Letters from Mozher Sound, C001

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.




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 20th 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.



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.



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What we really need

What America needs right now is angry people who love each other.

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Lies, lies, lies

If you believe a lie, you’re a victim. If you repeat a lie, you’re a volunteer.

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If you want to know what a liberal believes, don’t ask a conservative. If they really understood liberals, they would not be conservatives.
If you want to know what a conservative believes, don’t ask a liberal. If they really understood conservatives, they would not be liberals.

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Fountain of Youth

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?”


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


“No hypertension or other blood pressure issues?”




“Cystic Fibrosis?”


“Muscular dystrophy?”





“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.





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Harvey Mayhem and the Jesus Peach

As I stood there, watching the smoke making its lazy trek heavenward in the tepid evening air of late July, I could not help thinking that I’d missed something.  In fact, even given the intervening years and the hours spent in the company of Harvey, I still cannot say that I understand exactly what had happened for him.  Four weeks into summer something had clicked.  I could feel it, even if he wasn’t letting on.  It was in the air like the smell of the fire before me, tangible as a bug bite after it starts to itch.  Like a search for the headwaters of an anonymous river, I began to review the proceedings of the last two weeks, hoping to put my finger on the name of the thing that I could not quite identify.

Harvey Mayhem was my neighbor.  Of course, in our neighborhood that wouldn’t necessarily mean that we saw much of each other – things are pretty spread out this far from town.  However, Harvey and I had girls of the same age, so we got to know each other around the school.  I don’t recall how his nick name came to be so well known, but I do know that it was not conferred on account of his infamous propensity for barroom brawls.  No, it actually came from his work.  Harvey Mayhem was a bomb technician for the Sherriff.

A little clarification is needed here: “Mayhem” had nothing to do with bombs per se.  In fact Harvey had been dubbed with his nickname long before he took up working with explosives.  Harvey Mayhem had found his light in the high stress calls – where fates were violently unpredictable, many lives were on the line, and the folks at the scene had been drafted by circumstance into the ranks of the mad.  The man had a knack for calming people down.  It wasn’t, I am told, so much any particular thing that he did, but the simple fact of his presence.  Something about him just sort of ran the dark clouds away.  Once he got to the crisis, the locals felt that they were no longer staring into the abyss of catastrophe, but watching a well-tuned machine systematically solving their problem.  This ability to convert calamity into serenity is what made Harvey so good at his work.

On this Fourth of July – as most any other – there were several of us who refused to pay the parking fees at the fairgrounds.  Instead, we parked our pickup trucks in a row on the firebreak between the railroad tracks and Flanders’ orchard.  We brought sandwiches and beer, lawn chairs and blankets, and lots of snacks for the kids.  Someone’s radio was playing softly.  My wife had refused to hang out by the train tracks and walked over to the fairgrounds with our youngest.  Tim Oakland, from Rotary, rode with me.  Harvey had another single dad from the school with him; I think his name was Bill.  There were a couple of other trucks up there as well, on either side of our group.

It wasn’t quite dark yet, the sandwiches were gone, and we were entirely ready for fireworks.  I recall thinking that someone should have thought to bring a Frisbee.  As if in response to the image in my mind, something bounced off the truck window behind me with a thud and landed in the bed of the truck.  I looked in the direction from whence it came, to see Harvey’s evil grin and hear him say, “Not ripe, dammit!”  Tim was rooting around under his chair, but as I turned to look he straightened up, brandishing something in his hand.  It was a peach, with a bite out of it.  I started to laugh, and returned Harvey’s smirk as Tim arched back to return the peach.

Nothing happened.  I looked back at Tim, who sat motionless, with a goofy, slack-jawed expression on his face that made him somehow resemble a fish.

“What?”  I asked, suddenly concerned.

“The face…” he proclaimed, trailing off dumbly, he was staring at the peach in his hand.  Tim looked at me. Then, as if he suddenly realized that I hadn’t examined it, and he held the fruit out to me, turning it to the side he had been gaping at.  He was right – the blushed part of the peach looked very much like a face.  I took it from his hand as Harvey and Bill trotted up.  I held it up for their view.

