

## Fundamental Problems

A Handful of Fables

### By Michael J. Tobias

Smashwords Edition

Text copyright © 2013 Michael J. Tobias

All rights reserved

### Contents

Acknowledgements

Fundamental Problems

Literary Snob

The Muse

Gradual Epiphany

The Crossing

The Minstrel's Tale

About The Author

## Acknowledgements

The following people provided valuable feedback along with generous encouragement: Molly West, Mary Beth Tiblier, Deb Corbin, Jennifer Langford, John G. Hartley, Jeane Walker.

## Fundamental Problems

Ralic Hanwuir loved his job. He loved the fact that he got to see places that otherwise he'd never see. He loved his supervisor, Safid Spallinor, because he had learned so much from him and Supervisor Safid Spallinor treated him like a son. He loved to travel, and while there were often downtimes, he frequently spent large portions of those downtimes thinking about how he could be doing a multitude of other jobs and why he was grateful that he wasn't. But most of all, he loved his job because he truly and whole-heartedly believed he was doing the work of the Creator.

"What is our last assignment?" Supervisor Safid Spallinor asked.

Ralic waved at the screen and words and numbers appeared. He flicked his wrist to the left and new words and numbers appeared on the screen. After several more flicks, Ralic said, "The only inhabited planet in the Peridak galaxy."

"Is that in the Lepisate region?" Supervisor Safid Spallinor asked.

"Yes sir," said Ralic.

Supervisor Safid Spallinor waved his fingers in the air above his console in a series of specific gestures and then said, "Prepare for hyper jump."

Ralic frowned and gave his head little shakes because his supervisor always said this, though the idea of _preparing_ for hyper jump was antiquated. Ralic had never had to _prepare_ for hyper jump, though he was years younger than Supervisor Safid Spallinor, so perhaps it was an old habit, formed in the days when their interstellar craft were far shakier traveling through wormholes. Odd, though, since they were encouraged to drop old, particularly useless habits.

In a matter of moments, they emerged near the target planet and assumed orbit. Ralic had prepared the standard communique and as they circled the watery orb, he broadcast the message in several languages on several channels. The message was concise and explicit:

Greetings, citizens, we are from the planet Extronalon 5 in the galaxy Harputlia, located some 800 trillion light years from here. We are representatives of the Interstellar Federation of Planets and we have been tracking your progress. You are about to enter the stage of interstellar travel and we have some grave concerns. Unfortunately, your knowledge has apparently outpaced your psychological and spiritual evolution and we cannot allow you to progress further. You have access to the Creator's rules, but you clearly do not follow them. We therefore have no choice but to allow you one rotation of your planet before exterminating you. We regret that this is the case, and we can only assure you that this is the best course of action for the future of life in this universe. You will have that period of time to make one final defense of your existence. Unless we find your intention particularly compelling, you will be exterminated. Please consider this carefully, as we will not accept any responses other than this plea. A small, self-propelled probe containing several communications options has been sent to the office of the President of the United States of America for the specific purpose of stating your case. Any attempts to attack us will automatically render this offer null and void and will be met with the immediate annihilation of your planet. Your grace period of one solar day begins in one solar hour. Make peace with your gods.

In the interim, Ralic asked, "So what are the numbers for this planet?"

Supervisor Safid Spallinor flicked his wrist a few times and then recited, "CPE (Current Population Estimate) 8.1 billion. ECP (Estimated Compliance Percentage) less than one percent."

Ralic whistled. " _That_ is pathetic. Age?"

"Two-hundred thousand of their solar years."

"Conversion?"

"Two-hundred, seventy-two turjeons."

The turjeon was the oft-debated universal measurement of time, while the ECP represented the estimated percentage of the population who actually complied with the rules of the Creator. The "age" Ralic asked about referred to the age of the current stage of evolved bipeds on the planet known as "homo sapiens sapiens."

"Well, they seem quite young," Ralic commented, "But that's still no excuse for that pitiful ECP." Then after a moment of thought, he asked, "How long have they been aware of the rules?"

"Globally, approximately two-hundred of their solar years," Supervisor Safid Spallinor replied.

"Hmmm...that is less than half a turjeon," Ralic pointed out.

"Immaterial," responded Supervisor Safid Spallinor. "One-tenth of a turjeon is plenty of time to assure a majority compliance percentage. Less than one percent is unacceptable."

Meanwhile, on earth, panic had set in; riots raged, crime and destruction ran amok, fires burned out of control. Nearly every government had set about attempts to control the mayhem with military intervention, which, unfortunately only seemed to make matters worse, which meant more violent and bloody. The President had called an emergency meeting of the G8 leaders and they were currently debating what to include in their response. What they were actually doing was a more civilized form of what was going on in the world at large. Ideas were thrown back and forth, with criticisms following like contrails. Much shouting and irrationality could be heard to emanate from within the small conference room in the White House.

Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed, especially when they pointed out that the proverbial doomsday clock was ticking in a decidedly unproverbial, disturbingly literal fashion. While the bulk of the argument regarded precisely what to say, few had considered how to say it, until an enterprising advisor to the President mentioned teleconferencing.

"None of the options they provided can be used for teleconferencing," the President indicated.

"That's true," agreed his advisor, "But you can return the flash drive with a URL link on it. The URL link can be to a site on our intranet that we use for internal teleconferencing. That way, you can have a dialogue with them."

"That is _brilliant_ ," said the President, "Son, if we don't get completely destroyed, you're going places in this government." The young man beamed, and then scrambled out of the office to assemble a tech team to set it up.

The aliens were surprised at the ingenuity of the response, and clearly unprepared to deal with it. At least Ralic was. He lunged into full panic mode when the prospect of actually speaking with one of the inhabitants of the planet arose.

"Calm yourself," Supervisor Safid Spallinor said. "I'll speak with them."

In his entire time as a UAI (Universal Anti-Idolatry) agent, Ralic had never laid eyes on any of the inhabitants of any of the targets of extermination, much less _spoken_ to one. The mere thought of it nearly caused him to fall into a jittery conniption. Exterminating entire worlds was quite tidy and convenient when done from a distance. He had never before had to deal with any messy emotional baggage such as _interacting_ with them. Once again, his hero, Supervisor Safid Spallinor had come to his rescue.

At the indicated time, the two beings began their conference with each of them introducing themselves before Supervisor Safid Spallinor stated, "Mr. President, this is highly irregular."

"Are you referring to the teleconference or the fact that you've ironically claimed the moral high ground while simultaneously stating your intention to exterminate an entire planet?"

"There is no irony," Supervisor Safid Spallinor intoned. "Your compliance rate with the Universal rules is less than one percent. This is unacceptable. We cannot allow you to venture further into the Universe with such a paltry rate."

"What rules?"

"The rules of the Creator."

"We aren't aware of any set of rules," the President pointed out.

Supervisor Safid Spallinor gestured with his hand and a list appeared on the President's screen.

You must serve only the Creator.

You must not have any images of the Creator.

You must not claim to serve the Creator without an acceptable compliance rate.

You must dedicate one time period for rest and remembrance of the Creator.

You must honor those who provide for and educate you.

You must not murder.

You must be faithful to your oaths.

You must not steal.

You must testify truthfully and honestly, without selfish motives.

_You must never covet or envy_.

The President's heart nearly stopped as he scanned through the list.

"These are the ten commandments," he said to the screen.

"They are the Universal Rules of the Creator," Supervisor Safid Spallinor corrected.

The President scrambled for an argument. Fortunately, he had been reared in the Bible belt and had a fairly good working memory of his Sunday school lessons.

"Mr. Spallinor, we believe in these, but we also believe in a higher principle. We believe in grace. Because we have trusted in Jesus, the Creator's only son, and believe in his sacrifice for our si...er...low compliance rate...we believe we are forgiven by the Creator."

Supervisor Safid Spallinor tilted his head and narrowed his considerably large eyes. "That," he said, "Is the silliest thing I've ever heard." He then pressed a button and a narrow beam of red light descended toward the earth. In an instant, the planet was vaporized, leaving the moon like a strange, lonely marker of what once was.

Ralic entered the compartment, having been alerted by flashing lights that Supervisor Safid Spallinor had engaged the BUJ (Beam of Universal Justice).

"That didn't take long," Ralic said.

"You expected a rational argument from an under-evolved creature?" asked Supervisor Safid Spallinor.

Ralic chuckled, partly out of relief at being spared the task of actually engaging the creature. He busied himself with filing reports on their completed caseload as Supervisor Safid Spallinor prepared the craft for the voyage home. Ralic watched the view screen as the space to their left warped into a swirling, blurry mass and as they turned to enter it, he thought, _another day in service to the Creator_ , and grinned.

Moments later they emerged and immediately noticed that instead of their large home planet, a tiny, revolving, flashing beacon floated.

Ralic turned to his supervisor and nervously inquired, "Sir, did you input the correct coordinates?"

"Of course," Supervisor Safid Spallinor snapped. He engaged a beam, guided it toward the beacon, and zapped the beacon inside the spacecraft. It was a strange looking device, unfamiliar to both of them. It had ceased to rotate and flash, though now they noticed a large button on one side with a label just above it which read, "Push Me." So, Supervisor Safid Spallinor did just that.

A hologram of an unrecognized being popped up and the being began to address them in their native tongue.

_Greetings, citizens, from the planet Fhirenix in the galaxy Xhoenx, located in Dimension K6. We are representatives of the Interdimensional Federation of Planets and we have been tracking your progress. You were about to enter the stage of interdimensional travel and we had some grave concerns. Unfortunately, your knowledge had apparently outpaced your psychological and spiritual evolution and we could not allow you to progress further. We must inform you that we were forced to annihilate your planet. We regret that this is the case, and we can only assure you that this is the best course of action for the future of life in each Dimension. We hope that if you happened to be away from your planet and discovered this message beacon, you will be successful in your attempts to find a hospitable planet to serve as your new home_.

## Literary Snob

Patricia Leer stared at the ATM receipt in her hand, trying to make sense of it. Zero balance. How could her account have a zero balance? She settled back into the driver's seat in her car, sighing as she continued to forage her memory for some explanation that made sense. Shaking her head, she turned the ignition key and drove to her bank. When her turn came, she stepped up to the teller window, clutching the ATM receipt.

"How can I have a zero balance?" she demanded.

The teller click-clacked on her computer keyboard and smilingly informed Ms. Leer that she had emptied her account yesterday at 9:07 am.

Patricia narrowed her eyes and frowned, thinking about what she had done yesterday. Going to the bank had not been on the agenda, much less emptying her checking account.

"I wasn't here yesterday," she told the teller.

Another teller, one that Patricia knew, stepped over toward them.

"Ms. Leer? You don't remember coming in yesterday?" she asked.

"I don't remember because I didn't come here yesterday."

The teller gave her a confused look. "Ms. Leer, I _saw_ you here yesterday."

Patricia frowned and shook her head. She had _not_ gone to the bank yesterday. She simply hadn't. The teller must be confused.

"You're mistaken," Patricia said after a brief pause.

The teller smiled nervously. "Just a moment," she said, stepping around the counter and into the manager's office. The branch manager came to the door and nodded toward Patricia.

"Ms. Leer?" the manager called, "Can I help you?"

Patricia sighed and marched over to and into the manager's office, dropping into the cushioned chair facing the desk. The manager walked around the desk and slid into her chair, regarding Patricia with a slight smile and understanding eyes.

"Your tellers claim I came into this bank yesterday and emptied my checking account. I was _not_ in this bank yesterday."

The manager turned toward her computer monitor, clacking away on her keyboard, scanned the screen, and returned her gaze to Patricia.

"Ms. Leer, your records indicate that you did in fact withdraw your entire checking account balance yesterday morning at 9:07 am. In addition to that, I can personally attest to the fact that you were here yesterday. I saw you."

Patricia sat dumbfounded. She was certain that she had not set foot in this bank yesterday and the employees here appeared to be just as certain that she had. Was she losing her mind? Was there some sort of conspiracy? Was she sick? Brain tumor? What other explanation was there? She frowned, looking down at her lap, blinking, thinking, trying to remember.

"I...I honestly don't remember being here," she mumbled.

The manager tilted her head and gave her a sympathetic look, then rose and moved around to where she sat, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

"It's okay, we all have days like that, where we forget things. Perhaps if you go back home and look at the money, you'll remember why you withdrew it."

"Look at the money? You didn't give it to me in a check?"

"No ma'am, you specifically requested it in cash. The teller had to check with me about it. It is a bit unusual, but we know you here, so we didn't really consider it a problem."

Patricia went home and looked for the money, which, according to the manager, she had carried out of the bank in her own cloth bag with handles and the name of a local bookstore on it. She found the bag but it was empty. After completely turning her apartment upside down, she had no idea what had become of her money. She had begun to seriously worry. She carried her concern with her to work that afternoon, remaining constantly distracted throughout her shift. She worked as the assistant manager of a local grocery store, _Carter's Groceries_ , and considered approaching Mr. Carter with her story, but thought better of it. She feared he would think she may be losing her mind and find some reason to let her go, and she certainly could ill afford to lose her job now.

She needed to talk with someone...a psychiatrist? Psychologist? Medical doctor? She had no idea. Growing up in a tiny Southern town in rural South Carolina, she felt isolated from such things. The neighbors had always helped each other out in hard times, though this was something outside their purview. Her parents had died years ago and her only sister lived several states away. She had a few friends, though none were what one would consider a confidante. When she got home that night, she searched the Internet for counselors located nearby and found one, made a note of the number, and settled into bed with one of her favorite trashy novels.

