Fire for Clay

FIRE FOR CLAY

FIRE FOR CLAY a NOVEL ††

Joel Thomas

Kaisen Collective Portland, OR

Published by Kaisen Collective Portland, OR This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

FIRE FOR CLAY. Copyright Š 2016 Joel Thomas.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For information, contact Kaisen Collective, 1721 SE 71st Ave. Portland, OR 97215.

FIRST EDITION, MARCH 2016.

Cover, map illustration, & interior designed by Leigh Thomas.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

ISBN 978-3-16-148410-0 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

For Leigh, the woman born to put up with my jokes.

PROLOGUE

13.5 billion years ago, the Lord God cleared his throat.

The phlegm, moisture and spittle that issued forth were sent spinning, whirring, flaming, freezing; all known matter flew through the void and began vibrating with the echoes of the Big Man’s mighty “huruggghm.”

Some of the mucus began vibrating so quickly that it burst into flames and stuck in the oxygenless abyss. Some flying particles (nose hairs, eye goop, etc.) were naturally warmed by these flames and began circling ‘round the balls of light; gradually gathering heat from these orbs of flaming mucus.

One nose hair in particular found the perfect groove with which to circle one such clump of snot and then set to spinning itself round and round. It began rotating so quickly that other pieces of saliva and debris were sucked onto its surface and fixed themselves there. And thus the hair grew with the amorphic nature collectivism often breeds. The strangest hues of blue and green seemingly grew from the center and cautiously stretched out towards the white tipped poles of the hair.

By the time anyone started to notice the existence of this “heavenly body,” it was an orb itself. Granted, it was not a perfect sphere, there were odd lumps of debris that poked out

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and strange divots of deep azure liquid. However, the mass still seemed to be in constant growth.

Now, only a few have noticed this, but the nose hairs of God tend to look a lot like what we know as tree branches when viewed from the right distance, and this nose hair was no different. And this branch-like hair sprouted strange growths of odd angled, bark-ish mini-hairs. These mini-hairs are still constantly curling and growing from the core of this twirling hair pole.

And as they dig and squirm beneath the layers of debris that now cover this Godly, stick-like hair, the surface rumbles and ruptures and spews and sputters. And sometimes, after very long (or short depending on your viewpoint) intervals, a shoot of the spreading hair will simply pop onto the surface of the orb without much pomp and circumstance. These shoots tend to grow and also take on the characteristics of trees; however, their roots stretch down much deeper.

They reach to the core.

The first thing to happen upon one of these tree-like hair shoots (or as they will be called from here on out “Roots”) was a stupid, fleshy, bony, predominately hairless…man. And as all stupid things do, this man began gnawing on the Root. No matter how many times the Lord attempted to shoo him off and away from the Root, the deity would still return to find more teeth marks on the branch. He would then look and find a downcast, stupid—though considerably more intelligent than one would have predicted upon first meeting him—fleshy, bony, predominately hairless…man.

Eventually, the man began sharing his knowledge of the Root with a stupid, fleshy, bony, predominately hairless—although also curvier—woman.

No matter how unglamorous this story is, it should be remembered that even though a strange, wood-like Root is at the heart of this goodly earth, it is nonetheless a nose hair, and therefore a piece of the Lord God. As you may expect, the man and woman finally put their one and one together and realized how much fun they could have mating, and so they did, repeatedly—that is until they became

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hungry. They would then stop, gnaw some bark, have a short conversation about how each other’s respective days were (for— just like for many lonely couples today—that was all they had the capacity to speak of) and then return to copulating.

This copulating ended, as it often does, with children: twins.

The kids chewed the Root with the parents and caught up quickly. They got to the point that they could not only discuss each other’s days, but also their possessions, and thusly all dinner conversation have proceeded though not progressed ever since.

But all was well and calm until only one child returned for dinner, so when the inevitable round of questioning came to him, he spoke the words, “My day went well, but we won’t be able to see my brother any more. He did have such very nice things.” And it is from these words that we get the name “Able.”

Though the first man and woman were not happy, they couldn’t quite put their fingers on why. So they did what all people of mild intelligence do when confronted with a problem: they released aimless and self-destructive emotion on everything around.

They began by yelling and moaning and throwing their remaining son from their sight. But not before cutting off the Root, setting it on fire and smacking him in the face with it. He then grabbed the burnt wood and limped away.

And so his scarring set him apart as something unnatural and disgusting, and his use of the now severed Root to aid his limp earned him the name “Cane.” And he went on to find a sister, or some other random woman/women (the details here are hazy) and populated the debris covered nose-hair known as “Earth” with something called “humanity;” his parents went on to die a few hundred years later. The severed Root would go on to turn into a serpent, part a sea, help produce water from a rock, and bloom.

The Roots that are reaching and stretching and groaning beneath our feet are not monolithic in the sense that they are uniform and rigid; in fact, I was surprised to learn that they are quite malleable. They are, however, like the “monolith” in

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that whenever humanity has stumbled upon one, it has led to a great surge in understanding and development.

For instance: the next time one would be stumbled upon (quite literally on this occasion), humankind developed the ability to make a thought last for thousands of year. Of course the means of this trans-generational permanence is the written word. A king, a friend and a woman would be the “stumblers” on this occasion, and because they stumbled, I am now able to write down this very account of creation.

If you should doubt my credibility, all you need do is step outside of time; become atemporal. In the truest sense, you must become timeless. I know all of this because God knows this; I have consumed a part of Him.

CHAPTER ONE

Swallowing clouds is no easy task. It requires patience, timing, and—more than anything—a healthy lack of anywhere else more important to be. Or anything else more important to do. Or anyone else more important to appreciate. In fact, trying to swallow clouds itself can devour everything.

Or nothing.

But it is here, that we find Caedmon; sitting on his orange and cream plaid couch, purchased from Goodwill. Good…will, he thought, Good…will. As he allowed those two words to circulate through his mind, he thought about how they must look careening from his mouth. At first, he probably looked like he was making a fish face, but as he rounded out the ‘O’ and clicked his tongue for the ‘D,’ he realized that his real mouth (not just the one in his imagination) had begun miming the letters. This was not a big deal, but, as previously noted, he was in the middle of swallowing clouds.

So he reset himself, shifted his right buttock (which had a stiff wallet underneath it) so that it fit nicely into the pre-worn groove in the cushion, and held his fingers to his lips.

He had to time this perfectly.

He slowly, carefully, almost shyly raised the wrapped paper

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to his pale, thin, slightly chapped lips. A stranger walking by Caedmon probably would not notice the mild chapping or gaunt nature of his lips; however, since he wore of a light brown, auburn flecked beard. This adornment was not one of fashion.

This could be guessed by that same passing stranger, because of how uneven it was: the area of the face normally dedicated to sideburns had hairs growing much longer and curlier than did his chin. His chin was at least fully clothed, unlike the weird 2-millimeter rectangle above his lip (stage left). Most noticeable, however, was the low-hanging clump of bushy light brown, auburn flecked hair bellow the curve of his jaw (stage right). But the follicles that dangled above his lip parted and tickled the off white paper as it approached his mouth. He thought, then, that he heard a scratch.

Raising his lucky Zippo, he ignited the tip of the remaining parchment and took a deep breath in, but he didn’t hold in the dark gas, instead he immediately exhaled, but not all at once and not from his lungs. He pushed the smoke out with his cheeks, while simultaneously inhaling through his nose. This was a trick he learned in middle school band when he played trumpet. If he waited just a second after blowing out the mist before ingesting through his nostrils he would see a cloud, then he would see the cloud be sucked away. If he was really on his game, he could blow out with his cheeks and then chase down and devour the cloud with his mouth, but that usually could only be accomplished at the beginning of one of these sessions, and he was very nearly at the end.