“Hey, it’s a picture of Jerry!” was Harvey’s remark, “well, sorta, anyways.”

“Jerry!” Tim’s voice cracked, “it’s the Shroud of Turin you fucking atheist!”

Tim was right.  Not necessarily about the shroud – although the image did resemble the relic – but about Harvey’s atheism.  The subject had come up one day in a conversation about his job.  “No, I don’t pray before disarming a device,” (Harvey never used the word “bomb”) “If it’s my time, it’s my time.”  When pressed about death, Harvey insisted that it is “no different then turning out the lights – you’re on one moment, off the next.”  I didn’t see fit to point out the contradiction, that his statement regarding his “time” acknowledges a belief in fate at the very least – a bit superstitious for one who does not believe in something of the spirit.

I found it odd that a bomb technician could walk right up to an instrument of death – a poorly manufactured one at that – and place his hands directly upon the thing, having absolutely no faith.  There are no atheists in foxholes, right?  But Mr. Mayhem, moving from frontline trenches to no-mans-land as a matter of course, claimed to believe that there was no god at all.  Does this make sense?  I could not fathom.  Then again, I thought it odd that Harvey would want to come and watch the fireworks, yet here he was.  And he, of all people, had bit into a peach with the face of Jesus on it.

Tim was trying to give it back to him. “You have to keep it”, insisted my Samaritan friend, “it was sent to you!”

Harvey had a rolling chuckle going by now.  Not a full blown laugh, but the kind that keeps interjecting itself in your speech.  “Gimme a breakkk!”

“He’s right” intoned Bill, “this is definitely a sign of something.”  Bill was obviously awestruck.  He had a hold of a bit of Harvey’s t-shirt sleeve, as though to restrain the man gently.  Then he stepped in front of him, saying “Not a sign, but an omen – you need to do something different.”

Harvey paused for all of two seconds, then busted up outright.  He pushed his half empty beer into Bill’s hand, and turned to rummage a new one out of the ice chest.  Further talk of the peach was interrupted by a loud ka-boom! from the direction of the fairgrounds.  The show had begun.

Tim was not at the café the next morning.  Harvey was there, as was the usual crowd, but Tim was conspicuously missing.  I had nearly finished the paper when Bill came in – unusual, but no big surprise.   He sat at the counter with Harvey, and I heard him ask if Tim had been in yet.  As if summoned, in walked the man himself, bearing a paper bag.  He saw me, and beckoned as he headed for the end of the counter nearest Harvey.  As if having a second thought, he held his palm up to me, stopping me from rising (which I hadn’t actually been about to do) and spoke a few words to Harvey.  Bill looked over at me, nodded, and the whole group came to join me at my table.

“Here’s the thing,” started Tim, excitedly reaching into the bag, “this thing is really huge!”  He drew out the peach – slightly mangled, with a single bite still missing from it.

“No it’s not,” taunted Harvey, “it’s a peach – it’s peach-sized!”

I looked back and forth between the faces of Bill and Tim.  I could see they’d been talking since last night, and must have reached some conclusion.  In confirmation, Tim piped up “I called Bill this morning because I have a theory: This thing is here to tell you something.  Now, the picture on the outside is just to get your attention, see?  It’s the face of Jesus – no doubt about that, I looked up the Shroud and the pictures match exactly!”

“Ummhumm…?” from Harvey, mildly impressed.

“If the face is there to get your attention, then there must be a message somewhere, an omen…” Tim trailed off as though his logic should imply an obvious and inevitable conclusion.  Blank looks from two sides of the table.

Bill stepped up to the plate, “There’s probably a message inside, guys!”


So we cut open the Jesus Peach.  I’m no atheist, but I had serious doubts about the productivity of this venture.  I mean, if God wanted to tell Harvey – or anybody – something important, couldn’t He just implant him with some kind of irresistible impulse or something?  Why bother manifesting the image of a face in the blush pattern of a piece of fruit?  On the other hand, the resemblance to the image on the famous Shroud of Turin was certainly striking – hard to chalk that up to coincidence.  But what made Tim and Bill so sure that there would be a message inside?