Harry Wyndham listened patiently as Hannah Pace told her crazy story. Three days ago, she had stopped by a fast food spot to grab lunch and her debit card had been rejected several times. She then drove to the bank and had been informed that she, herself, had come in the previous day and requested her entire checking account balance in cash, placed it in a plastic bag, and left. She had absolutely no memory of such a transaction, or even visiting the bank that day. The bank manager had assured her that it had happened and had sent her on her way with no further explanation. Fearing some type of identity theft scheme or possibly some other nefarious plot, she reported all this to the local police department, who told her they would look into it. Upon her return home, she had found no sign of the money, though she had found some odd things, like the fact that two of her frozen meals were missing. She was meticulous about her budget and this included keeping a strict account of the items she bought with the times and dates of their consumption. This way, she was able to calculate the most economical purchases to the penny.

"You know," she told Harry, "The stores try their best to rob you. You have to be vigilant."

Harry nodded and smiled blandly. Since moving to this god-forsaken town four years ago, he had found it difficult to drum up much business as a private investigator. He had been forced to farm out his skills and experience to the local police department, along with the occasional guest lecture at nearby community colleges, technical schools, or local civic groups. This, together with his freelance photography, kept his rent paid and his cupboards full. Still, he preferred this to being a Newark police officer. At least the people down here were cordial and most of them were honest.

"What did you say was the name of your bank?" Harry asked the crazy lady.

"Rockridge Trust," she said.

He wrote that down. It was the largest bank in town, not that such a thing meant much in a town of eight-thousand. He would pay them a visit tomorrow just to satisfy crazy lady. If she kept track of her frozen dinners, she'd sure as shit keep track of his time...especially at $50.00 per hour. That was a discount. Normally, he charged twice that much, but crazy lady was divorced and had a limited income from her job at the local movie theater, where they showed second and third-run features at discounted prices.

"And you have no memory of withdrawing the money, nor what you might have done with it?" Harry asked.

The woman shook her head. "I don't believe I withdrew it. I was _not_ in that bank when they said I was."

"How much was your balance?"

"Three-hundred, sixteen dollars and forty-four cents."

Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes and chewed his bottom lip. "I'll go talk with the bank manager, see what I can find out. But ma'am, I'm pretty sure the bank wouldn't scam you for such a low balance. Three-hundred dollars..."

"Three-hundred, _sixteen_ dollars," she interjected.

"Still, that is a small sum for a bank to risk a lawsuit, don't you think?"

"All I know is, _I_ didn't take it out, and now the bank says it's _gone_."

Harry sighed. "I'll talk with them. But I can't promise anything."

Hannah Pace nodded solemnly and left without another word.

The next morning, Harry sat in Margaret Blackwelder's office at Rockridge Trust bank, expecting her to tell him that Hannah Pace was nuts. Instead, she told him the oddest thing.

"She's the third person in the last three weeks to come in here and withdraw her balance, all in cash, and then forget it the next day."

"The _third_ person?" Harry asked, blinking.

Margaret nodded. "First one was Patricia Leer, and then almost a week later came Betsy Stocker. Now it's Hannah Pace." She shook her head. "Something strange is going on."

Harry narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. "All of them claimed they couldn't remember withdrawing their money?"

"Right."

"And they all requested it in cash?"

"Yes."

He shook his head, thinking. This _was_ strange. "Mind if I ask how much the other ladies had in their accounts?"

"I can't tell you that. But I can tell you it was significantly more than Hannah Pace."

Three women withdraw all their money in cash and none of them can remember it. Were they hypnotized? Drugged? And what did they do with the money? If someone had hypnotized them, or manipulated them some other way, then the perpetrator would have to include some way for them to transfer the money to him or her. But that could be anything. He could've planted a suggestion for them to leave it somewhere at some particular time. All cash, so there would be no record of exchange. Harry shook his head and whistled. If he was right, this was a brilliant plot, and it would take some brilliant detective work to catch the thief.

"Has anyone else in town made any significant deposits or opened a new account recently?" he asked the manager.

She shook her head. "First thing I looked for after Hannah Pace left the other day. Someone is using these women, I just don't know how."

He had to get them together and interview them at the same time. Figure out what they have in common, where they all may have gone or with whom they all may have come into contact. Before he did that, however, he'd visit the first suspect...the only person he _knew_ they would have in common. A person with access to drugs. Doctor Spencer. The only doctor in town.

By the time Harry had interviewed and cleared the good doctor, contacted each of the three victims and arranged to have them meet him at his office, Margaret Blackwelder had dialed his cell number and left him voice mail.

"Lisa Grantham just came into the bank and requested her entire checking account balance in cash. We gave it to her because there's no legal reason we could withhold it. Maybe if you go visit her after you get this message, you can find out what she's gonna do with it."

The message had been left an hour ago. He dialed the number of the bank and asked to speak with Margaret.

"Can you give me Lisa Grantham's address?" he asked her.

"Not legally," she replied.

"Time is an issue, Ms. Blackwelder. If I have to spend the next hour tracking down her address, I may lose my window of opportunity."

"Okay, I'll help you out, but I can't just give you the information. She's married and her husband's name is Tim. That should give you a clue. You do have a phone book, don't you?"

He rifled through the phone book and located a Timothy Grantham on Evergreen Circle.

"214 Evergreen?"

"If I were you, I'd probably knock on the door at that address and see if Lisa's there."

"Thanks, see ya."

He hung up and hurried out the door. Ten minutes later he sat outside the house at 214 Evergreen Circle. It was a nice house, reddish-brown brick with beige shutters. Couple of trees in a well-trimmed yard. Subaru wagon sitting on a paved driveway. Harry sat in his car across the street contemplating his next move. He could ring the bell, but if this woman was under the influence of some hypnotist or drug, that would do him little good. She would have to either leave or the thief would have to come to her, which was highly unlikely. Unless she had already dropped off the money. He sighed and watched. The good news was that she was married, so he figured she'd have to do something before five o'clock...if she hadn't already. He waited and lit a cigarette, cursing himself for not thinking about picking up lunch on the way.

Fortunately, Lisa Grantham emerged before noon, carrying a smallish box, and got into her car. He followed her to the post office. _Crap_ , he thought. _The thief has them using the postal service. They won't give me any info_. He sighed and lit another cigarette. He'd have to sit here all day and wait for the thief to show up. That is, _if_ that package was for the thief. For all he knew, Lisa Grantham had the money in the same bag in the back of her car and was gonna drop it somewhere on her way home. He couldn't follow her without risking missing the thief showing here. He was stuck. If he'd only been able to tail her from the bank. _Damn it!_

Then again, what if the thief showed up, opened the box and placed the money in a bag, and then came back outside? He'd never know. He cursed again and got out, just as Lisa Grantham was coming out of the post office. He had planned to walk by her car and look inside the window, but now that was impossible. He watched her face as they passed, however, and did note that she bore the look of a zombie, someone who was moving on automatic pilot. She stared straight ahead as they crossed paths, despite his efforts to make eye contact. He stood at the door and watched her go, wondering if he was playing the right hunch. He decided that he was...after all, it was unlikely that she would be running any ordinary errands if she were under the influence of someone else at the moment. He found a seat just outside of a little glassed-in room where patrons could drop off and retrieve mail at a room-length counter. He pulled out his cell phone and pretended to pay attention to it while periodically giving the counter casual glances.

Then his phone rang. It was Hannah Pace, the previously known "crazy lady" who was admittedly less crazy, though still annoying.

"Miss Pace, I'm on the case now," he whispered into the phone. "I'll call you back when I have more information," and then he hung up, hoping she heard and was not offended. A moment later, his phone rang again. It was Hannah again. This time he pressed the _decline_ button and quickly switched his ringer off. She left a voice mail, which he retrieved and learned that she was unable to make it to his office that afternoon. He noticed with a sly glance that a young girl with short, dirty blond hair and glasses had entered and picked up a package, which looked to be the same package that Lisa Grantham had dropped off. He held the door open for her, following her outside, slid into his car, and tailed her to an apartment complex. Glancing at his watch, he noted it was almost noon. He parked across the street from the apartments and called Patricia Leer and then Betsy Stocker and postponed their meeting indefinitely, explaining that he was hot on the trail of a likely suspect while assuring each of them that he would re-schedule with them in the next day or so.

He waited and watched, attempting to ignore the rumbling of his stomach. His sixth sense told him he was on the right track, despite the reasoned voice in his mind screaming at him that he wasn't even sure this young girl had picked up the same package. It had been the right size and shape, same basic color, but that was it. And the girl, mid-twenties at her oldest, looked more like a college student than a master criminal. Still, he maintained a vigilant eye on his prize, smoking one cigarette after another in an attempt to quell his hunger. At quarter of one, the young girl emerged from her building, climbed into her white Honda sedan, and motored up the street. Harry followed at a distance, flicking his cigarette butt out of the window. After a couple of turns, she pulled into the parking lot of the public library, parked, and went inside. He parked and considered his options. Should he wait outside or go in? She had gone into the building empty-handed, so she was not returning books. She could be in there for hours. Some folks spent hours at the library, reading or working on their laptops, or even just browsing the bookshelves.

He growled to himself and got out of the car, rolling up his window and locking the door before slamming it shut. Strolling inside, he noted the long counter on the left where a couple of ladies were busy checking books out to patrons. To his right sprawled a children's area, complete with a couple of children's computers and around the corner to his left, just past the circulation desk, metal shelved sections marked _New Books_ and _Large Print_ stood on either side of a large area, separated by a group of cushioned chairs and a standing rack of newspapers. Directly ahead of him, thickly carpeted stairs rose on a spiral. He turned left and casually surveyed the area, walking past the aisles of books, peeking down each one. A few patrons surveyed the offerings, though none were the young girl. He frowned and returned to the stairs, ascending to the second floor.

Upstairs, to his right, a glass-enclosed room housed multiple rows of computers. To the left, multiple shelves on either side of the area held books with standing desks holding computer monitors scattered about. He strolled over and noticed the area to his left was labeled _Young Adults_ , with the area to his right designated as _Adult Fiction_. A woman sat at a desk in front of the fiction, gazing at a computer monitor. She looked up as he approached.

"Good afternoon, how can I help you?" she cooed, smiling.

He returned her smile. "I just wanted to browse. First time here."

"Well, the fiction is directly behind me and the non-fiction is just beyond that. If you have any questions, please ask."

He smiled and nodded and made his way into the stacks, discreetly glancing right and left down each aisle. As he neared the end of the fiction section, he noticed a small space separating the fiction and non-fiction, where the young girl with dirty-blond hair and glasses stood over a wheeled cart, apparently organizing books. He approached her and smiled, nodding his head and sneaking a peek at her name tag.

"Er...Penny?" he began.

She smiled. "Yes?"

"First time in here...just wondering where the true crime is."

She pointed toward the non-fiction. "Just ahead there in the three-sixties."

"Thanks," he offered, smiling, and strolled over to where she indicated.

_She couldn't be the thief. She must live with the thief_. The problem was, there was no way to ascertain this without taking a few risks or spending a good deal more time gathering intel on her, neither of which he found particularly appealing. He was beginning to wonder if he should take his suspicions to the police. The problem _there_ was that he had no real evidence. He felt the pressure he used to feel as a cop...the pressure to get this guy before more people were victimized and especially before this guy and his girlfriend moved on. And while he was convinced she wasn't the thief, he was fairly certain she was at least an accomplice for retrieving the money...though the possibility still existed that she had done that at his request and without knowing the contents. He shook his head and cursed under his breath. He needed to know more. He needed an inside source.

He made his way back downstairs armed with only her name, but that would have to do for now. Penny Mepris. At least he could find out what the Internet knew about her. Hopefully she had a Facebook page that would lead him to her boyfriend. Before he left, he stopped by the circulation desk.

"Hi, I'm interested in doing some part-time work here and was wondering what types of part-time jobs you offer," he told the smiling lady at the desk.

"Well, there are circulation assistants, reference assistants, tech assistants, and shelvers," the lady said.

"About how many hours per day for shelvers?"

"Usually three."

He nodded. "So, about twenty hours a week?"

"I think fifteen."

_So she probably works another job on the weekend. And maybe a few mornings or evenings_. "Thanks," Harry said, smiling, and left.

She had reported for work at one, it was one-forty now, so she'd likely be at the library until four. He drove over to a fast food place and grabbed a burger from the drive-through, then sped home. Once there, he did a search for Penny Mepris and to his utter surprise, she was nowhere to be found. Penny Mepris had no digital footprint. No Facebook, no blog, no Instagram...nothing. Unusual, especially for someone of her age, though certainly not unprecedented. This was going to make his job a little more difficult. He glanced at his watch and dialed Hannah Pace's number.

"Miss Pace, do you frequent the library?"

"Yes."

"How often?"

"A few times a week."

"Do you know anyone who works there?"

"Yes."

"Penny Mepris?"

Pause. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"I believe she's a shelver."

"Oh. She's new, I think."

"Thanks." He hung up and dialed Patricia Leer's number.

"Ms. Leer, do you frequent the library?"

"Yes sir, I sure do."

"How often?"

"Almost every day."

"Do you know anyone who works there?"

"Just about everyone who works there."

"Penny Mepris?"

Pause. "That name is familiar, but I can't place her. Is she the new shelver?"

"Yes ma'am, thanks." He hung up and dialed Betsy Stocker's number.

"Mrs. Stocker, let me guess...you use the library quite often, don't you?"

"Yes sir. How'd you know that?"

"Do you know Penny Mepris?"

Pause. "Does she work in the children's department? I don't know any of them."

"No ma'am. Thanks anyway." He hung up.

He shook his head. What were the odds? He then dialed the number for Family Central Bank, one of the two smaller banks in town, and asked to speak with the manager.