As he drank in the puffs, he was not listening to Dark Side while watching The Wizard of Oz; no, he preferred to watch reruns of Bob Ross PBS specials online. Caedmon loved seeing the mushroom-like fro swishing back and forth as Bob’s palette knife scrapes the canvas saying, “I’m not afraid of the paint,” and “I know I’m not going to hurt the canvas.” Simple vertical brown strokes became trees bursting through the ground; small concentric circles became a babbling creek. It was like watching the creation of the universe and he thought of Bob as a god.

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The floorboards above him creaked. He glanced upward to see his ceiling broken into strange patterns of light and shadow.

The table lamp that used to be his mother’s had a crystal orb on its top that bent and scattered light into nearly comprehensible messages from above.

Apparently his landlord Renee was home. She owned the house containing the basement out of which Caedmon lived.

Renee was not what one typically thinks of as a landlady, she was not a widow or retiree looking for some extra income. She was a business savvy mini-mogul; the type that works 60 hours a week at a job that doesn’t pay well compared to stress it creates, and has devised a side investment to supplement her income.

The creaking above Caedmon moved from right to left in the house until it stopped at the door leading to the basement. She knocked three times. Caedmon sat, swallowing clouds.

Opening the door a crack, Renee called down, “Cad, you down there?” A grunt from bellow signified that yes, he was down there. “Alright, I’m coming down.” Another grunt.

Compared to Caedmon’s grunts, Renee’s voice sounded like, well, somewhat softer grunts. She did not have the light, airy voice of a pop star, but rather, the somewhat husky and business-like tone of a local news anchor.

Every stair step groaned under the steps of Renee as she came down. The creeks of floorboards were common in the old house. The last stair, however, had an unusual amount of give, as though every time someone walked on it, it was deciding whether or not that person was of pure heart, and if the results came back negative, it would snap, severely bruising the shin of whosoever may fall through. Much like the question master in Monty Python: “Blue—No! YELLOOOooooowwww…”

Renee hesitated as she reached the final step before the basement floor, plucked up her courage, and took the dreaded step. Safe. She smirked, and Caedmon thought, “African or European?” The basement of the house had a large area rug purchased from the college student section of Target for $25.

Caedmon had bought it when he was actually in college. It served him well now, as it covered the cement slab floor nicely,

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keeping his toes warm and giving his crumbs a nice place to land. Renee took her first bare-footed step onto the pure leprechaun-green rug, stopped, brushed the three fragments of taco shells from the bottom of her foot, and stood directing her smirk at Caedmon.

He was no longer trying to swallow clouds, but now sat and stared at Renee, or at least attempted to. It was hard to see her through the haze and smoke. She walked over to the door leading from the basement to the street and cracked it. At this point three exchanges took place: the basement ceiling exchanged plumes of smoke for fresh, albeit humid, air; heat of the cement walkway outside was exchanged for the coolness of the cement inside; and the shadowy visage of Renee was exchanged for a newly illuminated shape of her petite frame.

June in Boston is not comfortable. It is sticky, and bright, and loud, and impatient. And even though Renee was not the “tanning type,” she had the pasty beauty that would have identified her as a member of the noble class in the aristocracy. She peered at him out of one of her dull, dark eyes; the other one was hidden behind her long dark brown hair, which fell in long curls to the middle of her chest. “Don’t you get tired of just sitting on that disgusting couch?” She said this not so much like a question, but like a statement to reassure herself that it was not appealing to her.

His only reply was, “Meh,” which was not so much a reply as a sound to represent the indifference he had towards life either on or off the couch.

She crossed the room and sat next to him on the disgusting couch, and he turned his head to look at her. He was being polite. “How’s your day?” he mumbled. Renee then performed a theatrical sigh that was becoming of her. She was an attractive woman, a subtle sense of Boston fashion (that is to say, she wore as much black as she could without being considered what people in the 1990s would consider “goth”). Even in the 90-degree heat she was wearing black straight-legged pants with a black satin blouse; granted the low cut of the top would suggest that there was ample air circulation to keep her cool.

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She did not wear any jewelry other than small earrings, but Caedmon thought hiding those deep-set collarbones would be a mistake. She felt the same way.

She nodded her head, but did not look at Caedmon. “Um, well, it was,” another sigh, “long.” She grabbed the rolled narcotic from Caedmon’s hand, and, despite all of the centuries of combined knowledge humanity has gained about the spread of germs, put the paper to her own lips, lit the tip, and inhaled.

Renee worked at a non-profit that deals with education, or social services, or some other life-saving effort. Caedmon could not remember exactly. He knew that she graduated from Boston College with very little debt and used the money she made from her first year out of school to buy a cheap, but old and secretly beautiful house from auction. She spent a year fixing it up, bought and moved into another house in a similar condition, and rented the first house to a college student who wanted to live close to the city but not too close, for fear of upsetting his Midwestern sensitivity to space. She continued this process until she owned about 30 homes. She makes about $300 a month more than the mortgage on each home from the renters who live there. She was extremely fair in her pricing; she could easily have made three times that, considering the area the houses were in.

Caedmon ran his fingers through his greasy brown hair.

He could not remember the last time he showered, not necessarily because it had been so long ago—he just didn’t care to think about it. “And how is the world above? Still save-able?

Still worth saving?” Though he didn’t attempt to make it so, his chit-chat was charming.

She smiled and arched one of her neat eyebrows, “Oh, it’s there,” here she exhaled the smoke, “And probably worth saving as long as it is. It’s not like there’s anything better to do.”

She did have to try to make her chit-chat charming. Renee was not a “no good, lay-a-bout,” and indeed many of her coworkers would have been surprised to see her talking to a man like Caedmon, much less living above him and sitting next to him.

But she saw in him something she envied a bit, and something

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she disdained a bit. She did not love working all the time, being too tired to have any kind of social life, and having no exit strategy to fix those two problems. She did enjoy feeling like she was making a difference in the world, telling people about her job, and, if she were honest, feeling a small amount of superiority to people like Caedmon.

“Tell me Cad,” she closed her sunken eyes, “What have you been doing today?” She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“Not tonight,” she thought. Tonight she was a bit too superior, and she was a bit too tired for any kind of physical activity.

He cocked his head to the left and looked at her with something that might be considered curiosity. “Well, I woke up. I made some taquitos in my toaster oven. And I did some,” here he gestured at the screen in front of him, “Artistic research.”

“Bob Ross?”

“Yep.” “Ha.” She looked forward and smiled, a slight glaze coming over her eyes. “Hey, it’s 7:00. Don’t you work tonight?” She knew he did, and she knew he didn’t care. She even knew that he didn’t care that he didn’t care, or at least that’s what he pretends, Renee thought.

“Yeah, I should probably start getting ready to go in.”

“I know it doesn’t matter to you, but you might want to wash up first.” And he gave the international signal of someone who heard what was said, but will probably not do anything about it: he shrugged. When he saw that the time was indeed 7:00, and considered that the owner of Family Video was surely waiting up for him, he didn’t even care enough to curse.

She nodded at him and began standing up. She waivered a bit as she rose, squeezed his knee for support and made her way back up the staircase to where she lived (the bottom-most stair holding her weight as she progressed upward).