We removed all the flesh from the Jesus Peach.  I examined the pit first, then passed it to Bill.  Tim was carefully flattening the skin onto a small piece of cardboard and pinning it down with thumbtacks.  Bill passed the pit to Harvey, and started sifting through the juicy pulp. The waitress, with a quizzical look, topped off our coffees without a word.  Nothing.  No evidence of a message.  I started to speak, but Bill cut me off – “Every general sign, like this one, must point to a specific thing, or else it would be meaningless.  God always puts things in our paths to get our attention; it’s up to us to see the sign and follow it to the thing his wants us to see.  Like the star over Bethlehem – the three kings followed it to the Son of God…”

“Wise men,” put in Tim, “not kings, three wise men.”

“No, they were kings” insisted Bill.

“Wise men, or – more accurately – two wise men and a wise woman.”

“What?  Are you quoting your Agnostic Bible again?”

After a laugh, Tim said “Ok, first of all it’s the Gnostics, and I was just making up the part about the wise woman… ”

Suddenly there was a popping noise from the end of the table.  Harvey had cut the pit in half with his pocket knife.  “No message, guys.”  He held up the seed, released from within the pit.  “Can we give up now?”

Tim was obviously disappointed.  The talk continued, but the excitement was gone.  “Maybe the message is back at the tree…?”  “Maybe it’s gone now, since we didn’t look last night…?” Like conspiracy theorists, the two men tried to rationalize their disenchantment.  Harvey was fumbling in his pocket to pay his tab; he was beyond chiding Bill and Tim.

I saw it first.  I stared at the halves from the Pit, and felt my brows knit as I turned the question over in my mind: “Do I say anything, or let it go?”  But I didn’t need to take any action – our waitress spotted it as she picked up Harvey’s cash.  “Wow!  That pit was meant for you, Harvey!” she said, and walked away.

Three pairs of eyes moved to the halves of the Pit, and instantly saw the thing as I did.  We looked at each other.  For the first time, Harvey Mayhem looked concerned.  The dark color of the Pit’s mantle gave way to a lighter shade on the inside, exposed by Harvey’s knife.  There, in clear silhouette, we could see the unmistakable outline of a mushroom cloud.

When we all went on our ways, Harvey played it off like he always did: no real concern, generally passive.  Sure, it was interesting, he conceded, but it did not have the deep significance that Bill and Tim obviously attached to it.  For that matter, I was starting to catch the bug by then.  I mean, how far can the providence of random chance go?  Harvey agreed to keep the Peach skin, and the Pit, and this seemed to satisfy Tim.  We chatted about it idly in the following two weeks, and that was it.

Until the day I finished the yard work.  I was finally burning the largish pile of brush which had accumulated earlier in the year from the annual trimmings.  Harvey may have seen the smoke, as he walked over to my place cross-country, hopping the fence.  We talked for a few minutes about the girls, the plans for upcoming school season, and such things as parents talk about.  Then he broke out a story that rather surprised me coming, as it did, from him.

Two days earlier, he’d been on a call.  Just like dozens of other calls he’d handled before: some kind of attack involving a rather nasty looking bomb which had been placed in a public building.  It was attached to a timer, but the time of detonation was unknown, and the responsible party had not seen fit to enlighten anyone.  Harvey Mayhem went to work.  Onlookers watched as he approached the danger zone, like people with front row tickets to an imminent train wreck, they felt safe now that the man in the black suit faced the danger for them.

Then, in a radical departure from custom, Harvey paused.  In his retelling, he claimed it was not a prayer that he said.  He simply stopped for a moment, thought of his daughters, and spoke a few words to them – out loud – as if to help clear his thoughts.  He paused, perhaps twenty paces and around one corner from the incoherent mass of pent-up evil, for about thirty seconds.  At the very moment he started to move forward again, the wall in front of him melted way to a torrent of shrapnel, immediately followed by the concussive blast which would ring in his ears for years to come.

“That pause saved your life,” I stated the obvious, as if voicing it would help me get a handle on the magnitude of the statement.


“Are you still an atheist?”

“Yeah,” with a derisive chuckle.

I watched Harvey take something out of his pocket and toss it in the fire.  “Don’t tell Tim or Bill about this, okay?”


We looked into the fire for a few minutes, then he went home.


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