"This is Tom Brickman, how can I help you?"

Harry introduced himself and told Mr. Brickman about the case he was on. "So, Mr. Brickman, my question is, have any of your customers come into your bank in the past few weeks and withdrawn their entire balance in cash?"

Mr. Brickman paused an uncomfortably long time. So long that Harry was about to ask him if he was okay when he finally spoke. "I just left my wife," he mumbled.

"Pardon me?" Harry asked.

"My wife withdrew the balance in our checking account...all in cash...while I was at lunch. She claimed she had no memory of it. I thought she was having an affair."

"When did this happen?"

"Almost a week ago."

"Mr. Brickman, this may sound like an odd question, but does your wife frequent the library?"

"Yeah." He sounded far away.

"Mr. Brickman, I'm pretty sure your wife isn't having an affair. This has happened to four other women." _And no men_ , Harry thought. Why no men? Of course, the majority of library patrons were women, but that didn't explain why they hadn't targeted any men.

"Mr. Brickman, did you suspect your wife before this happened?"

"Huh?"

Harry repeated the question.

"Uh...not really, I guess. I mean, I knew she was a little unhappy. I mean, all she does lately is read sex books."

"Sex books? Like manuals or something?"

"No. I mean books with sex in 'em. You know, those stupid excuse for romance novels, only it's all about the gardener seducing the lonely wife or the Indian seducing the lonely wife in the old west."

"I see," Harry said, somewhat disappointed. "Anyway, like I said, I don't think your wife is having an affair. I'm pretty sure she was being truthful when she said she didn't remember withdrawing the money or what she did with it. Maybe you should try to make it up with her."

"Yeah."

Harry hung up. So there are at least five and they weren't limited to one bank. He called the only other bank in town but they hadn't had any incidents. He glanced at his watch and hurried out to his car. He wanted to get back to the library before Penny left.

Waiting outside the library, Harry spotted Hannah Pace heading toward her car, books in arm. He got out and made his way over, waving to get her attention.

"Oh hi, Mr. Wyndham," she said a little too loudly.

Harry put his finger to his lips and she gave him an apologetic look.

"What are you doing here, Miss Pace?"

"They called and said my book was here," she said, holding up the book.

Harry looked at the book cover and tilted his head to read the title. _Forbidden Lust_. The painted cover portrayed a Victorian era woman dressed in fine clothes in the arms of what appeared to be a menial servant.

"May I see that?" Harry asked.

She handed him the book and blushed. "It's my guilty pleasure," she shyly confessed.

He studied the cover and title, then opened it and scanned the inside flap. "Miss Pace, please don't take this the wrong way, but do you read books like this often?"

She gave him a look that was a mixture of confusion and embarrassment. "Um...not _that_ often."

He held the book up and told her he was actually here on the case and that book may be a clue, asking her if he could take it for a day or two.

"I guess so," she said.

"I'll return it in a couple of days, I promise," he said, waving as he returned to his car.

He flipped through the book, reading the occasional passage, grimacing at the poor writing and gratuitous sex scenes couched in romantic terms. He shook his head, unable to see the appeal, though there was a reason these books were read almost exclusively by women.

At ten after four, Penny appeared and headed for her car. Harry followed her to her apartment complex, a small four-building system with, fortunately for Harry, outside mailboxes housed in a large metal box at one end of the complex. He watched her carefully through the telephoto lens on his camera, noting that she checked two boxes, 301A and 301B. Curiously, instead of parking her car and going inside, she motored back out onto the main road. He followed at a distance, watching as she pulled into the post office. Was there another victim? Keeping one eye on the post office door, he dialed Patricia Leer's number and got her machine, hung up without leaving a message, and called Betsy Stocker.

"Mrs. Stocker, would you mind telling me what type of books you typically read?"

"Excuse me?"

"I know it sounds strange, but it may lead to a clue about who stole your money."

"How would that be a clue?"

Penny emerged carrying a rather large box. "Mrs. Stocker, I have to go...I'll call you back in a bit." He hung up and started his car, once again following Penny at a distance. She drove back home, carrying the package inside. With the telephoto lens, he was able to see her through a window and took note that she entered the first apartment on the left. Unfortunately, the windows of that apartment had the blinds drawn. He called Margaret Blackwelder.

"Was there another one?" he asked her.

"No, not today."

He thanked her and hung up, dialing Tom Brickman. "Did a customer come into your bank today and withdraw all their money?"

"No, why?"

"Just a hunch. Thanks." He hung up and dialed the last bank, but there had still been no such odd requests. He had assumed since she retrieved a large box that there was a new victim. Apparently, she just got a regular package. Unless, possibly, they had managed to expand the scheme to another town or state. Had they done this before? The ladies had suggested that Penny was new at the library. Perhaps this woman and her boyfriend had done this elsewhere and were moving around robbing people in various places. Harry figured the second apartment belonged to the boyfriend. He got out and moved toward the building, pointing his lens at the surrounding trees in the guise of photographing birds. Walking around the building, he noticed that blinds covered every window on the ground floor. He returned to his car and dialed Betsy Stocker's number again.

"I'm sorry about before, Mrs. Stocker. Can you tell me what kind of books you read?"

"All kinds."

"Do you ever read romance novels?"

She paused. "Yes."

"It's okay, Mrs. Stocker, I'm not judging you. It may have something to do with how or why you were chosen."

"Chosen?"

"To rob."

"So you think someone did this to us? To me and the other ladies, I mean?"

"Something like that. I'm still working on it. In the meantime, you might want to stay away from the library for a while." He hung up and decided to get something to eat and drive home. He figured he'd eat and relax the rest of the evening.

When he woke, he checked his phone and noticed several messages. Why had he not heard the phone ring? Checking it more carefully, he noticed he had turned the ringer off. He remembered doing that the previous day, but he also remembered turning it back on. Strange. Then he noticed the date. His phone indicated that it was April 11. Yesterday was April 9. How did his phone jump a day ahead? Wait. Goose bumps. He sat down abruptly, just before his knees gave way. He looked around and located the book, sitting on the couch. That book. _Forbidden Lust_. He pulled himself up and staggered into the kitchen, retrieving a paper towel and a large plastic freezer bag. Very carefully, using the paper towel to protect his fingers, he picked up the book and slid it inside the bag, quickly sealing the bag with the zip lock.

He rose, showered, got dressed, and dialed a number on his phone.

"It's me. I need something analyzed as soon as possible. I'm on my way."

He drove for nearly an hour, out of town and into the country, eventually arriving at an old warehouse where he parked and carried the plastic bag to the door, upon which he knocked. A haggard looking individual opened the door and Harry handed him the bag.

"Call me when you have something."

The man gave him a curious look and closed the door. Harry returned to his car and drove back to town. On the way he phoned Margaret Blackwelder.

"Yes," she said, "You came in yesterday and emptied your bank account. You refused to listen to reason. In fact, you said almost nothing other than insisting that we give you your money."

"I know," he said. "I know who the perpetrators are and I'm working on getting the evidence to prove it."

"By the way, two other ladies came in yesterday and did the same thing."

He sighed. "I'm on my way to deal with it."

He pulled up and parked alongside Penny's apartment complex, got out, and walked up to Penny's door. Quickly running his hand along the back of his waist to make sure his gun was there, he gave the door two forceful knocks, still not quite sure what he was going to say. He had no idea what her reaction would be. Soft steps echoed into the hallway and then the door swung open.

"About time, Lonnie. I tried calling you all day yesterday," she said, then turned and walked back into the apartment, leaving the door standing open.

Harry frowned and tentatively stepped inside, closing the door behind him, keeping a wary eye on Penny.

"Where were you, anyway?" she asked, stopping just before entering the kitchen.

He narrowed his eyes and half-turned his head. "I'm sorry, do we know each other?"

She gave him a confused look. "Stop fucking around, Lonnie. Butch was worried and so was I. What happened to you yesterday?"

He stood, staring, cogitating, attempting to come to grips with what was going on. Was she trying to confuse him in an effort to avoid being caught? Was Butch her boyfriend? Is he in the bedroom right now? Will she get violent if he tells her what he knows? He felt odd...out of his element...though he knew this to be _precisely_ his element, which confused him. He couldn't figure out what to say next so he just stood there, a dumb look on his face, staring at this young girl who was apparently a good actress.

"Lonnie!," she snapped, "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Harry Wyndham."

Now it was her turn to give him an odd look. "Are you fucking around?"

"I'm deadly serious," he said, leveling his gaze at her.

"Shit!" she exclaimed and moved quickly back toward the living area, which caused him to tense. "We gotta get Butch over here...something got fucked up."

"No!" he snapped at her, both surprising and stopping her in her tracks.

"Whattayou mean, 'no'?" she said, "Butch needs to know something went wrong. You were supposed to snap yesterday and you still think you're Harry."

His head had begun to throb. "What are you talking about?" he asked her as calmly as he could manage.

She sighed. "Okay, sit down, I'll tell you the truth, but you might not like it."

"I'll stand."

"Fine," she said, sitting in a cushioned chair. "You and Butch are brothers from Philly. He's a chemist, you're a forger. Your real name is Lonnie Curtis and you're the one who did all the paperwork that allowed the three of us to get driver's licenses down here under fake names. I wrote all the back stories. The whole reason we're doing this is because Butch's daughter, your niece, Marissa, went to work for a huge pharmaceutical company – she was a chemist too – and she developed this incredible nanobot technology which they stole from her. She then got mysteriously ill and died. Butch is convinced they killed her, so the three of us got together to work up a plan to make things right...to honor Marissa."

"So I'm a forger from Philly?"

"Yeah."

"Why do I think I'm an ex-cop from Jersey named Harry Wyndham?"

"Because that's the back story I wrote for you. That's how I know your best friend is named Joey Fellows, you never had any kids, and you grew up in Jersey City in Chelsea."

He frowned and shook his head. How could she know all that? "Okay, but _why_ do I think I'm the guy you made up for me? Why don't I know what you're talking about?"

"I dunno. You were supposed to snap yesterday," she said, then noticing his questioning glance, she continued, "Snap – snap out of it...Butch came up with it. See, you were the first test. You were the first one we tried the bots on. You volunteered."

"Bots?"

"Yeah, the nanobots. What Marissa's employer didn't know was that she shared all her notes with Butch, so when it all went down, Butch figured out how to make a sort've nanobot virus that gets in your brain and sort've re-programs you."

"I've got these things in my brain?"

"Yeah, but something's fucked up. Like I said, you were supposed to snap yesterday. That's why I need to call Butch."

"Wait. Me and Butch are brothers, but who are you?"

"Kelly Barone. Marissa's best friend. I wanted to help."

"And what is this big plan?"

"Well, once we've tested the various viruses to our satisfaction, we'll unleash them on the executives at this pharmaceutical company. We'll get rich and they'll all get nice, long prison terms."

He frowned. Something wasn't right. "Why would I volunteer to be 're-programmed'?"

"There are several different forms of the virus. The bots have to be programmed and in the form you have, they were supposed to make you think you're Harry Wyndham for about a month and then you were supposed to snap without losing the memory of being Harry. You should remember everything I've been telling you, which is what I keep saying...we need to call Butch so he can figure out what went wrong and how to fix it."

"That makes no sense. Why would I risk this?"

"We all might have to risk it. The form of the virus you took reprograms you to be someone else. That way, if we ever get taken into custody or put on a polygraph, we can pass with flying colors. You just volunteered to make sure it worked."

"Then what's the deal with the ladies and having them withdraw their money and send it to you?"

"That's another form of the virus, which completely wipes one day from their memory. We had to test it on someone...and the money was how you were able to pay rent."

"But I make enough from consulting and freelance photography to pay rent."

She laughed. "You don't make a dime from that. That's just part of your back story."

He grimaced. Everything he knew was a lie. Or was it? She was certainly relaxed, not at all like someone afraid of capture. She was either an outstanding actress or she was telling the truth.

"So it had something to do with library books, right?" he asked her.

"Yeah. Butch came up with a paste that held the virus. I just spread it on a few trashy novels that I knew were popular with a few sad women and we had our test subjects and a little cash."

"That must be what messed up my snap," he said.

"What?"

"I took one of those novels as potential evidence," he said. "I must've gotten the virus on my hands. I actually withdrew my bank balance yesterday and sent it to you."

She blinked at him, her mouth slightly agape. "Those two forms of the virus weren't made to coexist or work together. They must've somehow damaged one another."

The way she told the story gave it the ring of truth, though he remained troubled. While he couldn't exactly put his finger on it, there was still something amiss. He shook his head, considering his next move. She had risen and moved toward the end of the couch to retrieve her phone. She picked it up and was just about to dial when something occurred to him.

"What's the other apartment for?" he asked her. She froze.

"What other apartment?"

"The one across the hall."

She gave him a look of confusion that he didn't buy. She wasn't a great actress after all.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Lonnie," she said, starting to dial again.

He pulled his gun. She stopped dialing.

"Penny or Kelly or whoever you are, you're telling me the truth, but not all of it."

She sighed and put the phone in her pocket, moving over to the kitchen, where she retrieved a set of keys from a pegboard.

"Okay, let's go see the apartment," she said.

He followed her across the hall and waited while she unlocked the deadbolt and then the door.

"Help yourself," she said, waving him forward.

He shook his head. "After you," he said, waving his gun toward the door.

She sighed, opened the door, and stepped inside. He followed closely. Inside, the apartment looked nothing like a residence. Several desks and tables with computers, scanners, and printers sat in the living area, while the kitchen appeared to be a makeshift laboratory. Instead of a dining table next to the kitchen, a table filled with beakers and test tubes rested along the wall. The counters in the kitchen were lined with multiple chemicals and various instruments and utensils. Taking a couple more steps into the apartment, Harry stretched his neck to glance down the hall.