“Later,” he said. She gave slight wave that indicated she agreed. Though he would not readily put such a thought into words, Caedmon did “Care for” Renee. Not as a girlfriend or even a lover, but she was the only person he spent any time with. And, truth be told, he recognized that she cared about

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him, and he found this unusual trait endearing and, at least a little bit uncomfortable.

A strange indebtedness occurs between two people who have some degree of love or caring between them. It’s not quite obligation, but certainly a degree of consideration or thoughtlessness accompanies the couple’s actions (both are telling). This is, however, an unfortunate litmus test with which to guage a relationship, and I do not recommend having a conversation with a loved one about how much consideration that person gives you.

Caedmon stood and retraced Renee’s steps from the couch to the door leading outside and closed it. He did not like heat.

He took off his hoodie, revealing a white, but not pale, doughy, but not overweight, upper body. He yawned and scratched his awkwardly-lengthed beard. He looked around the basement for his Family Video polo shirt. It required all of his effort and perseverance to look next to the bed only to then realize that it was actually in the add-on bathroom all the way on the other end of the 30 square foot room. But he made the long trek and pulled on his now hard-earned polo.

Looking in the mirror he decided that, yes, he probably could stand to rinse his hair. So he leaned forward and did so in the sink. Upon raising his head, he saw that little balls of water were shimmering on his hair. This was probably the result of the natural combination, or lack there-of, between water and oil. So he rinsed his hair again, ran his fingers through it so that the front kind of stood upright and the rest looked just messy enough to be acceptable in the work place. He then nearly cried as he Listerined his mouth (he made it a full 30 seconds before spitting).

Stripping himself of his sweatpants, he grabbed his “work khakis,” moved his lucky Zippo from his coffee table to his pocket, and searched for the pair of socks that smelled the least offensive.

He took one last look around his room and made some mental notes: brush off the remaining crumbs of weed/taquitos from the coffee table, wipe the dust off of the TV screen, shove

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the cushions back into the couch. He figured he could do these things after he got back from work at midnight, and then the next day he would feel like his space was clean.

He turned and put his hand on the door knob, twisted it, then stopped—something was bothering him. This was unusual because normally, nothing bothered him, ever. He took one more look around the room, shrugged, and opened the door.

As he opened it, he felt the Boston heat hit him full in the face.

He felt his ears pop as though the air pressure was changing, and he heard a loud crack.

CHAPTER TWO

Caedmon licked his pinky and squeegeed his right ear. He twisted the upper half of his body to see from where the crack had come. He saw nothing, chalked it up to the old creaking of the house and left his basement apartment. And so he did not see that his couch had somewhat shifted. He did not see what came up from the concrete floor.

The evening was dense, not in its darkness (the sun was still up), but in its climate. The thickly-hatched cotton of Caedmon’s polo quickly became heavy with back sweat. He immediately thought of how cool and dry Renee seemed when he saw her.

What secret did she keep that kept her so dry? Did she study under some Shaolin monk who taught her to perfectly control the temperature of her body at all times? Thinking about this only made him hotter as he worked his way toward the T two blocks away. On his walk, he noticed a couple of people who also must have had Shaolin training: passersby donned hoodies, sweatshirts, and even sports coats. Maybe he was abnormal to be sweaty? Maybe the clouds inside of him were raining which made him sweat?

He pulled out his Charlie Card and swiped it at the turnstile. It flashed red. He didn’t have any money left on his card.

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He dropped his head backwards and started to turn around and head to an electronic teller, when a woman standing behind him said, “Don’t worry, I got it.” Only her slight accent made her words come out more like, “Done werrry, Aye goddit.” But she raised a playful eyebrow and seemed as firm as most Bostonians, so, instead of protesting, Caedmon just nodded and thanked her. He walked through the now open gate and made his way toward the Red Line. It was then that one of those glorious moments occurred in which he reached the red line platform right as the movie-announcer style voice came over the PA chanting his catch phrase, “The Red Line is now approaching, please stand clear of the yellow line.”

Caedmon stepped onto the railcar in front of him and sat in an empty seat, in an empty row of a nearly empty car.

Caedmon’s eyes were sagging, and if he had given in and closed them, he would have missed the girl with the playful eyebrows—who paid for him to ride—sit down across from him.

But her playful brows were not to be ignored! Her light brown hair hung in long, loose curls to her chest, and her slight smile on her slight lips created no lines on her lightly tanned face.

And her equally playful blue eyes darted from Caedmon to the list of stops above his head at regular intervals. So instead of nodding off, he lifted his head, tried with all of his effort to make his eyes look less droopy, and gave her what he imagined looked like a smile, but probably looked more like a grimace.

He also gave her a slight nod. The nod probably held a lot of significance for Caedmon: thanks for buying my ticket, you truly are a bright, playful light in a weary world, if I could give you a medal I surely would, by the way I noticed that you are playfully attractive and if you find me to be playfully attractive as well we could perhaps engage in conversation.

She, however probably received it as: a nod. She then nodded back.

Caedmon was going to be on the Red Line until almost the last stop. So he had a lot of time to make a “move” of some kind. But rather than figuring out what his move should be, he was figuring out if there was any worth in making a move: well,

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I could talk to her, and she nodded, so she would probably talk back to me. But she probably has a boyfriend that is big and successful and even if she doesn’t, she probably is not looking to pick up guys on the T. All she did was pay for me to get on the train, that’s not an invitation to hit on her. Having successfully talked himself out of making a “move,” he began staring fixedly at the various advertisements visible through the windows of the moving car.

She was thinking this: I paid for your ticket, I got on the same car as you, and I’m sitting across from you on an empty train, if that’s not enough of a hint then whatever. Well, he is a grown man working at family video; I bet he doesn’t even get a discount (he did). I can do better, there’s probably something wrong with this guy.

And she was right (mostly).

Caedmon suffered from the plague of our time: uncontrolled apathy.

Getting off the train at the Quincy stop, Caedmon shrugged off the thoughts of the morning, afternoon, and evening, and walked to work. †† “Bling-iling,” greeted the electronic bell as Caedmon walked in.

He then walked around the 5-foot high grey countertop to his post at the cash register, where he clocked in. The time was 7:45.

“Hey asshole, get over here,” came a nasally voice from the right corner. The two customers in the store looked around quizzically, identified the obnoxious voice as belonging to the squat man with a short-sleeve button up sitting in a roll-y chair, and then identified the asshole as being the man behind the grey counter who was, at this moment, rubbing his eyes and stretching his neck. The customers then returned to their search for the ideal nostalgia movie: Mystery Men: perfect.

Caedmon traversed the grey and red-flecked carpet to the manager’s office with the name “Rusty” on the door and prepped himself for the berating that was to come. His shortsleeve button up fit a bit too snuggly and revealed the stretch

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marks on his heavily freckled arms almost up to the shoulder.

The fabric around the buttons stretched and strained with every twist his overlarge belly made to turn in the chair. Large square frame glasses hung below his balding, combed-over, red head looking like a bridge beneath the most bland, single-colored rainbow ever seen. Sweat beaded on his forehead, completing the rainbow effect, and Caedmon was ready for what he was sure would be a well-prepared tirade.

“Do you know why I hired you? Me neither. Truth is, it doesn’t really matter who I hired, as any half-evolved Neanderthal can do this job.” It should be noted here that the man meant no disrespect to Neanderthals; in fact, Rusty didn’t know what Neanderthals were, but he did care that he threw as many four syllable words into his conversations as possible, and he was pretty sure being called a Neanderthal was a bad thing, though he didn’t know why. “Do you know why I haven’t fired you?

