the lawn. I leap upon him, but he catches me and holds me at arm’s length over his head.  He lowers his arms, the pushes me back up, and I feel myself fall, bouncing on his chest as he laughs. I can feel that he is solid, immovable, permanent.  Now I stand beside his bed as he becomes part of the world that gave him to me, fading into the rocks, the forest wood, the ocean – solid, immovable, permanent.  I walk now with my mother, and hold her hand.  I can smell her perfume, and the hand-lotion on her fingers, now on my fingers.  Her lips are moving, but her words are so quiet, fading to pastel, then watercolor, now an unfinished veil painting, with no firm designs, no edges.  I have so many questions for her, but each moment slips into the past before we can even put our arms around it.

At the water’s edge, I examine myself in the mirror liquid.  I see my father’s chin, my mother’s eyes, my sister’s ambition, my brother’s memory. I see the hopes and dreams of my children, the lines and creases of past loves, together, in the present, right now.  They are all in the face looking up from the water, but through them I see something new, something I hadn’t noticed before.  I have been standing at the water’s edge, letting so many moments sift through my fingers, like bits of grain in a sieve, or the raindrops that had begun to obliterate the trail at my back, and I had not noticed something behind my own reflection.   The glassy surface of the lake reveals its secrets as the sun begins to set, as the reflection gives way to the truth, and looking through my face I see stones.  Stepping stones – and the trail – continuing along, unending, uninterrupted, beneath the vast expanse of water.

I laugh as I kick off my shoes, looking ahead, I continue to follow the trail.  And now the moment at water’s edge has gone, slipping away as all moments do.

 

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.