"So, what's all thi...." He never finished his sentence. He felt a sharp pinch at the base of his skull and then all went black.

Penny/Kelly stood just behind him, phone in hand, which she now dialed.

"Butch?"

"Yeah?"

"I had to put Lonnie down."

"What?"

"He showed up still thinking he was Harry, so I had to use the failsafe."

"Damn it. I knew something was wrong when he showed up with that stupid book this morning, asking for tests."

"He accidentally got the viruses crossed."

"He got number six?"

"Yeah. Those two together in his brain...we're lucky those buggers didn't turn him into a fucking psycho."

"So what now?"

She sighed. "We gotta move on, get a new town, new testers, new Lonnie."

"Alright. Does this mean I need to start working on new paperwork?"

"Nah, I don't think so. We got licenses. I'll turn in my notice and we can stick around another week or so collecting from the pathetic hens who read garbage."

"What about Harry? People will be looking for him. Shouldn't we clear out now?"

"Nah, that would look suspicious. I'll take care of Lonnie...dump him back at his apartment. The failsafe looks just like a brain aneurysm. By the time they do the autopsy, the bots will have long dissolved."

Butch whistled. "Can't believe how smart you are. Didn't get it from me, that's for sure."

"Well, Dad, when the bastards kill your soul-mate it has a way of bringing a laser-like focus to your agenda. Fortunately for me, those idiots never knew Marissa and I had a relationship. As far as they knew, we were simply co-workers. But they will pay, trust me. Nothing could stop me from making them pay."

## The Muse

The deep bass notes echo into the hallway as I approach the door. They sound like raindrops hitting the top of a gigantic metal barrel, vibrating the air. Just as I open the door, the piano kicks in, a quick, agile run of notes putting me in mind of a cat trotting across the room. There is a brief pause and the piano settles into a nice syncopated melody, complimenting the resounding bass in perfect partnership. My friend, Greg Macon, is responsible for the piano, and his friend, Big Sherman Stemple, plucks the bass with long and nimble fingers. That's what his friends call him - "Big Sherman" - because he's a big guy, maybe six-four and just over two-hundred, fifty pounds. Greg and I go way back – we were in college together and played a few gigs together. He turns and grins when he sees me walk in.

Greg is a songwriter, mostly jazz, but occasional pop and new country. He writes both music and lyrics and several of his songs have been recorded by famous artists. I play guitar, though I should say it's more like I play _around_ with the guitar. I'm not bad, just not good enough to play professionally. But I do enjoy jamming with Greg, especially when he's got one of his studio buddies over...like right now. I glance over and notice there's an old Telecaster sitting in the corner and I'm tempted to hook it up and join in, only I don't know the song and I'm not quite good enough to fake it. They're doing a jazz number, one that I don't know. Maybe they're in the middle of writing. I sit and close my eyes, allowing myself to flow along with the melody.

Doing this with a good mid-to-up-tempo jazz tune is a little like riding the rapids. You can see where you're going, but every now and then the current shakes you a bit and guides you in a direction you weren't anticipating. The cool thing about a good jazz song is that you can get a full-body experience without a full band. For example, even without a drummer, I feel the rhythm of this song. In fact, my brain fills in the drums...definitely brushes rather than sticks, but no less pop to them. It's amazing how a good jazz drummer can make the skins pop with a pair of brushes. For this particular tune, I'm thinking sticks would be too much.

"Grab that axe!" Greg yells toward me, but I'm too busy playing the drums in my head, so I grin and shake my head without opening my eyes. The music gets inside you and you just begin to flow, like going down those rapids, and all you can do is hang on and enjoy the ride. Just then, Greg starts tiptoeing outside the lines, darting just outside the melody in short bursts, bringing a laughing exclamation from Big Sherman as he tries to keep up. That's the great thing about jazz...it's free form, no rules to which one must adhere. Jazz is to music as free verse is to poetry or abstract is to painting. Can't do that if you're playing pop or country, rock or classical. The minute you step outside the lines in pop or rock, you're playing jazz...or at least what artists call a jazz-pop fusion or a jazz-rock fusion. Going with the flow in music _is_ jazz, man.

After the song, Greg reminds Big Sherman of our previous meeting, a reminder he apparently doesn't need as he jumps around his big stand-up bass and grabs my hand, exclaiming that it's great to see me again. The three of us sit and talk and laugh, Greg telling me about the song they just played and how it's been simmering in his awareness for a week or so.

"A week?" I ask, somewhat incredulous.

"Yeah, man," he says, grinning. "Sometimes I need to marinate in the music a while before I cook it."

I laugh at the mixed metaphor, and when I point it out, he leans a little closer and gives me a deadpan look.

"But dude, if I used a straight metaphor for jazz music, it would be so...rude." He flashes a wily grin just as this is out of his mouth, then leans back and mocks smoking a cigar.

This brings laughter from Big Sherman. "Man, you a trip," he says to Greg, shaking his head.

Later, it's just Greg and me and a six-pack of Yuengling Black & Tan. We drink from the bottles and talk about inspiration and perspiration. I know where he believes his music comes from, but I want him to elaborate on it, so I ask.

"It's just there...everywhere," he says, struggling with the concept of giving directions to someone who is visiting for the first time. He shakes his head and smiles as he turns the bottle up.

"That's kinda vague," I point out.

He nods to this. "Yeah, and if I could draw you a map, I would." He pauses and takes a sip from a freshly-opened bottle. "The music is like in the background...always playing. All you have to do is tune in to it and pay attention."

He says this as if anyone can hear it. I believe that he believes this. I'm not sure I do.

"Why can't I hear it?" I ask.

He gives me a long, pensive look, and then takes another sip. "Maybe you're not supposed to," he says, shrugging. Then, after another pause, he adds, "You write...where do your ideas come from?"

I think about this. While I draw upon my life experience for articles and stories, I must admit that the best things I write seem to come from nowhere...or everywhere. When I'm in a particular place, the stories write themselves. This sounds like a cliché, even as I think about it, yet despite this, I cannot deny the truth of it. It also points me toward some common ground the two of us may share.

"What about the lyrics?" I ask, opening my second beer.

"Same thing," he says.

"Always?"

"No," he says, shaking his head and leveling his gaze at me. "Only the good stuff comes as a gift. I can write music and lyrics anytime, but they are mundane compared to the good stuff."

This immediately strikes a chord with me, the thought of which makes me laugh.

"Did I say something funny?" he asks.

"No," I say, and explain my amusing thought, which brings a smile to his face and a light to his eyes. "There's a song there...," he says, then sits silently, sipping his beer and, I can only assume, listening.

"Ever wonder why we talk about an idea as _striking a chord_?" he asks after a moment of silent sipping.

I shrug. "Not really. It just makes sense, I guess"

He stares off into space, tapping his fingers along the neck of his beer bottle as if tapping out a rhythm to the melody he's hearing.

"Yeah, it does make sense. A _lot_ of sense," he says, finally, taking another sip.

We both sit a moment or so in silence, sipping and thinking.

"Think every songwriter just plucks music from what's there?" I ask after a bit.

He shakes his head. "I dunno. Maybe." Then after another moment of thought, he adds, "But honestly, there are some songs that I cannot imagine come from that place. In fact, there are a _lot_ of songs like that." He empties beer number two and then says, "I dunno, maybe that's just me being a bit of a musical snob."

But I don't think so, and I tell him that. I think about the writings of Dostoevsky compared to Harlequin romances and I cannot help but think there is definitely a qualitative difference. Of course, literary critics would agree, perhaps nearly everyone would, but is this snobbery toward those who may not agree? If some, however few they may be, happen to think that Harlequin romance novels are just as well-written as anything by Dostoevsky or Dickens, are they wrong? Ignorant? Or just have a different perspective? I pose the question to Greg, only in musical terms.

"Is Bach's music qualitatively better than Justin Bieber's music?"

He frowns. "Of course," he says.

"So if someone thinks otherwise, they are wrong?" I inquire.

"Wrong?" he repeats. "Why would they be wrong? It's just what they believe."

"Yeah, but you just said there was a qualitative difference. If that's the case, then either you or they must be wrong, don't you think? I mean, there either is or there is not a qualitative difference, right?"

He sips and shakes his head. "I'm quite sure there is a qualitative difference. But that's only my perspective. Someone else just has a different perspective, that's all."

"But what is the _truth_?" I ask.

He gives me a quizzical look. "What I just said," he says, "We have different perspectives."

"I get that, but which perspective is _right_?"

He laughs. "Depends on which one of us you ask."

That strikes a chord.

## Gradual Epiphany

Dina Barker, a stunning, olive-skinned, brown-haired, green-eyed college freshman introduced me to the divine. I saw her the day I arrived on campus and thought to myself, _if this is how all college girls look, I am going to flunk out in one semester_. I couldn't get her out of my mind and talked about her incessantly, annoying the hell out of my roommate, a rather irritable fellow from Georgia. His name was Pete Sherbo and he was _serious_ – serious about school, serious about sleep, serious about studying. I don't recall hearing him laugh or even seeing him smile. I was thankful when he decided to transfer after the first semester and further delighted with his replacement, a guy named Adam Schecter who was from Michigan and was decidedly _not_ serious. Not that he was a goof off or anything...I mean, the guy made decent grades and never studied...at least that I saw. But he was funny and fun. He thought he knew how to pick up girls and didn't hesitate to share his knowledge with the rest of us. He was a hoot.

Except that I took everything he said to heart because as far as picking up girls went, I was clueless. Of course, I never let anyone in on this, but I paid particular attention to Adam's mini-lectures on the fine art of seduction. And it was he who helped me finally get a date with Dina Barker, who, according to him, was quite a looker. I knew this already, of course, though his approval made me feel at least somewhat capable in at least evaluating looks. In any event, Adam found out that Dina had joined a club called COC, _Christ On Campus_ , so I promptly went over to the student center and signed myself up as well. Now, I suppose I must tell you that I was not a true believer. I mean, I just didn't really think much about God. I guess I believed, but honestly, I had never really given the idea much consideration. I had been to church a few times, but only to qualify to go on trips with the youth group. My primary extra-curricular activities in high school had been sports, dungeons and dragons, experimenting with alcohol and marijuana without getting caught, and most of all, girls.

Girls. _That_ was the ultimate mystery to me, not God. So here was the ultimate girl who was apparently interested in God, so I magically became interested in God. This group of about a hundred students met every Thursday night in the student center. They gathered and sang a few songs and then they usually had a couple of skits, some announcements, and then some featured speaker...who was often another student. The songs were kinda corny but the skits were usually pretty funny and I met some pretty cool people there. In fact, I got to be pretty good friends with a few of them. And of course, I got to meet Dina.

"So tell me about how you were born again," she said to me on our first date.

"Um...," I stammered, putting my brain into overdrive trying to come up with something. What could I say to her? I knew she made a big deal about being _born again_ – the whole COC group did – but I had no idea how to talk about it.

"Well," I said, "I guess I've never really been born again."

She gave me a look of utter shock. "What?"

I shrugged. "I don't think it's that big a deal. I mean, I believe in God. I believe in Jesus. Why do I need to be born again if I got it right the first time?" I thought it was a clever retort. She didn't appear to agree.

"You _have_ to be born again," she said. "You can't be a Christian if you aren't born again."

"Why not?" I asked.

The question seemed to throw her for a loop...like something she'd never considered because there could simply be no reason to consider it. "Because that's what the Bible says," she finally spat out, somewhat frustrated.

"So?" I asked without being argumentative. I was genuinely curious.

She narrowed her eyes and peered at me as if to see the _real_ me – like she suspected I was a pod person or something. "The Bible is the _Word of God_ ," she stated emphatically. "If the Bible says something must be a certain way, then _it must be that way_."

Suddenly, Miss Perfect was no longer that attractive to me. What the hell was she talking about? I mean, I'd read the Bible and it had some good stuff in it, but it had some really messed up stuff in it too. Did she really think God had destroyed the entire planet with a flood? Or send a couple of angels to destroy a whole city? Hell, there was one story in there about some old prophet dude who asked God to punish some kids for calling him "baldy" and God sent a bear to kill forty-two of them. Did she believe that really happened? I shook my head and eyed her curiously.

"Well," I said, "I believe in God and Jesus and I think the Bible is okay, but I'm not really a fanatic about it."

Needless to say, we didn't have a second date and I didn't bother to attend COC the next few Thursdays. Weird thing was, I missed it. I don't know if it was the singing, the skits, or just being around generally upbeat people, but I missed something about it. So, about a month after that disastrous date, I went back to COC. It was a little strange, and Dina was certainly cool toward me, but most everyone was friendly and welcomed me back with hugs and smiles.

Over the next few months, I began to garner some understanding of Dina's theology, a theology apparently shared by most of the COC members. While I gained some appreciation for how these folks thought, most of it seemed juvenile to me. There was one aspect, however, that captured my imagination and kept me coming back again and again: mystical experience. The more people in the group I got to know, the more I heard about these mystical experiences. Many of my friends in the group often spoke about "hearing" God or God "speaking" to them, and while I initially dismissed this as just talk, I honestly began to grow curious about the phenomenon, eventually developing a desire to experience it for myself. I began to pray, to earnestly ask God to open my eyes and ears and mind so that I could see or hear or otherwise experience His presence. I remember kneeling by my bed, pleading with God, tears flowing, sobbing out my sincere desire for something... _anything_ that would fill the hole in my soul that seemed to expand daily.