That’s a better question. I haven’t fire-uh-terminated your employment-ation here, because your ineffective-ness has not gotten-in-the, I mean, interfered with my life or my business. But guess what dick, you, monsieur Caedmon Rainier, have kept me here for 45 minutes longer than I was supposed to stay tonight.

And on a Saturday, how inconsiderate of an ass are you?”

So many questions. Caedmon didn’t know which one to attempt to answer first, so he went with his default shrug and tagged on, “Sorry, Rusty.”

This apology did nothing to soften Rusty’s mood. He sat in his wheel-y chair, appraising Caedmon, deciding if this was worth getting upset over, or perhaps deciding which four syllable words he could fit into his next tirade. “You listen to me, you stoned piece of shit! Right now, I could be embarking my way onto the downtown, but because of your lazy-ass attitude, I’m going to miss the, uh, opening, of the, um, event I was going to at the Contemporary Museum of Art.” That night the Contemporary Museum of Art was offering some not so contemporary lessons in Old English dancing; Rusty did not know this; he had not been to a museum since he was 12. “I’m giving you your second write-up for this. If

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you are late on one more uh-occurrence, your ass is gone. You got me?”

“Yep.” Rusty responded to this monosyllabic response with a nonsyllabic wave of the hand that said, “Get out of here.”

Returning to the grey monolith that was the Family Video counter, Caedmon glanced over to see whom he would be working with tonight. Chad. Good ol’ Captain America. Chad was not a bad kid; he was 18, working his way through community college. But he had what Caedmon considered an overly enthusiastic energy about him. Clearly, the product of an overly encouraging family growing up, Chad had not reconciled his vision of his future with the fact that he had just finished his first year at community college with a GPA of 2.7.

Chad gave Caedmon an enthusiastic wave, “What up Cad!?

Hopefully Rus didn’t give you too hard a time in there!” What a winning smile. His perfectly aligned, white teeth were bug zapper rays, luring in any supervisor, professor, teacher, and friend who were unfortunate enough to get caught in the light.

He was six-foot-three, well-groomed and rotated weekly between Insanity, P90x, and the latest Beach Body exercise video set available in the store.

Caedmon jerked his head into a hurried nod.“Hi Chad. No, it’s fine, whatever.” Please don’t make jokes all night about Chad and Cad being at it again, Caedmon added in thought.

The nostalgia-seeking patrons approached the counter. They looked like they were approaching the bench, waiting to see if the judge would look favorably upon their selection; in truth, all customers looked like this. Who doesn’t love being told, “Oh this is one of my favorites” by the hometown movie expert? Who doesn’t feel like an insecure child, hanging out with kids three years older and infinitely cooler, when they see the sarcastic grin and hear the words, “The Fast and the Furious 3: Tokyo Drift? Really?”

Chad walked over to Caedmon, after the customers left, and pretended to scan in returned DVDs and whispered to Caedmon, “Come on man, you can tell me. Chad and Cad, man! What happened in there? Rusty looked pissed!”

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Observing that this was not a conversation he would be getting out of, Caedmon slowly moved the keyboard out of the way, turned to face Chad (putting his hand where the keyboard had been) and told the truth. Once he said the words, “…one more time, and I’m fired.” Chad looked at him with what could only be described as uncomprehending admiration.

“And what did you say?!” Chad whisper-shouted. His buzz cut brown hair stood on end more so than a buzz cut would typically allow.

“I don’t know, something like: ‘yep,’” Caedmon said this while raising an eyebrow, slightly shaking his head, and slightly raising his shoulders. This movement was intended to show Chad that Caedmon didn’t care, but it really gave Caedmon a better view of Chad’s big reaction.

He got it.

“No fucking way!” Chad whispered these words urgently and aggressively. “Caedmon,” he said, doing what he imagined was his best impersonation of his father, “What’ll you do if you lose your job, man!? This is crazy, man, this is fu-cking crazy!

I’m like, super worried about you. You can’t be late again man, seriously.” And then to emphasize the point, “Seriously.” Then he looked around, and seeing that there was still no one in the store, he whispered, “By the way dude, you smell like chronic somethin’ decent. You better hope there aren’t any cops coming through here tonight.”

“Chad, I’m pretty sure no cop in the world is going to sacrifice a night of watching movies with the family to bust a 20-something who may have been smoking a bit that night and is now checking out movies at a Family Video.” Caedmon was getting tired of talking to him, and he’d only been there twentyfive minutes. It’s going to be a long night.

Business picked up however, and the night moved at a decent pace. Rusty left almost as soon as he and Chad finished their conversation, and they were at least busy enough that he didn’t have to spend much more time baffling and inspiring Chad.

A few people came by to get the latest Action/Adventure about the guy who meets a space traveler who lives outside of

27 † F IRE FOR CLAY

time and ends up being turned into a soldier on Mars until he escapes with his commanding officer. Caedmon had seen it, something happened near Jupiter at the end. He couldn’t remember; he just knew that he enjoyed watching space things when he was out of it.

The last customer arrived at 11:57, so, as one may imagine, he received a fairly icy reception from Caedmon. On the other hand, Chad acted as though he was about to make a new best friend. When the customer arrived at the counter with the box office smash Hancock, starring the incomparable Will Smith, Chad let out an exclamation of, “OMG! I freaking love that movie. Let me know if you can figure out who Hancock is historically,” Chad said with a knowing nod.

The corners of the man’s mouth curved into a smile, but his head cocked to the right like he was recalling something.

“Zeus, right? That’s why he wears the eagle. I’m impressed that you said, ‘historically’ instead of ‘mythologically,” or something asinine like that.

Chad could barely contain himself, “YES, another love of history and mythological stories! I must have watched the made-for-TV version of The Odyssey a hundred times growing up. I really love all mythologies though, how about you?”

“Mythologies? There’s only one mythology, friend—ours.”

Than man gave Chad a smile that said something like, you’re obviously in on this secret.

Chad laughed, “Dude, me and my buddy here are about to go out and hit the Old Towne Tavern down the road, wanna come?” This was the first Caedmon had heard of these plans, but whatever, he could eat.

The customer, who was maybe 35 and had dark skin and grey eyes, appraised the two of the workers, “Sure, why not?”

“Sweet, dude. Hold tight outside and we’ll lock up!”

And Chad was “as good as his word and better.” Caedmon reflected that Chad had the demeanor of a post-conversion Mr. Scrooge, and that he was about to pay for a goose the size of a street urchin for them all to share. Hopefully, no goose juice would end up on his nicely pleated khakis, Caedmon thought.

28 † J OEL THOMAS

The three of them, Chad, “Cad,” and—unfortunately— Brad, made their way down the three blocks to the place Chad referred to as “OTT.” According to Chad, this place was home to the best clam chowder in all of “The Mass” (as he called it).

Brad sounded skeptical and thickly of the east coast tongue.

Chad commented that Brad sounded as though he “…gave Ben Affleck voice coaching for his role in Good Will Hunting.”

This comment elicited a face-palm from Caedmon, who, despite everything did not really feel like getting hit that night on account of some dumb-ass comment Chad couldn’t keep to himself.

But Brad laughed, and they made it to the booth in the tiny bar without anyone getting hit. “Funny you should say that. I heard that the Boston accent is actually derived from broken British accents. A cockney accent can sound a lot like the average Boston accent.”