This went on for months and I began to despair of ever hearing God's voice. I never lost faith, though my self-esteem continued to wane as my failure to do what my friends spoke of as an everyday occurrence taught me that there was obviously something wrong with me. I read of John Wesley's evangelistic failures in Georgia and his subsequent faith crisis and was somewhat heartened, attempting to apply his "fake it 'til you make it" remedy to my situation. This worked for a while, but eventually I could no longer keep the doubts at bay and began to cautiously entertain them. Perhaps God didn't actually exist. Just thinking this made me feel strange, as if I were trying to convince myself. I felt completely lost and it seemed whichever path I chose left me feeling shallow and false.

Then one evening, while walking around the small lake on campus, I softly whispered, "If you're there, show me, or I'm done." I took four or five more steps and in my peripheral vision, I noticed a ghostly apparition in the trees to my right. I quickly turned my head and it was gone. Had I imagined it? I asked for confirmation and received none. What _was_ that? For the next few days, my existential angst was simply transferred one level. Rather than agonize over God's existence, I agonized over whether what I saw was real or imagined and if real, what it meant. The few COC friends in whom I felt comfortable enough to confide all assured me that it was a sign from God. No surprise there. My two agnostic friends spoke about wish-fulfillment and the power of the imagination. "It's all in your head," they said.

Oddly enough, the "vision" set my life on a previously unimagined course. I took a class in psychology and then another and eventually declared it my major. I devoured psychology texts, especially those that dealt with the intersection of psychology and spirituality. I read everything I could find by and about Carl Jung and after discovering Ken Wilber, I felt like I had found someone who wrote just for me. I found great joy in studying and reading, and while I discovered many theories, I never found a definitive answer to satisfy my old questions. I still didn't know if God existed, nor if my "vision" was real or imagined. I simply learned to cope with doubt, to survive and not allow it to consume me from within. Eventually I got comfortable with it, and oddly enough, _that_ is when I got my confirmation.

Over the years, I "heard" God speak to me many times. I almost always wondered if it was God or my imagination that had "spoken." A few times, I became aware of things that I found difficult to rationalize as my own thoughts or imagination. I had studied enough to understand the idea of collective consciousness, and while I gave some credence to this possibility, it was quite another thing to simply accept this as the answer. To me, the idea of collective consciousness was no more unlikely than the concept of a deity, so I had no compunction about assigning my "hearing" to either. As far as I was concerned, they were equally plausible.

As the years morphed into decades, I "heard" from God more and more often. In fact, it got to be a daily occurrence. Ironically, the further I moved away from my old friends philosophically and theologically, the closer my experience began to resemble theirs. I never did develop the same level of reverence for the Bible as they, though I have come to appreciate it as a wonderful teaching tool and often a conduit for perspectives not yet considered. In conversations with friends and neighbors, I've been asked, "How do you know God is speaking to you?" Well, that's an excellent question...one might say a fundamental question. In response, I must confess, I don't know. I just know without knowing how I know. Oh, and just as a matter of course, in conversations I rarely use the term "God" anymore since people have so many _a priori_ assumptions about what that term means, and if there's one thing I've learned, it's that assumptions tend to close doors of opportunity.

I guess that's what I meant when I wrote that I received my confirmation when I embraced the concept of not knowing...or not _needing_ to know. By letting go of that perceived need to know, I became open to a multitude of possibilities and perspectives that had heretofore been closed for me. I began to see the world in a whole different way and my understanding of reality changed a great deal. Not that I can explain it. That's another thing I've learned...that most of what's important cannot be explained, defined, mapped out or controlled in any way, shape, or form. It really is a delicious irony that the _true_ things of life are those which defy categorization, definition, or explication. It's like trying to describe a beautiful melody with words. The music has to be _experienced_...a description of it is less than useless.

Even though I embraced spirituality and God, I've never really been a church-goer. I tried it – it's not for me. I'm not knocking it for others, since I'm confident that plenty of people get a lot of good from church. I'm just saying that it isn't for everyone and just because people don't go to church, that doesn't make them somehow less spiritual. I just get the feeling that churches seem to be in the business of promoting theology and morality and I don't believe God has much to do with either. That may sound odd, but hey, that's where I am. The really cool thing about embracing this whole "I don't know" thing is that I can cheerfully and enthusiastically share my beliefs and just as cheerfully and enthusiastically let them go if they prove to be unhealthy. I guess you could say that I hold my beliefs rather than my beliefs holding me.

In any event, I'll forever be grateful for my youthful attraction to a lovely young girl named Dina Barker. On rare occasions, when I am feeling particularly nostalgic, I wonder what she's up to. Part of me would like to talk with her and tell her this story. I suppose the act of writing it down is my way of saying "thanks" to her, in some small way, for directing me toward a path I had not considered. Would I have wound up on this path apart from that young girl all those years ago? How would my life be different if I hadn't joined that COC group? Would I believe in God? Would I be an atheist? I don't know.

## The Crossing

Even after six months, everything reminds him of her. Her scent still seems to linger in every room of the apartment, though this could be his imagination. But whether it's just his imagination or not doesn't matter, he can't seem to get away from it. Not that he wants to. And yet he does. He doesn't know. He's conflicted. Why wouldn't he be? His friends call and he talks to them... sometimes ...though "talk" is not exactly the right word. He accepts their calls and listens, mumbling into the phone when they ask questions. Many times he just lets the calls go to voice mail, and generally deletes them without listening. Some of his friends try to sympathize, but they don't understand. They _can't_ understand.

He sleepwalks through work, doing everything by rote, nodding and smiling at patrons, though mentally he is miles and months away. His coworkers are aware of this, noting the lack of light in his eyes and life in his conversation. He no longer jokes. He is a shell of himself...a zombie...merely existing rather than living. They whisper among themselves and he is oblivious to it, uncaring. His supervisor invites him into her office and suggests a vacation, but he politely declines. She expresses concern; he reassures her that he can keep up the work just fine.

Then, one day, he notices a message from an unknown number on his cell phone. He frowns and considers his options, shrugging and pressing the "listen" button. The message begins with silence, and he is about to press "delete" when a woman's voice hesitantly, quietly speaks.

"I miss you," she says. Everything stops - his breath, his heart, time itself. It's _her_ voice. "I just wanted to hear your voice again. I don't think I can keep going without you." The voice is tragic, forlorn. "I don't know what I'm gonna do." More silence...then a click. That's it. He listens to it again and again, holding his breath during each playing. How can this be? He is _sure_ it's her voice. But how can it be? He listens to it a dozen times. Then he realizes the number is still on his phone. He pulls up the list of calls and gazes at the unrecognized set of digits. It's not her number. Why isn't it her number? What's going on? He highlights the number and presses the "call" button. It rings and he holds his breath again.

"Hello?" It's a man's voice. He hangs up, frowning, staring at the number as if he can solve this mystery just by looking at the number long enough. Then the phone rings, startling him. It's the number again. He answers it.

"Hello?" he says, clearing his voice.

"Did you just call me and hang up?" the man asks.

"Uh...yeah, sorry. I misdialed." he stammers. The guy hangs up without another word. He sits and stares at the numbers. Then he flips over to the message tab and listens to her again...and again. For the rest of the night he waits for the phone to ring again. At one point, he checks to make sure the ringer is switched on. He doesn't sleep, afraid she'll call and he'll miss it. He goes online to look up the number and finds that it's unlisted. Who is the man? Why would Kate call from his number? Her boss, maybe? A friend? Her father?

Wait. How could she call? She's dead. She died in a car accident six months ago. But he is certain it was her. He listens to the message again. That is her voice, he has no doubt. He examines the call data. It had come a day ago, so it wasn't an old message. But how? How could a dead person call him? He turns to his computer and begins searching for paranormal evidence. He reads articles about people dying and not moving on because of their strong ties to their lives on earth. Was it possible? Had her love for him kept her bound to earth? Was it possible for her to call his phone? He finds a paranormal chat forum, registers, and posts the question. Within minutes someone responds with an enthusiastic "yes!" but gives no details or explanation. Moments later, another person responds and writes that it isn't technically possible for Kate to use a phone, though since she is pure energy now, she could theoretically tap into the phone system and leave him a message that way. He frowns. If that were the case, why would there be a number listed? He posts a response with this question and waits. Nothing. He paces and drinks bottled water. He hasn't eaten for hours, but feels no hunger, only anxiety.

The next morning he is a mess. He absent-mindedly shaves, rushes through his shower, a nervous wreck thinking he may be missing her call as he scrubs like a wildman, then dresses after checking his phone for missed calls. His coworkers immediately notice the change. He says nothing about her call, after all, they'd think him stark-raving mad. He thinks he convinces them that he's simply turned a corner and finally let her go. They don't buy it. They don't know why he seems so frenetic and full of energy, and a couple of them suggest he's turned to drugs. This, they do out of his earshot, of course. His boss is a mix of relief and concern. She knows such a sudden change is often a dangerous sign. She quietly assures him they she is available if he wants to talk...anytime. He wonders, for just a fleeting second, if she is taking advantage of the situation to make a move, but quickly dismisses the thought. Everyone notices his constant checking of his phone and the rumors of drug use intensify, especially after he skips lunch.

For his part, he feels renewed, as if he's been reborn. He feels hope, a thing that has been resurrected in him. She had contacted him. From beyond. Love is indeed eternal and her love for him had given her the strength or courage or whatever it took for her to cross a boundary rarely crossed. Just the thought of this causes his heart to soar. He doesn't care what his coworkers or friends say in the back rooms and from shadowed hallways. _Their love is stronger than death_. And she will call again. This time, he'll answer.

And he does.

"Hello?" he says breathlessly into the phone. Silence. "Please say something," he whispers.

"Who is this?" she asks.

It's her voice. Tears form in his eyes and he closes them, breathing at last.

"It's me," he whispers, his voice breaking. "It's Mike."

More silence.

"Kate?"

She is speechless. She never expected him to answer. Why wouldn't she expect him to answer?

"Mike?" she whispers quietly. "How?"

A sob erupts from his throat. "I don't know," he says. He is weeping openly now. He hears her loose a sob on her end.

"Where are you?" he manages to ask between heaving breaths.

She is sniffling. "I'm in our apartment," she whimpers.

"I'm here too," he says. This brings another sob out of her.

"I don't understand," she stammers. "How is this possible?"

He shakes his head, and then chuckles to himself. "I don't know," he says. "And right now, I don't care."

They both break down into heaving sobs.

"I've missed you so much," she says after composing herself.

"I've missed you too, baby," he says. "More than I could ever tell you."

"I just want you to hold me, so bad," she says, sniffling again.

"I want nothing more," he says.

"I didn't know what I was gonna do when you left," she says.

He stops breathing. When _I_ left? "What do you mean, baby?"

She snivels. "You know, when you...passed."

He closes his eyes. Does she think _I'm_ the one who died? He bites his lip and tries to figure out how to break this to her. "Baby...oh baby," he says, but can't bring himself to go on.

"Thank God for Reggie," she says.

Reggie? Is that the guy who answered before?

"Baby, who's Reggie?"

She pauses. "What?"

"Is Reggie a friend of yours?"

Another pause. "Mike, what are you talking about?"

Now he's uncomfortable. He knows Kate better than he knows anyone and yet he has no idea what to say next.

"Babe, I don't know anyone named 'Reggie,'" he says apologetically.

This time she is quiet for more than a few seconds.

"Babe?" he says.

"What is your last name?" she asks.

"What?"

"I think I've got the wrong Mike. The Mike I know would definitely know who Reggie is."

She sounds...different. Irritation? Anxiety? Irked? Unhappy in some way. Perhaps a mixture of surprise and disappointment? He doesn't understand this, nor does he understand who Reggie is. Could it be that she isn't _his_ Kate?

"Garringer," he says flatly.

She is silent again. Then, "I don't understand. How can you _not_ remember Reggie? Is that what happens when you...pass away? You forget everyone? Will you forget me too?"

He sighs. "Kate, you said you were in our apartment, right?"

"Yes."

"What's the address?"

"The address? You don't remember?"

"Can you just tell me what it is?"

She pauses. "1227 East Lanier. Apartment 4B."

He writes that down. "Kate, what would you say if I told you that I am sitting in our apartment and the address is 408 Pecan Street, number 8?"

"Pecan street? I don't even know where that is."

"Oh, and Kate, I didn't pass away six months ago. You did."

"That's not funny, Michael."

"I'm not joking. And I don't know who Reggie is."

Silence. "What's going on, Mike? Reggie was your dog. You had him before we even met. And we've never lived on Pecan street."

"I don't know what's going on, Babe. But I've never had a dog and I've never lived on East Lanier."

They both sit in silence for a few uncomfortable moments. He considers the odd situation and a few questions occur to him.

"Do you remember the Banders?" he asks her.

"You mean Joey's parents?"

He frowns. "No, Joey and Sarah."

"Sarah who?"

"Sarah Bander, Joey's wife."

She pauses. "I know Joey Bander. He's single. Doesn't even have a girlfriend, much less a wife."

They both know something is wrong, but neither has any idea what that might be. Mike is determined, however, not to lose her again.

"Listen, Babe," he says, "I think we both know something strange is happening, right?"

"That's putting it lightly," she cracks.

"But I know I love you and never want to lose you again, so I say we deal with whatever's happening the best we can."

She is silent again, then after a few moments, he hears her sniffling again. "I love you, Mike."

"That's all I need to know, Babe." He glances at his clock and notices it's quite late. "Will you be home tomorrow night around seven?"

"Yes," she whispers.

"I know where Lanier is. I'll come over tomorrow at seven."

And he does.

He stands at her door precisely at seven o'clock, a mess of nervous energy, repeatedly clenching his fists and then stretching out his fingers. After some time, he rings the bell. He listens as her footfalls echo into the hall. His heart beats so fast that for a brief moment, he fears he may have a heart attack. When the door opens, a woman that he doesn't recognize stands before him. Roommate?

"Hi...um...is Kate here?" he asks nervously.

She furrows her brow and tilts her head slightly. "Mike?"

He stares. She speaks with Kate's voice. He frowns, a look of consternation. She, too, gazes at him, her face masked with confusion. They stand there, gaping at one another, both befuddled, neither knowing what to say. At last, she pushes the door open and quietly says, "Come in."

He slowly steps inside, eyeing the woman curiously. "Kate?" he asks.

She turns and gives him wan smile, then moves over to the sofa, motioning for him to sit. She then sits in a cushioned chair across from him.

"This is...unexpected," he says. She nods, a sad look of resignation in her eyes. Just then, a black and white cocker spaniel trots into the room and settles at her feet.

"This is Reggie," she says, scratching the back of his head.

He feels a tinge of deja vu, just before asking, "Had him long?"

She frowns, as if thinking, though she is experiencing a bit of deja vu as well. "About three years," she says, somewhat absently.

"You look...different," he says. "I mean, good, just different."

She raises her chin and meets his gaze. "Yeah, you too." She feels strange, as though she should feel something deeper. It is an odd, empty feeling, almost a hunger, though not quite.

He shakes his head, unable to understand what is happening. He expected Kate, and here she is, but it's not her. It _is_ her, and yet it's _not_ her. He feels a lost feeling, as if some knowledge that should be readily available is suddenly missing without explanation. He thinks to himself that this is what Alzheimer's feels like, then a moment later, doesn't have the slightest idea why that thought occurred to him.

"Do you feel alright?" he asks her.

She shakes her head. "Not really. I'm not really sure what's wrong, but I do feel a little ill."

He rises. "Maybe we should do this another time?" Even as he says this, he feels a rush of panic, as if leaving will be the end of it, and yet he doesn't know what it would end.

She hesitates and gazes up at him, almost pleadingly, as if she too is afraid to end something. Yet she closes her eyes and slowly nods.

"Can I call you?" he asks, moving toward the door.

She rises to see him out. "I'd like that," she says, smiling weakly again. Then she looks away and frowns, chewing on her thumbnail.

Later, he sits in his car outside his apartment, trying to figure out what just happened. He had expected it to be somewhat awkward, after all, first meetings always are. Except that wasn't a first meeting, it was a reunion. But for the life of him, he can't remember at the moment where or when they had first met. It seems like the last couple of days had been filled with deja vu moments and tidbits slipping from his mind. He frowns, trying to remember, but decides it's immaterial. Maybe it will come to him tomorrow. He has her number, he'll call her in the next couple of days.

And he does.

They meet for lunch and talk and laugh and oddly, become best friends in one afternoon. Over the next ten years, they support each other as they each meet and marry others. His marriage fails, hers succeeds, though only just and through very hard work. When they get together, especially with others, they often talk about how they met. She accidentally dialed his number, they say, and they spoke for an hour, instantly becoming friends. This is not true, but it _is_ their truth. It is how they remember it. They tell the story of their first meeting, his coming to her apartment, and how at ease they felt with each other, as if they were brother and sister, having grown up together. Again, this is not true, but it _is_ what each of them remembers.

Occasionally, each of them feels a twinge of romantic nostalgia for the other, a feeling that seems odd and out of place, and neither speak of it. It would be awkward. They are friends and _only_ friends. There are also odd instances of deja vu for each of them that seem to occur when they are together, as if they have been somewhere before _together_. They usually laugh about this and shrug it off, since everyone experiences deja vu and no one really knows why. Then, late one afternoon, as they sit and enjoy a glass of wine, Kate brings it up.

"Do you believe in reincarnation?" she prods.

Mike swirls the wine in his glass and looks off into the distance. "I dunno, maybe," he says, shrugging.

"Doesn't it seem strange to you that we met one day and were like, best friends instantly?"

He smiles a half-smile, a look that she knows is his "I'm about to make a joke or wise crack" face, and before he can, she nudges him with her fist. "I'm serious," she proclaims, flashing him a look of mock hurt.

He laughs and shakes his head. "We do know each other pretty well, huh?"

She nods. "So, whattaya think?"

"Honestly, I don't think about it," he says.

She gives him a look of incredulity that is only half-mocking. "Seriously? You're not curious about this at all?"

He pauses and gazes into her eyes and one of those odd, nostalgic feelings washes over him. He quickly shakes his head and looks away, sipping his wine.

"What?" she asks.

He sighs. "Nothing."

She reaches up and grabs his chin, turning his face toward hers. "What?" she repeats a little more forcefully.

He bites his bottom lip and peers at her, trying to see something, though he doesn't know what. "Sometimes," he begins, then takes a sip of wine. "Sometimes, I get these really strange feelings, kinda like deja vu, but they're connected to you."

"What kind of feelings?" she asks, tilting her head slightly and lifting her eyebrows.

It's a look he finds endearing. If it were anyone else, he'd lean in and kiss her. He knows this. But this is Kate...his buddy...his best friend...who is married. He sighs again.

"I dunno, like a reminiscent feeling," he says.

"Like nostalgia?" she suggests.

"Yeah, I guess," he says, sipping his wine.

This brings a smile to her face. A knowing smile. She gets them too.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't ya?" he says, narrowing his eyes and eyeing her sideways.

She sips and grins slightly, then nods.

"So, you think maybe we had a romantic relationship in a previous life?" he asks. As soon as the question is in the air, he feels a lightness in his chest.

She nods. "I honestly do. I've suspected that for a few years." She sips her wine and looks away, blushing slightly.

He suddenly feels uncomfortable, as if he's opened someone's luggage and rustled through it without their permission. Like he's prying into someone else's life. He rises.

"What's wrong?" she asks, setting her glass on the end table.

He shakes his head. "This feels...wrong," he says. He gazes into her eyes and then turns and leaves. She watches him go, a wisp of wistfulness brushing her awareness, then sighs and rises, taking both glasses into the kitchen. She's not concerned. He'll call in the next couple of days.

But he doesn't.

She doesn't call him, determined to give him space to work things out. She's always done that when he was upset. She greets Rick, her husband, when he returns from his trip, and he shows no awareness of her heart's swaying, just as she is unaware of his. They have grown apart, despite their hard work. After a couple of days, he asks about Mike.

"Maybe you should call him," he says.

So she does, but he doesn't answer. She leaves a message, but he doesn't return her call, even after another day passes, and she begins to grow concerned. She calls his office and Annie answers.

"Hi Annie, this is Kate, is Mike around?"

Annie pauses. "Oh Kate, you haven't heard?"

Everything stops – her breathing, her heart, time. She listens to Annie explain that Mike was hit by a car two days ago. He was in a coma for a few hours, but then passed away. She listens to this but she is far away. She hangs up the phone without saying goodbye and stands there, stunned. She looks around her house, a house she shares with a man she doesn't love, and wonders if Annie could be mistaken. Tears come later.

Six months pass and she is back in her old apartment, her husband having declared his love for a woman in another state. The divorce was quick and painless, she wanted it as much as he. She is alone, now, however, and she feels Mike's absence like an ulcer on her heart. She feels empty, like a shell of a human being, aimless and pointless. She weeps often, calling in sick to escape the knowing looks of her coworkers. She is a mess. She misses him in a way she has never imagined. She just wants so terribly to hear his laugh again. She reaches for her phone and dials his number, just to hear his voice mail message, just to hear his voice.

## The Minstrel's Tale

A Shadewalker Story

Honestly, becoming the squire to Lord Kedrick Spires was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me. Lord Kedrick, the first born of Lord Mywan Spires, was one of the greatest swordsmen in all of Amarya. It was widely accepted, at least in East River, that there was hardly a man, outside of perhaps First Counselor Tiril Rathmore, that could best young Lord Kedrick with the blade. In fact, his fame grew to such a status that men came from miles around to test their skill against his. Tournaments were organized and held and East River quickly began to grow and profit from the hundreds who would come and try to beat the one they began to call "Youngblade."

Whence his talent had come was a mystery. His father, while quite adept at swordplay, was not considered a master. The man charged with tutoring young Kedrick, Philos Holfstead, Lord Mywin's Captain of the Guard, was better than Lord Mywin, but was quickly surpassed by his young student, to everyone's delight and surprise. Most reasoned that it was due to Philos' age and loss of agility, but this explanation proved faulty on multiple occasions when Youngblade outperformed his teacher with technique. Lord Mywin summarized the prevailing belief one day after a particularly grueling tournament had provided a young and robust challenger to Youngblade...a championship match that was perhaps the most anticipated in the short history of the tournaments. Unfortunately for the crowd and the young challenger, Youngblade dispatched the man in mere moments, causing Youngblade's father to remark, "It seems my son has been touched by the gods."

Of course, with so many men gathering and fighting, even if with wooden blades, egos often got bruised and insults and challenges flew. This resulted in bloodshed, wherein Youngblade achieved even more glory. It was one thing to win tournaments with wood, but quite another to defend your honor with steel...and Youngblade proved just as adept at the latter as with the former. This only added to his reputation, to the degree that traveling became somewhat difficult, unless we traveled quite some distance from home.

It was on one such expedition that we happened to cross paths with the stranger. To this day, I do not know his name, which is all the more odd, since I spent almost as much time with him as I did with my master. We were traveling north, toward Coriaster, the largest city in the Northeast, to establish diplomatic relations with the House Mendax, the only noble family among the Forakan people. The Foraka, a dark-skinned race born from the intermixing of the Hama'ani, the Thalars, and the Kholuri, were not considered very bright, though they were extraordinarily industrious and sometimes cleverly adaptive. One thing they did have was their reputation for providing exceptional soldiers who were extraordinarily fit and athletically gifted. Lord Mywin considered a close friendship with the new noble family important for this reason if no other. With a boy King as ruler of Amarya and rumblings about other nobles angling to usurp him, an ally with an army of such warriors could prove very helpful.

The stranger approached our camp alone one evening.

"Evening, gentlemen," he said with a broad smile, doffing his tricorn hat and bowing low." He wore the suit of a nobleman, rather expensive-looking and quite dapper. "May I be so bold as to request your company for the night? While I have no secretary or assistant to travel with me, I often find it necessary to beg the indulgence of my fellow travelers, knowing that there be bandits lurking about."

Our company totaled eight, Lord Kedrick, myself, and six guards. A man traveling alone was an oddity, unless he was a thief, which is what Lord Kedrick immediately suspected. Not that he said as much, since that would be rude, and Lord Kedrick was well-versed in the rules of propriety.

"Forgive me, stranger, I didn't catch your name," Youngblade said.

"My Lord," the stranger said, bowing low again, "Forgive my absent-mindedness. I am but a traveling minstrel, a jester, a teller of tales. Perhaps I can pay for a night's protection from your capable soldiers by providing a bit of entertainment?"

Youngblade looked the man up and down. "A jester? In such finery? That seems...odd."

I noticed the stranger had still not given his name, though directly asked.

"My Lord," he said, smiling and waving his arms in long, lazy motions as if reciting an epic poem. "Indeed such finery is beyond my meager station. It was a gift, from my previous employer, for services rendered. Unfortunately, my other clothing had become so worn, it was simply unfit for travel and my benefactor had it burned."

"And who was your previous employer?" Youngblade asked.

"Lord Mendax of Coriaster," the man replied.

How serendipitous, I thought.

"Indeed?" asked my master. "And what is your opinion of our newest Nobleman?"

The stranger bowed low again. "My Lord, Lord Mendax is an exquisite host and employer. He is hospitable and charitable to all, even those far beneath his rank, such as myself."

"And I assume this suit was in addition to the normal wages for a minstrel?" Youngblade asked.

"Yes, my Lord. He is quite generous."

"Hmmm...he must be." Youngblade considered the man again, then nodded, knowing the stranger would be committing suicide if he tried anything. "Very well, never let it be said that House Spires lacks hospitality, even while traveling."

The stranger's eyebrows shot up. "House Spires, my Lord? Would you then be the one they call, 'Youngblade?'"

My master flashed a mild grin and nodded once.

The stranger bowed yet again, this time nearly touching his head to his shins. "Truly, the gods have smiled upon this humble jester to honor me with the company of one bearing such a fearsome and yet heroic reputation."

Another nod from my master and then he instructed the guards to make a place for the guest in their tents. One of them would remain awake and alert at all times, assuring Youngblade that this man would not purloin anything.

The next morning, the man was gone when I awoke. I spoke briefly with the guard on duty and he assured me that the stranger had spent a peaceful night of sleep in the guards' tents and had freely risen, dressed, and left completely of his own accord. An hour later, just after Youngblade had awakened, a small company of Foraka on horseback arrived at our camp.

"My Lord," the company leader spoke with a heavy Forakan accent, never bothering to dismount, an action that would be considered rude under normal circumstances. "Forgive my haste, but have you met a light-skinned man dressed in a fine nobleman's suit, claiming to be a minstrel?"

Youngblade glanced around quickly, giving his guards and me a look that indicated we should follow his lead.

"We have not encountered such a one. May I ask why you seek him?"

The Foraka leader grimaced. "He came to my master's house under the guise of being a minstrel. He stole gold, a suit of clothes, and murdered four guards before he escaped."

Youngblade frowned. "Four guards?" He glanced around at us, again, silently warning us to register no recognition.

"Yes, my Lord. If you will forgive us, we must be off. This particular serpent has proven to be rather slippery."