“Dude, that’s crazy! Just listen to this lady’s ‘wicked’ accent: Hey Jeanie,” Chad waved at the approaching waitress, “Three bowls of your famous clam chowder for my guys here, and a dark Sam Adams for me,” Chad said with his heroic smile.

Caedmon gripped the table; he knew enough Boston waitresses to know that you do NOT make fun of them.

“Sure thing sweetheart. By the way, that’s a nice haircut right there,” replied the waitress with a wink. Actually what she said was, “Showa thing sweet-aught, by the way that’s a nice haykut right theh.” It was later revealed that the waitress was Chad’s aunt, and that she had in fact been the one to give him his nearly perfect military buzz cut. She would also deliver what Chad decided was “The best clam chowder in The Mass.”

“I’ll take a Sam Adams too,” was Brad’s order.

“Strongbow,” Caedmon said with a straight face. The other three stopped and stared at Caedmon. If this had been a cartoon, the audience would have heard someone stopping a record with a zzuuiiirp. Caedmon smiled.

“You betta be jokin, we ain’ got that faggoty, British piss heah.” Caedmon smirked. It’s unbelievable how Boston is home to some of the most well educated people in the world

29 † F IRE FOR CLAY

and some of the most bigoted. You’d think open-mindedness would benefit from an intelligence “tickle-down effect,” but there are plenty of examples of intelligence having no bearing on mind-set.

“Yeah, Sam Adams for me too,” Caedmon said while receiving the closest thing to a dirty look Chad had ever given anyone. The waitress rolled her eyes, obviously, and walked back to the bar.

“Well you know about us—what do you do Brad?” was Chad’s first of many stock, first date style questions.

“Well, I am an admissions rep for a small school down the road. I basically call kids and try to convince them to come from the Midwest out to here,” was Brad’s fairly enthusiastic response. “I talk to a lot of kids like your friend Cad here.” He gestured toward Caedmon with his hand, revealing a particularly nice watch. It was then that Caedmon’s eyes were drawn to the rest of Brad, who was wearing, of all things, a thick black sweater.

Caedmon looked up quickly from his study of the sticky wooden table with eyebrows scrunched. “Like me?”

“Sure, you’re a Midwesterner right? Who else could be such a smart ass with a hard-working waitress he hardly knows, but look so uncomfortable when his friend jokes about someone’s accent?” Brad smiled. “I know it drives you crazy hearing guys like me talk. You know that I could speak as “non-regionally” as you if I wanted, but you make a lot more friends talking like me around here. People trust you more,” (People trust ya moah).

“In general, that expression about acting like Romans when in Rome applies most aptly in dialect.”

Caedmon stared at Brad, head cocked, blinking quickly, puzzling. Chad, however, stretched and belched, and looked completely uninterested in what was being said, as he couldn’t really understand it anyway. “That’s pretty…astute of you,” was Caedmon’s reply.

Brad shook his head and grinned, “Smart ass.” (Smawt ayss).

Caedmon was saved from replying by the delivery of their soup and beer. A winning combination only in the taverns and

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pubs across New England. The waitress put Caedmon’s bowl down a bit harder than the rest so that some of the contents splashed over the side. He nodded his thanks, and the waitress walked away. A few years back, this behavior would have seemed rude to him, a few years back he would have been less rude to her from the start, but he had learned that it didn’t matter how polite or rude he was to the waiters around here, they all had a pretty salty disposition and that wasn’t going to change just because a person who tips them is in his or her presence.

“You are from the Midwest, aren’t you Caedmon?” So he had not been saved from the conversation after all.

“Yes. Indiana, actually. A small town called Smithfield: home of the fighting pirates, a stop sign and a Dairy Queen.” The DQ was new. Amazing that a town not big enough for a post office could keep a Dairy Queen afloat, but people do love soft-serve.

“Whoa, that’s the most I’ve ever heard you say, or, um elaborate.” Chad chimed in, unnecessarily as usual. “When’d you come here?” Suddenly, Caedmon was now receiving the first date questions. How had this tragic situation come about?

Caedmon took his time to answer, drank a few sips of his dark lager, and finally said, “A few years back. I went to school at U. Mass, studied philosophy and English.”

Brad sat back and smiled as if thinking, “I’m getting the picture now.” Chad however looked astounded. “You—graduated from U. Mass? I couldn’t even get in there! How did I not know this?! I figured you worked at FV (his name for Family Video) because you were like a high school drop-out or something.”

Caedmon was going to have fun with this. “No, I’m actually a college drop out. I was valedictorian in high school, granted it was a class of 20. But I quit school end of junior year.” He watched comprehension slowly wash over Chad. Captain America was going to save the world, starting with Caedmon.

“Wait, you had one year left, and you quit? Are you fucking serious? But why? That’s the dumbest thing I ever heard!” Chad could not contain himself. He was sitting across from a guy he had been working with for five months, and had always thought was an idiot—he never said anything for crying out loud!

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Brad became concerned more with his soup, which was, truthfully, very good. Caedmon followed Brad’s actions and began spooning the thick cream into his mouth, carefully avoiding the overhanging stalactites of hair coming down from his upper lip.

Chad was not about to let go of this rare moment of conversation between he and his “best friend” Caedmon. “Rainier, seriously. Why’d you drop? If you had made it that far you were definitely smart enough to finish. Was it like a money thing or something?”

“Or something,” Caedmon replied. Caedmon’s parents had really wanted him to go to school and do that whole thing, so when they couldn’t care about him anymore and he had read enough post-modernists to completely diffuse himself of any spark of interest in the world, he dropped out.

Brad gave Chad a look that represented something like, “Drop it,” but since Chad wasn’t very strong in non-verbal cues, Chad slapped Brad’s chest with the back of his hand as if to represent something like, “Can you believe this guy?” He then said the following words out loud: “What’d somebody die or somethin’?”

Caedmon huffed a breath of air through his nose and half smiled, looking at Brad until he put the pieces together. “Shut up, dumb ass,” Brad said as soon as the meaning in Caedmon’s smile was obvious to everyone.

“Oh, shit man, I’m so sorry!”

Caedmon truly and honestly could not have cared less. All that had happened over five years ago—he never really thought about it. He puffed out his lower lip, slightly shook his head, raised his shoulders, and said, “No sweat man, really.” And he meant it.

Caedmon drained the last half of his glass, slurped the last bit of his soup, stood and said, “It was nice meeting you, um, Brad. I’m just gonna leave some cash. Can you guys take care of it?” He said this, dropped his twenty on the table and walked away from the table, out of the door and back to the T station where he caught the Red Line back to Boston proper.

32 † J OEL THOMAS

†† He got back to his basement apartment at 1:45 AM, sat down on his orange and cream plaid couch, and scooped the few remaining twigs and stems into a crumpled cream piece of paper.

He put the twisted cylinder against his lips, lit the end, inhaled, and held the smoke in his lungs.

As he finished, he began feeling slightly lightheaded, but not getting the payoff he’d hoped for. Sitting back, he started to fade into sleep.

CRACK— Caedmon jumped to his feet, tripped over his sock which was halfway off his foot, and fell to the ground covering his head.

This was twice that he had heard the noise, but again as he looked around, he saw nothing. He didn’t hear Renee stirring upstairs, but he knew from experience that she was a heavy sleeper. He investigated the 30-square foot room and saw nothing: the walls were all intact, and the ceiling was not bowing any more than it had when he moved in. But he was sure he heard it.

Then he decided to look at something that he did not much enjoy inspecting up-close: his orange and cream colored couch. And as soon as he shifted his gaze to the couch from his crouched position, hands on hips, he saw the culprit. A Root had come up from beneath his couch. It had popped up through the concrete slab that made up his floor and was now twisting and pressing against the bottom of his couch. He easily slid the cheap couch over the concrete floor, unveiling the 2 foot long growth stretching out from the ground.

The last few twigs and stems must have been a bit more potent than he had imagined. Three thoughts then occurred to him: first, he was hungry; second, he was out of both food and weed; third, the Root had leaves growing on it. This struck him as odd, coincidental, and fortuitous. Odd because since when did roots grow leaves, especially when they are covered by a house. Coincidental and fortuitous because he was stoned, and needed something to fill his time. He and his friends had

33 † F IRE FOR CLAY

smoked tea regularly in college (he was certain that he could breathe different flavors).

So he did what came naturally: he plucked a leaf (this took an odd amount of effort), shredded it with his hands (and then finally with scissors he kept in the bathroom, because the thing was like tearing polyester), and rolled the pieces into a cream wrapper.

“Screw it.”

He held one end to his lips, lit the other, and inhaled.

Three more things happened very fast after the first puff: Caedmon coughed, collapsed, hitting his head on his coffee table, and (as blood slowly trickled from his ear onto the cool floor) he began to dream.

CHAPTER THREE

Darkness. True black is all Caedmon can see when he opens his eyes.

Then: a tugging sensation, and the darkness is broken by two images.

The first is a girl sitting in a chair directly in front of him; all around her is darkness, but she and the chair are illuminated. Although he can only see her from behind, he can reach out and touch her; she is so close. The second image is much stranger: a perfect circle has been cut out of the darkness just on the right of his field of vision. And in the circle is what looks like some kind of movie. But it’s of poor quality and heat lines appear to be radiating from everything.

The girl sitting in front of him stands, and as she does so, the chair she was sitting in disappears. But something else happens as she stands: the circle projecting the movie shifts, and Caedmon understands that the circle shows what she sees.

When she stands, Caedmon moves with her; he is tethered to the woman. She takes a few steps forward, illuminating the ground beneath her feet. In the circle, Caedmon sees a cup, which the woman’s hand then reaches for. The woman snatches a cup from the darkness like a magician would pull a flower out of thin air. Next a cask appears in her hands. She pours a drink, releases the cask into the dark void, and returns to her chair, which becomes visible again as soon as she touches it.

35 † F IRE FOR CLAY

Caedmon begins to understand the rules of this hallucination: the only things visible to him are the woman with whatever she happens to touch, and the scene being projected in the circle. Apparently, the circle allows him to see whatever she sees.

Caedmon looks through the circle. He sees through the woman’s eyes what looks like a bar, a very old bar. It is made of clay and wood.

Behind the bar are bags filled with various liquids. He knows most of those liquids are wine, just as he knows that most of the room is bar, but he doesn’t know why he knows. He hears an echoing cough and the woman’s head turns to the left; simultaneously, the camera showing the bar turns to the left, revealing a large, dark, dirty man. The man looks as though he has been working in fields all day or hunting in the hot sun. Caedmon knows the man without knowing him.

“Hello, Gíl” the woman mouths, and Caedmon hears echoes in the darkness. He realizes that he knows her as well. Her name is Siduri.

She blinks and the camera screen flashes to blackness for a millisecond.

And though Caedmon can only see her from behind, he knows she is beautiful. She wears a caramel, leather tunic, which reaches down to her mid-calf. She has a tattoo of a mountain—no—a volcano on her right shoulder.

“Give me more, Siduri. I thirst for more,” he says this, and Caedmon senses a jolt of fear and then a reassuring calm. He thinks a thought that is not his own: “What have I to fear? Of him or anything else.”

The man is bare chested, revealing bulge of muscle and veins that come from a life of labor, bulges that a life of lifting weights and crunches would never produce. Caedmon finds himself slightly attracted to him, but does not understand why.

“I have no more here,” Caedmon hears her say. “Wait a moment and I shall return.” Caedmon sees the tangible woman walk through the surrounding darkness and watches the movie screen shift and rock as she walks, showing all that she sees. The movie shows her pausing at the opening in the back of the bar and looking from left to right outside. Siduri does not seem to notice Caedmon and so he reaches out his right hand and touches her shoulder. He shivers as though he has been plunged into the ice water he remembers from the lake back home.

The shivers start at the fingers of his right hand, spread throughout his whole body, and before he can pull his hand away he is immersed.

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Siduri breathes harshly as though suffering an asthma attack.

A brief panic, and after two breaths, she is fine. “Welcome,” she thinks. And though Caedmon’s vision becomes solid again, it is not through his eyes that he sees.

As she walks across the field behind her bar, she turns back every few seconds to make sure she is not being followed. A moment of panic sets over her and she again finds it hard to breathe. “Calm down,” she tells herself, “This may be your first time, but it is not mine. You are safe with me, so just breathe.”

She moves out of the clearing and sees what she was looking for: a thistle bush. She walks over to it, clutches the bush with her bare hand and pulls. The fake bush lifts away from the ground easily, revealing a twisted root six feet long, covered in leaves. A few spots of blood appear on her hand, but as she wipes the blood away, no cuts are present and no more blood flows.

She places the fake bush down next to its real counterparts, and she hears a rustle in the true thistles to her right. She crinkles her brow as a man emerges from the pointed shrubs.

His flesh is taut and hairy. His brow is sloped downward and juts out. He is as muscular as the first man Gíl, though perhaps a bit more road worn. Siduri’s stern look softens as a smile touches her lips. The hairy man approaches her and grabs her arm. Quickly grabbing the man’s thumb and pushing backwards, the man grimaces and drops to his knee as Siduri bends his arm backwards.

Amazing how with one digit a whole body can be controlled.

He looks at her and returns her smile, encircling her waist with his free arm and spinning her around. The man stands, gently holding her from behind, and scratches his beard on her neck.

She hears a subtle crinkle to her right.

“Wait,” she gets out, “What’s that sound?” She no sooner gets out the words before a very dirty, dark fist becomes visible from her peripheral vision. The fist passes an inch to the side of her face and hits the hairy man in the throat.

She jumps to her left and sees what she feared: Gíl breathing heavily, glaring at the hairy man who has been knocked back

37 † F IRE FOR CLAY

onto both knees and is clutching his neck, trying to regain his breath while attempting to stand. But Gíl does not wait; he charges the hairy man. Wrapping his arm around the man’s neck, Gíl kicks out the man’s foot, putting pressure on the base of the man’s skull as though to crush his opponent’s head into the earth. “Stop!” thinks Siduri, but something within her is too scared and keeps her from moving or speaking. A car accident comes into Siduri’s mind, though she has never seen a car. Before the hairy man’s head hits the ground, he uses this foot still planted on the ground to twist his whole body wildly in the air.

Gíl, caught off guard by the odd movement, is forced to break his hold, so that the only thing that slams the ground hard is the small of his own back. He grunts out in surprised pain, but springs back to his feet. Siduri’s heart races as she thinks, “I know this is new for you, but you’ve got to chill,” using a perfectly American, non-regional dialect. The next thing she yelled made perfect sense to Siduri, to the hairy man, and even to Caedmon, but was unfortunately lost on Gíl: “Kidu, run!”