With a nod, and after a return nod from Youngblade, the ten horsemen galloped away, moving back down the road toward East River. Youngblade waited until they were out of sight and quickly gathered us together.

"We must capture this rogue before they do. If he tells them of our hospitality, our hope for friendship with House Mendax will be crushed." He looked to each of his guards now, encouraging them. "You, my guards, are the finest in this land. You are the finest warriors and the finest hunters. We must find this man immediately!"

We packed up and divided ourselves into pairs, heading into different directions. We were to signal each other, as in the hunt, if we happened to spot our prey. I can only thank the gods now that I and Frinks were not the first to find the stranger. After a half hour of searching, we heard the signal and hastily road in the direction whence it had come. We were the second pair there, arriving just before Youngblade and his partner. We sat stunned in our saddles. One horse milled around unattended, while two guards lay dead, separated by just a few feet. Each of the guards had died from having his throat cut, their swords still clutched in their gloved hands. After a moment of silent cursing, Youngblade cleared his throat.

"Clearly, this _minstrel_ is much more dangerous than we thought," he said, frowning. "And now he is mounted."

Unfortunately for us, Youngblade was not only the best swordsman around, he was a more than capable tracker, and before long we had caught up to the stranger who sat next to a fire, his stolen horse tied to a nearby tree. This, we spied, from some distance away.

"He doesn't seem to be afraid of being caught," one of the guards said, a bit of fear creeping into his voice.

"Then perhaps it has been given to us to teach him fear," Youngblade said.

He and the four remaining guards then dismounted and encircled the stranger, leaving me a safe distance away with their mounts. I watched as they slowly closed in on their prey, noting that the stranger remained oddly still, as if he were unaware of their presence. Believing they had him as good as captured, Youngblade stood straight and walked directly into the camp, in full view of the stranger.

"You, murdering thief, shall come with us back to Coriaster," he said to the stranger, pointing at him with his sword.

The stranger finally moved, but only giving a slow shake of his head. "I'm afraid that isn't going to happen," he said without looking up.

"Indeed?" Youngblade replied, "And how do you propose to stop us from taking you there?"

Now he looked up, leveling his gaze directly at Youngblade. "I will kill you," he said flatly.

"Oh really?" Youngblade responded, a grin breaking across his face. "How will you kill the greatest swordsman in Amarya _and_ his four guards?"

The stranger gave his head a half turn, eyeing the two guards to his right and behind him. He then slowly turned his head to the left to view the guards there. Then slowly, eerily slowly, he returned his gaze to Youngblade. "I don't know," he said, almost in a whisper. "I never do."

Youngblade narrowed his eyes, then lifted his chin and nodded to the four guards creeping ever so closer. They closed quickly, swords drawn, hoping the stranger would see reason and come peacefully. I would say that they were disappointed in this hope, except that it is much more likely that they simply didn't have time to feel disappointment. For what happened next was truly difficult to believe.

The stranger remained stock still until the guards actually reached for him. Blindingly fast, he whirled, head down, a twin nine-inch dagger in each hand, slicing lower legs as he spun. Each of the guards reacted almost identically, bending over to grab at their legs. While he continued to spin, the stranger slowly lifted himself, unbending his knees so that as he uncurled upward, his blades, seemingly with eyes of their own, ripped through the four guards' necks, dropping each of them in a manner of seconds. The stranger then stood fully, blood-dripping from the blades in his fists, his head slightly bowed, as if awaiting his next instructions. Meanwhile, Youngblade had stood and watched, sword clutched in both hands, narrow eyes taking in every move, as if he were studying. He felt no fear, for he was the greatest blade-wielder in the world. He held no doubt about what would happen next.

"You have one final chance," Youngblade said, his voice steady with confidence. "I can either turn you over to House Mendax, or I can deliver them your head."

The stranger didn't move, in fact, he hardly seemed to be breathing. He stood silently, clutching his blades. After a moment of silence, he finally rasped, "Do as thou wilt, Youngblade."

I was transfixed. I expected a battle of epic proportions. Youngblade had never been challenged, even by those who had displayed remarkable skills. But this stranger seemed inhuman, a quirk of nature, some type of beast in the guise of a man. I had to remind myself to maintain control of the horses. I held my breath. Youngblade struck first, moving slightly to his left, his upper body leaning right, his sword thrust toward the stranger's torso. The stranger's reaction was frighteningly prescient, almost as if he knew exactly what Youngblade would do. He spun, to his right, ducking and almost folding himself around Youngblade's body. Before Youngblade could move, one of the daggers entered into his right side, just below the ribs, while the other sliced cleanly across his neck. The momentum of the stranger's revolution pulled both blades free, and he resumed his earlier pose, blades clutched at his sides, his head slightly bowed. I then watched as Youngblade, the greatest swordsman I had ever seen, dropped his sword and fell to his knees, gurgling as blood poured from his neck.

I exhaled slowly as I watched my master fall face-first into the dirt. I then turned my eyes toward the stranger. Again, he stood still, daggers clutched, head slightly bowed, seemingly listening. He happened to be facing my direction, at a slight angle, and when he lifted his chin and turned his face in my direction, my heart stopped for just a moment.

"Come," he said, just loud enough for me to hear.

Without hesitation, I led the five horses to where he stood, now more relaxed, but daggers still in hand. I approached slowly, bowing my head when I got near him, afraid for my life. I held out my right hand, the hand holding the reins of the horses, and stared at the ground, trembling.

"Be at ease, squire," he said. "I mean you no harm. You have served your master well."

I dared to raise my eyes and met his.

"I will keep the horse I've procured, you keep yours, and the rest..." He looked away and sheathed the daggers within his coat, then gave a dismissive wave of the hand. "Let them go, or sell them, though I would be careful trying to sell Lord Spires' horses." He then sat, heavily and wearily, though what he had done had required remarkably little physical exertion. Yet he sighed loudly, as if he were burdened with a great load. Without another word, I released every horse but mine. He didn't seem to notice, dropping his chin to his chest and closing his eyes.

"My Lord...," I began.

"I am not a Lord," he interrupted, though softly.

"Sir," I said, "I have nowhere to go. Lord Spires will ask why I live while his son does not."

"Would you like me to kill you too?" There was no humor in the question. Rather, it sounded almost...sad.

I stood dumbfounded, lost. "No sir," I finally managed. "I want to come with you."

He sighed again. "You enjoy witnessing death?" he asked.

"Teach me what you know," I beseeched him, feeling a bit emboldened. I was much younger then...and much more foolish.

He then looked at me, gazing into my eyes as if to measure my sincerity. "You don't know what you ask," he said, almost pleading himself. "You do not want my life."

"This is true," I replied, "But I do want to learn from you so that I can make my own life." Looking back, I suppose that was one of those inspired moments, because he relented and took me as his assistant. He refused to call me his squire since he refused to see himself as a Lord or Knight. And thus, the most exciting thing to happen to me up to that point was eclipsed.

That first week as his assistant was strange to say the least. He rarely spoke, except when we approached other travelers or a town. We headed south, though when I asked where we were going, he said nothing. We rode at a leisurely pace and I dared not ask too many questions. The third night on the road, however, I could keep silent no longer.

"Sir, I must ask...how did you kill Youngblade so easily?"

We camped just outside of Lairn, a small fishing village on the banks of the Qairyon river, a fire between us.

"What is your name?" he asked without looking up.

"Pelos, sir."

He grunted. "I don't like that name. I will call you...," he squinted as if he were really thinking, then said, "Cattis."

"Cattis, sir?"

He nodded. "When I am done with you, you will be like a cat. You will be catlike, so...Cattis."

Personally, I didn't like it.

"Thank you, sir," I said. "So...how did you do it?"

He gazed at me and lifted his cup, taking a sip. "How? By getting out of the way."

"I don't understand."

He chuckled. "Yes, I suppose you don't."

"Can you explain?"

He sat and stared at me, as if he were formulating an explanation. After a moment, he said, "I don't think I can, though I will make an attempt." Then after refilling his cup with wine, he continued by asking, "What god or gods do you serve?"

"The Trinity of Light, of course," I said.

"Pity. Well, I serve the true god, you see. And when I say I 'get out of the way,' I am referring to surrendering myself to this god and then whatever happens...happens."

As you might guess, this struck me as a strange thing to say. "True god?" I asked.

He nodded.

"What is the name of this true god?"

"Berefesh," he said.

The name was oddly familiar. It was in the old Kholuri tongue, but it appeared to be a combination of two words. "Living wind?" I ventured.

This brought his eyebrows up. "You speak old Kholuri?"

"A bit."

"Well then, that is good to know. In any event, your translation is fine, though I would translate it 'Wind of Life.'"

"And this is the true god?"

"Yes."

I considered this a moment. I was not then a particularly religious person and while I had expressed a nominal adherence to the Lightwalker religion, I had never really considered what I _really_ believed with regard to the metaphysical. Was there a god? I had no idea and I supposed that I was practically an agnostic. Interestingly enough, according to the stranger, this is what made me an ideal candidate for service to Berefesh.

"Only, that's not really God's name," he said. I gave him a curious look and he explained, "It's a name I adopted to use, but the true god has no name. You can call God, simply 'god' or 'spirit' or 'chief.' The particular name you use doesn't matter."

This struck me as odd. A nameless deity? What would be the point of that?

"So why did you choose 'Berefesh?'" I inquired.

He sipped and shrugged. "It fit with my experience."

"So it's more about you than this god of yours?"

He tilted his head and looked at me sideways. "You asked me how I did what I did. When I get out of the way, Berefesh moves me."

"And this god of yours wanted to kill those guards and Youngblade?"

"I suppose so."

Well, at least he was honest. I simply assumed that he was an extraordinarily skilled assassin who just happened to be insane. A bit of a troubling thought considering I had not only asked him to mentor me, but if the notion struck him, he could easily leave me dead in the woods. Hoping that any affection for me or any hint of conscience might deter him from killing me was apparently futile. It certainly made for an interesting couple of years.

"I guess your god is a bit like Basanu, then?" I asked.

He chuckled. "Berefesh is _nothing_ like Basanu."

"Seems like Berefesh has no compunction about doing evil, which would make him quite like Basanu."

"Berefesh acts and it is what it is. It is neither good nor evil. It is simply reality."

I nodded. "Well, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, then I suppose that's just the way it is."

He looked at me sideways again. "And tell me, has your master never killed anyone?"

"Of course."

"But that was not evil?"

"Of course not. He was defending his honor."

He laughed. "Well then, if this is what you must tell yourself to justify murder, I suppose that's just the way it is." This he said with a twinkle in his eye. I was confused, since it was clear to me that to defend one's honor was a just cause for killing another.

"You see no difference between why he killed and why you did?" I asked.

He leveled his gaze at me. "Oh, there is quite a difference," he proclaimed. "My killing was in obedience to the true god while his was in obedience to a silly notion of honor."

I paused and drank my wine. I didn't want to argue the point and I certainly didn't want to start a fire under the pot of his anger. It gave me food for thought...though I admit that at the time, I thought little more than the notion that this man was completely insane and very, very dangerous. I was stuck, with nowhere to go, at the mercy of a maniac. My only hope was that I would learn enough of his skill that I would eventually be able to escape and survive on my own.

"You said I wouldn't want your life...what did you mean by that?" I asked after a time.

He poured himself another cupful of wine and swirled it around. "I live a life of complete devotion. It is not easy. I do not enjoy killing...even when I think those I kill deserve it. It is not something I enjoy."

"Then why do you do it?"

He paused and held his cup aloft, considering. "Because I can live no other way," he said.

And so, my two-year odyssey began. I saw much, learned much, and forgot much. Most of what I forgot, I did so intentionally, a manner of "unlearning" you might say. One of the things I learned was just how much I had to forget. For much of the first year, the stranger taught me about swordplay and dagger fighting. He was skilled, but, as he pointed out, he could certainly not compete with the likes of Lord Kedrick apart from his devotion. I asked him again about this "getting out of the way."

He was quiet for so long that I almost repeated the question. At last he said, "You must empty yourself completely of all desires, all thoughts, all emotions. What is left is that part of you that is genuine, that is intimately connected to the true god. And as you rest in this emptiness, you will be moved as the will of Berefesh moves you."

I considered this a moment, then asked, "But what if the will of Berefesh does not move you?"

He gave me a sideways glance and smirked. "There are no 'what ifs' in a life of complete devotion. There is only what is and what is not."

He also taught me several other skills, including oratory and acting, at which he excelled, some musical instruments, and some rudimentary illusions. He was giving me the foundation I would need to do what he does. He was grooming me to replace him. I eventually understood this and asked him about it one day.

"Are you planning to retire?" I inquired.

He chuckled. "In a manner of speaking," he whispered.

"And you want me to take your place?"

He gazed at the ground and a slight smile broke across his face. We sat on opposite sides of the fire, as we always did. We were near Riverend, a long way from where we had met.

"You cannot take my place," he said, "But you will be your own man, your own minstrel."

"Why would I do that?"

He turned and gave me an odd look. "Berefesh will make it so."

"I'm not a killer," I spat out.

"No, I don't think you are," he said. "But you can make a decent minstrel, and you know how to defend yourself. If you submit to Berefesh, you will discover an entirely different level of...being."

I found this comment odd, to say the least. "What does _that_ mean?"

He grinned. "You'll have to experience it to understand."

"You can't bribe or trick me into submitting to this god of...this Berefesh."

"Of course not," he said, "I would never dream of such a thing."