A look of understanding comes across the face of the hairy man and he charges Gíl. Kidu is bulky, but unnaturally fast.

Three steps before he reaches Gíl, he lunges deeply on his right leg, swings his left back and then forward with so much force that Kidu’s whole body flips backwards but still keeps its momentum straight through the air in a perfectly symmetrical gainer. His right foot then springs forward, quickly connecting with Gíl’s front right jaw, causing a sickening slap as Gíl’s head arches back, carrying his body with it, while Kidu’s body finishes its perfect arch, landing on his left foot. Siduri is reminded of a pro soccer player executing a bicycle kick, though she has never heard of the game.

Gíl rises to his knees, and shakes his head, making his jaw quake as though it has been attached to his face with rubber bands. He grabs his jaw and with a loud “Urrrgh” cracks it back into place. He spits out a tooth, but there is no blood.

Gíl hops to his feet and smiles; it appears as though a new bone-white tooth is slowly filling in a freshly made gap in his teeth, but it happens so quickly that it may be only a trick of

38 † J OEL THOMAS

the light. He pounces at Kidu from a standing position, but he easily clears fifteen feet with the leap and, with his knees jutting out, he crushes down on the hairy man’s chest. Kidu drops under the pressure, arms flailing forward. Gíl pins hairy shoulders beneath his knees and the bearded face twists in pain.

From atop the hairy man, Gíl begins pounding his great fists into Kidu’s face and finds little resistance from the man’s skull.

The outlandish sound of crunching and cracking is the only thing Siduri can hear, besides Gíl’s grunting. Siduri breathes in deeply, walks toward Gíl, who’s still kneading Kidu’s face flatter and flatter into the ground. She suppresses a rush of fear that is not her own, swings her foot backward and forward as gracefully as a ballerina might, and connects her foot to Gíl’s ribs. Another loud “krurchagh” is heard, and the giant, filthy man spins as though he has an unknown center of gravity. His arms spin together as legs splay apart, head topples downward counterclockwise, and torso upends into the air. Finally, he lands six feet away against a nearby tree.

Without any prompting, Siduri looks down to see the broken, mashed face of Kidu slowly remolding itself as though a potter is shaping him from the inside out. As the potter’s fingers press Kidu’s heavy brow-line back into place, Kidu’s grey eyes look up at Siduri. He sputters for air, finds it, and only waits a second before he is back on his feet. He cracks his neck to one side, and goes to check on the crumpled but recovering body of Gíl. With a furious yell, Gíl sweeps the feet from beneath Kidu.

As Kidu goes to catch himself and rebound, Gíl grabs his arm and twists it. Kidu then does something even Siduri has not expected. He yells, “Stop! You have already beaten me; there is no need for you to continue as it will be meaningless!” Gíl pauses. Siduri gasps in surprise.

“You speak?” she manages to say.

She takes a step back. Gíl releases his arm, shoving him away, giving himself room to maneuver if this stunt is misdirection.

“Yes, for some time now actually. Your root is potent.” He nods his appreciation to Siduri and his long, thickly curled hair dips below his shoulders, and, for a moment, it’s almost impossible

39 † F IRE FOR CLAY

to distinguish the hair on his head from the hair on his chest and arms. An image of a hairy Thing flashes through Siduri’s mind along with the Addams family theme song. Kidu’s grey eyes lock onto hers, and part of Sidui suddenly feels a rush of embarrassment; she wishes Kidu wouldn’t look at him like that with Gíl standing there.

Gíl looks at Siduri in disbelief. “You would betray me by giving the Root to an animal!”

She returns his look with wide eyes and a tilt of her head that indicates that she does not appreciate his tone.

“Kidu and I have been…close for a while, Gíl. He has helped me in the fields. And I have chosen to help him the same way I have helped you. But don’t worry,” she smirks, “he is not exactly driven to be king.”

“You are Gíl of Uruk? My people have warred with you many years ago, but you have won me, and I will follow you. Where you walk I’ll walk, and where you stay I’ll stay. Siduri has saved my life, but as you have taken that life with your hands, I belong to you.” As Kidu says these words he bows subtly, and a grin comes across Gíl’s face. Part of Siduri thinks this Gíl is a bit too comfortable with people bowing to him.

All of this makes sense to Siduri, but not to all of Siduri. A part of her wants to know how getting beaten up by someone means that they own you. The rest of her thinks these words: “You will never be able to comprehend this, because where you are from, there is no survival and no honor. I can see inside of you, and I have seen your emptiness.”

Gíl is still breathing very heavily and has not quite lost the crazed look in his grey eyes. “Very well, I’ll take your hand,” Gíl says this and extends his arm, and a part of Siduri considers just how cliché this moment is. The part of Siduri that considers this does not understand that this is one of the most original moments in all of time.

It is at this exact moment in time that Siduri clears her throat. Caedmon feels himself being thrust out of her, as though he is being shoved in the chest. Once again he sees only the back of Siduri and the movie screen circle floating in

40 † J OEL THOMAS

the darkness. The camera swivels between Kidu and Gíl. And though Caedmon knows Kidu to be the Neanderthalic creature with new intelligence, he feels as though Gíl has come away from this fight softer and with new understanding. “Goodbye,” says the woman, and both men look at her in confusion.

CHAPTER FOUR

Caedmon woke in the fetal position. Arms folded in, knees brought to chest, a small pool of blood lingering at the back of his head, and vomit was caked on his beard. Shaking with cold, he was not sure where he was, but his senses began taking in their surroundings (the pukish smell, the shapes of the drywall patterns on the ceiling, the feeling of cold cement and a cheap Target rug beneath his hands), and he recognized that he was at home. And this made him only more frightened.

He reached to his head, which was throbbing, and felt the sticky dried blood. Lifting himself to his feet, he made his way to the bathroom. Every step was dizzying to the point that when he reached the sink he had to clutch it with his hands to keep from falling over. Leaning forward, he splashed water in his face several times in rapid succession. Finally, he cupped his hands and drank the tepid, distinctly bathroom grade, water from the sink. Usually he thought about the mystery of why bathroom tap water was always so much more grimy tasting than kitchen tap water, but this time he focused only on the pain in his head, the blood in his hair, and the woman from his hallucination.

Dampening the cloth, Caedmon prepared himself for the sting that comes from cleaning a cut and began dabbing at the

42 † J OEL THOMAS

crown of his head on the place where the hurt was radiating.

But as he dabbed, he felt no additional sensation. The stinging that normally accompanied such a movement did not hit him, only the soreness of a bad bruise. So he wiped and scratched the red paste from his hair more feverishly.

Where was the cut?

He didn’t remember cutting his head open (he had passed out before hitting the table) but where there’s blood, there’s… well, at least a scrape? Befuddled by the absence of a gash and sickened by the smell of dried vomit on his mustache and beard, Caedmon wiped the big chunks of what was probably clam chowder from his facial hair and got in the shower.

Burning hot water inched over his body. Places that were not under the influence of the heat turned immediately to goose bumps, which receded only when the rushing water eroded them away.

His head was feeling better. The ache was almost gone, but Caedmon didn’t really notice this. It’s funny how when we feel pain it’s all we can think about but barely remember it even existed once it’s gone. Physical pain at least carries no true memory. Other forms of hurt stay with us, though we may not know it.