We sat in silence for a while, he, humming to himself and tending the fire, while I contemplated our strange conversation. I found myself doing that often...contemplating this strange man's words and life. Eventually, I developed a genuine affection for him, and I like to think the feeling was mutual, though he never said as much. That was not uncommon, in fact, it was rather the normal course of events. He almost never spoke to me plainly about anything, instead treating every conversation as an opportunity to try and drive me crazy. He seemed to enjoy this a great deal. Interestingly, my level of patience with him grew to the point where it became next to impossible for him to annoy me. He seemed to be very pleased with this evolution in me and took great pride in pointing out that it was his determination that had brought it about.

"Why is it so important that I achieve this level of patience?" I asked him, slightly irked.

He smiled and spun his dagger in his hand, making it dance along the back of his fingers, a trick he had taught me and one that had impressed at least half a dozen bandits enough to convince them to leave us alone.

"If you cannot be riled, you are less likely to make a mistake," he said, simply.

It was this type of exchange that pretty well characterized the bulk of our conversations. It was also exactly opposite of what Lord Kedrick had shared with me, often extolling the motivating energy of anger and even hatred. On more than one occasion, he told me he imagined his tournament opponents to have insulted his honor, though this never occurred prior to any matches. This, he said, brought him a level of clarity and focus which enabled him to be unconquerable. When I told the stranger this, he chuckled.

"I'm not surprised," he said, sheathing his dagger and standing. "Youngblade was arrogant and, as you now know, clearly wrong."

"But he never lost before, so he must have been doing something right," I said.

He turned to me, regarding me with an amused expression, as one would watch an animal at play. "He was only fortunate that his opponents were also wrong." Then he walked away.

It would have been easy for me to conclude that the stranger was quite arrogant himself, but this was definitely not the case. He was certainly confident, a confidence that was born out of his devotion, but he was also well aware of his limitations and faults, which he often pointed out. He was a man who was certain of what he knew and just as adamant that his ignorance dwarfed his knowledge. Every conversation with him, whether he was "teaching" me something or not, was an exhaustingly frustrating affair. And yet I came to treasure these exchanges and I miss them immensely.

The killings. Yes, there were those in the two years I spent with him, though not as many as one might think. It was the one subject he didn't enjoy discussing and when they occurred, they always left him in a somber mood for a couple of days. It was clear that he did not like doing it, and yet he refused to question the idea that Berefesh was directing him. In two years, we had only one discussion of depth on the subject. It was about three days after he had killed a merchant in Stonecrest, the largest city in the Southern region of Amarya, and he was just coming out of his post-assassination gloom.

"I don't understand why you do this to yourself," I said as we camped a couple of miles outside of a little village called Panrys. He cut his eyes in my direction and then shook his head.

"You cannot understand," he said, "And I cannot make you understand. Only someone who lives a life of devotion can understand."

"So you live completely without freedom of choice or thought? Everything you do is what you are told to do?"

He gave me a slight grin. "And you live under the delusion that your thoughts and choices are solely yours?"

"This isn't about what I believe," I pointed out. "I'm not the one running around killing people and then being miserable for three days afterward each time."

"Have you ever killed someone?" he asked.

"No."

"We'll chat again when you have."

"What makes you think I will kill someone?"

"It's a dangerous world. You will kill to defend yourself."

"But that's different."

He raised his eyebrows. "Indeed? And you know this from...what?"

I shrugged. "Surely, even Berefesh recognizes that self-defense is justified while murder is just murder."

"Justified by whom?"

"By reason."

He gave me a questioning look. "Reason? So your argument is that men of reason never disagree about the morality of their choices?"

"Of course not, but proper reasoning suggests that self-defense is obviously justified while murder is not."

" _Proper_ reasoning? And who is the arbiter of _propriety_?"

I frowned. "Society," I said simply.

"Indeed? And this would, of course, be highborn society, correct?"

"Of course."

"And _this_ is your argument?"

I thought about this. I am not highborn and neither was the stranger. I had been taught that highborn society was the epitome of human existence. Was this wrong? It was all that I had known, so I was considering a perspective that I had heretofore never considered. Highborn society, as I had been taught, was favored by the gods, while those of us who were lowborn or commoners were considered servants. It had never occurred to me to question this idea. Why? Why had I never questioned this?

I gave the stranger a confused look and he chuckled. "Don't be alarmed," he said. "Ideas are like waves upon the sea. The vast majority of them gently break upon the shore and change it slowly, very gradually. A few ideas, however, are like tidal waves. These bring a sudden and devastating alteration to the landscape, causing fear and panic. I suspect you are experiencing such an idea at this very moment."

I looked to him with wonder. The question I had never thought, much less spoken, now formed in my mind. "What if highborn society is wrong?" I whispered.

He grinned broadly. "Quite a wave, eh?"

It was indeed. Yet, even as I considered this incredible notion, I still struggled with the idea that murder could be just as justifiable as self-defense.

"Look," I said, "This is a fascinating insight, but I still think that self-defense is justifiable while murder is not."

"I agree," he said flatly.

This surprised me. "You _agree_? How can you murder people and still agree?"

He smiled. "I don't murder anyone. I simply present myself as an instrument for Berefesh. If people die, it is not murder...despite what others may think."

"That seems like a convenient justification," I said.

He shrugged. "It is what it is."

"Well, what if you are wrong?"

He gave me a sly glance. "Then I am wrong. But I am at peace in my life."

"You don't seem to be at peace when you kill someone."

"I don't enjoy it. I find it distasteful. But I am at peace with my decision to live in obedience."

I decided to take another tack. "Why would Berefesh want someone dead?"

He shrugged and sipped from his cup. "That is not for me to know. I must obey, that is all."

"But have you never asked Berefesh why?"

"Yes, of course."

"And what did Berefesh say?"

He paused and thought a bit, grinning slightly. "I was given a dream. In the dream, I saw a family who was faithful to Berefesh...father, mother, and two young children. One day, the father was murdered in the street. The mother and children were devastated, crying out to Berefesh for justice, for an explanation. They never learned why their blessed husband and father was slain." He paused and then looked at me.

"But I was given insight, a vision of what this man would have done had he not been slain. While the woman and her children were sincere in their devotion, the man was not. He feigned faithfulness, but was actually a devotee of Basanu, and a particularly gruesome one at that." He paused and sipped his wine.

"Some of Basanu's followers have a taste for...humans. This man was one of them. He was especially fond of the meat of children." Another pause to allow me to digest this information. "If he had lived, he would have led a small rebellion among the darklings and this...ritual...would have been much more widespread."

This was an intriguing story, though I was not totally convinced it was not a product of the stranger's rationalization. He struggled with killing others, and this may very well have been his mind's way of dealing with the conflict between his devotion and his distaste for killing. Still, it was interesting.

"So, you're basically saying, that the killing is justified because Berefesh knows the future?"

He shrugged. "Why not? Do you not believe that gods can see into the future?"

Again, given my agnosticism, I had never seriously considered the question. It was widely held that the gods of the Lightwalkers could see into the future, so it was reasonable to believe that if such a being existed, knowledge of the future was at least a possibility. Furthermore, if this Berefesh were the true and only god, as the stranger claimed, it seemed likely that such a being would know the future. One thing still troubled me, though.

"Alright, let us suppose, for a moment, that what you say is all true," I said. "If Berefesh can see into the future and is all-powerful, why would it be necessary to employ assassins such as yourself?"

He gave me look of amused surprise. "You know, for a lowborn squire, you are quite the philosopher."

I blushed a bit and explained that Lord Kedrick had enjoyed sharing his lessons with me. And for my part, I had found it quite stimulating and soon developed a hunger for it.

He nodded and continued. "In any event, Berefesh has no needs. Everything is done to teach, to provide opportunities to learn. The ends that Berefesh seek will be done whether we obey or not. Obedience simply allows us the opportunity to learn one lesson, while disobedience provides us with an oftentimes harsher lesson."

I took this in and turned it over in my mind. It still bothered me, though I must admit, I found his reasoning to be impenetrable. I wondered what this meant for Lord Kedrick and his guards. Were they destined to die there in those woods? And what of Lord Gadrius Mendax? The stranger had stolen a suit and some gold, apparently killing a few guards in the process. Why? I asked him about this.

He nodded, a grim expression on his face. "Altogether avoidable situation and I wish it hadn't come to that."

"What happened?"

"Lord Gadrius is not a bad sort...in fact, he is a rather decent man, though his recent recognition as nobility had apparently gone to his head a bit. He had hired me as a minstrel, at a price that included a new suit for me."

"That is a bit unusual, is it not?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Perhaps, though I was simply obeying what I was told. At any rate, I was told to provide entertainment and then to request a private audience with Lord Gadrius."

"You mean, Berefesh told you this?"

He nodded. "Yes. I was told to speak freely with this man, to tell him that supporting either side in the coming battle would be unwise."

"The coming battle?"

He smiled wanly. "I'm afraid so. The boy king's throne is a temptation many nobles cannot resist and Lord Gadrius' army would be a terrific asset."

This confirmed my suspicions about House Spires' desires to form a quick alliance with House Mendax.

"So what happened?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Lord Gadrius was not pleased that a mere minstrel had dared speak to him in such a way. He demanded that I leave, and when I requested my compensation, he told me to leave his house and be thankful I was allowed to go with my head still attached."

"So you took what had been promised to you?"

"Yes."

"And killed some guards on your way out?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And Lord Kedrick just happened to get in your way? Is that why you killed them?"

He shook his head and met my gaze. "No. Berefesh told me to seek out Youngblade."

"But why?"

Another wan smile and slight shrug of the shoulders. "Again, I don't ask why."

Six months before he died, the stranger began telling me things about the Shadewalker and the future of the Kingdom and that he would soon be gone. At the time, of course, I had no idea what he was talking about. He began spending more and more time alone. I would wake in the morning and his tent would be empty and he would be gone for hours. Then, when he returned, he would be quiet, pensive, almost brooding. We would pack up and ride in silence until he decided to share with me what he had been "told" or "shown." It was always hazy, confusing, and strange. I thought he had finally gone over the edge...especially given his ramblings about this girl called Shadewalker.

"She is a young half-breed and she will arrive on a Zhaerian steed," he said, excitedly.

The Zhaerian steeds were a mythological species, similar to, but much larger and faster than horses. They were said to be all white with silver eyes and devastating magical powers. I shook my head, feeling both sorrow and pity.

"She will unite the people and expose the mythical gods for the idols that they are," he exclaimed. "She will lead a small band of young rebels and they will challenge the Greencapes themselves."

The Greencapes were basically religious soldiers, a division of the Lightwalker brotherhood called "Lightbringers." They ran down overt darklings and general troublemakers who gave no respect to the Lightwalker gods or their followers. They were very well trained, highly skilled swordsmen who were ruthless in carrying out their mission. The idea that a group of "young rebels" could challenge the Greencapes was laughable at best.

I was also troubled by his insinuations about his "leaving." He never actually said anything about dying, but it was fairly clear that's what he meant. He was perhaps thirty, still quite a young man, and he seemed to be in good health. Of course, living as a thief and assassin meant that he had plenty of enemies, so there was always the possibility that one of them would catch him unawares. This seemed highly unlikely, however, since I had never seen him even remotely unaware.

"Where are you planning to go?" I asked him after one of these allusions.

He smiled and let go of a quiet sigh. "I don't know," he said, shaking his head a bit.

"Are you talking about death?" I asked after a pause.

He looked up at me and gave me the barest hint of a grin. "Yes."

"So, you're telling me that Berefesh has told you that you are going to die soon?"

"Yes."

"How?"

He smiled fully now. "Ironically."

Of course, why would I expect any other response? As it turned out, he did in fact meet his end rather ironically...he died from an insect bite. At the time, I had no idea what had happened to him. One day, he woke up with a fever and for the next three days he drifted in and out of consciousness, mumbling incoherently and sweating profusely. Then he was gone. I didn't quite realize how much I had come to depend upon him until his daily absence began to pervade my life like a fog. We had only each other and now I was alone. I admit, I was afraid.

Later, I learned that his death was most likely caused by the bite of a blood beetle, an insect unknown to Amarya until the Shadewalker brought it from Zhaer. I also heard the rumors that she arrived mounted on a Zhaerian steed in the company of a group of young rebels. I shook my head in wonder and then set about the task of finding her. In the midst of my quest, I began to pray to Berefesh, and before too long, Berefesh began to answer.

I have nearly emptied myself of my old life, my dedication to my old ways and values. I am in the process of a type of reorientation, learning a new way of seeing, hearing, reasoning...a new way of living...a new way of being in the world. As I mentioned earlier, one of the greatest things I've learned over the past two years is how much I have to forget. That is the hardest part of this new path, forgetting a great deal of poor habits and limiting views that one begins learning from the very beginning. And as I walk this new path, I continue to seek out the Shadewalker. Each village and city brings new stories, though some are clearly exaggerated.

One day, I will meet this young girl and her magical steeds. If she is truly to bring a new revolution, a new age, then I wish to help any way I can. The stories say that she can command the beasts of the field and air. This seems to be a fitting way for a new age to be ushered into this world – a revolution led by nature herself.

Perhaps, dear reader, we will meet someday. If you see a stranger traveling alone, do not assume he is a thief or bandit. I am neither of these. I am a jester, a teller-of-tales, a master of illusions. I am a friend of the friendless and an enemy of injustice. I protect the weak and liberate the oppressed. I am a servant of a nameless and formless god. I am the minstrel.

## About The Author

Michael J. Tobias has degrees from Furman University in Greenville, SC and the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, KY. He has served in various positions in both Baptist and Methodist churches. He has also worked in camps, schools, one funeral home, and one library. He is currently putting the finishing touches on his first novel _From There to Here: A Novel of Discovery_ , as well as working hard on the first of his forthcoming fantasy trilogy, _Shadewalker_. He lives and works in South Carolina.