Caedmon’s mind, freed from the bondage of blood-clotted hair, a vomit-stained beard, and a massive headache, focused on the only other point of concern he faced: the woman in the tunic. Siduri. He could only imagine her face; he had not seen it. He could remember the back of her hair and neck vividly, her dark bronze shoulders, and the blue tattoo of the mountain painted on one of those shoulders. He remembered her acrobatic kick of Gíl. In fact, he remembered the sensation of his own foot striking the man in the ribs as if he had done it himself.

But her face remained a deeply caramel blur. When he tried to picture it, he could only see a smudge, like someone smudged a wet finger on a watercolor painting. The impressionistic view that stuck in his memory only made her all the more tangible.

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He was surprised, upon looking down, to see that he had a firm erection.

But his thoughts were interrupted by a knock at his bathroom door. This sound surprised him so much that he nearly slipped (thankfully he still had the snowflake shower mat his mother had purchased for him before he left for college). It was not surprising that Renee felt welcome to walk into his bathroom; she had been in there with him before, even in the shower. He had not expected her to walk in because, well, he’d assumed that after waking up, it was the middle of the day.

Renee poked her head in. “Cad, you alright? I heard you get in the shower from upstairs and couldn’t believe you were actually getting ready for work on time.” Caedmon regained control of himself, took a breath, and poked his head from behind the shower curtain.

“Work?” Caedmon didn’t understand. “What time is it?”

Renee looked at him quizzically, “6:15, I just got home.

What’s going on with you?”

Retreating back into his shower womb, Caedmon looked around and grabbed the remainder of his Suave shampoo for men. Filling his hand with the odd blue gel, the only thought Caedmon had was, “Well, that was a strong and probably poisonous joint.” He washed his hair while Renee waited.

“Caedmon. Caedmon? I’m used to you being fairly non-responsive, but you’re scaring me.”

“Yeah. I’m fine. I just woke up, must have been tired.” He rinsed his brown hair and skipped the body wash; he didn’t believe it really made a difference in the way he smelled anyway. “I got home late last night, and I think I’m going to take tonight off.” After four years of work at FV, he had acquired a substantial amount of sick time. Though he was late often, he was never sick, and never skipped.

Sticking her head in the shower, Renee started back, “Jesus!

Sorry to interrupt,” she said standing away from the shower.

Renee was referring to Caedmon’s still pronounced erection.

Truth be told, at first glance the man in the shower didn’t look all that much like Caedmon. There was more definition

44 † J OEL THOMAS

to him—he seemed more solid. But when he stuck his head out from behind the curtain, he had maintained the same depressed, lost expression. But then there was also his…length, which seemed more…more than she had remembered.

“No, no it’s fine,” Caedmon stammered. Even though Renee was quite pretty, in her pale, aggressive sort of way, he was not overly troubled looking at her now. He was still thinking about the powerful and dark Siduri.

“Okay, well,” she was feeling a bit embarrassed now, and with blushing cheeks she filled the gap in conversation with: “Well hey, I’m thinking about having some people over tonight.

Sound good?”

“Oh, um, sure,” Caedmon did not want company, but it was her house. “Hey, I’m gunna finish up here. I’ll come up and see you in a few.”

“Oh, sure,” Renee shifted her gaze uneasily, which was perfectly pointless, since Caedmon couldn’t see her from inside the shower. She shuffled out of the bathroom like a boy who has just been told by his prom date that she just wasn’t “feelin’ it.” †† The water was turning cool. He stood in the shower for a long time after Renee left, and he did not know why. Caedmon has always taken excessively long showers. He had to see the goosebumps raise from his cool skin to meet the steaming water; then, he had to see them retreat back into their sub-dermal layer, having stored all of the shower’s warmth for the coming day. He turned off the shower, grabbed the towel from the rack next to the stall, and dried off while still covered by the curtain.

The towel concealed his now flaccid penis, and he stood looking in the mirror.

Something flashed in the upper right hand corner of the mirror.

When Caedmon focused in on it, he couldn’t make anything out, but he felt heavier. Like he was carrying more weight on his body than usual.

45 † F IRE FOR CLAY

He tried to shake off the feeling and walked into the living room, that is to say the only room of the basement. He sat on the couch, hair still wet, and began to reason with himself: Okay, so it couldn’t have been real. You were high. Right, yes, you were high. So swallow some Listerine to get the vomit taste out of your mouth, and move on.

And yet, he could not deny the twig still poking out from beneath the couch between his legs. Caedmon rubbed his eyes and was surprised to find them wet, but not from the shower, but from the falling of tears. What the hell? Why? And it was this question why that cracked the dam in his mind. He then found himself disagreeable. High? Have you ever been high like that before? The men, the story! Siduri! You know she was there, you touched her. You saw through her, with her. Unfortunately, this debate, as with most debates, was leading nowhere.

Okay, but you also cracked your head on the coffee table. There is still a bit of blood on the corner! Who knows what people see when they’re knocked unconscious. A hint of panic was in his head’s voice.

Yes, and what about that blood? The dissident was gaining confidence now. Odd that so much blood would be all over you, and yet you would have no cuts. And don’t pretend like that hallucination wasn’t talking to you.

Okay granted, but hallucinations are probably all personal. I mean they all happen in your head. And this was the final coherent thought Caedmon had for several moments. Because as soon as he thought it, an icy feeling came over his body.

Caedmon’s head jerked back and his body began convulsing.

He began thinking strange thoughts in a strange voice that did not sound like the one he was accustomed to hearing inside his mind. But it was familiar. And the voice didn’t say any particularly understandable words. Just snatches of things like, “Alright, let’s see what we’ve got here,” and “hmm, interesting,” and “eww, really?”

Caedmon’s breath came with difficulty; he sounded like a donkey braying.

And then it was over.

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Caedmon’s towel had fallen off of him in all the jostling, and he sat naked on top of his now dry towel. He had been in this seizing state for some time.

Wiping the tears from his face, Caedmon stood, walked over to his dresser and pulled out a pair of boxer briefs (they offered the best combination of freedom and support). What was wrong with him?

He then put on a pair of khakis and a pale blue v-neck shirt.

He crossed back to the bathroom, gargled and swallowed some Listerine, and took four aspirin at once. He checked the mirror, but didn’t see anything strange at all. His hair certainly looked better now that it had been cleaned, the bags under his eyes were still there, but they were not the puffy bags showing a lack of sleep; they were the normal bags that a nearly-thirty-year-old man should have beneath his eyes after crying.

Caedmon, for a moment, thought about going to the hospital. He had not been to one in quite a while, and it had been even longer since he had visited one for his own sake. Finally, he decided to do what all men decide to do when confronted with the thought of visiting a hospital: wait and see if anything gets worse.

Thumping music started vibrating from the house above.

Apparently the party was here. So Caedmon walked to the door of the basement and put on his pair of worn out Toms that he purchased during his social justice phase in college, and walked out of the basement door onto the street. He knew it was silly, but he felt weird about showing up for Renee’s party through her basement. It was as though the people there might see him as some kind of interloper who creepily invades the parties of his landlady.

So he walked around the house and knocked on the front door.

CHAPTER FIVE

Caedmon looked around at the faces gathered in Renee’s living room. Everyone was white, everyone was well dressed, and everyone exuded an aura of confidence that only comes with having a life-affirming career.

Renee walked over to him and took his hand, pulling him to the far corner of the room. While this motion came off as cute and girlish to most of the attendees, Caedmon was annoyed by it. He felt like there was some possessiveness to it. Not allowed to discover the others on his own, he must now be introduced to everyone as “Renee’s friend.” Then again, there were worse things to be. Especially considering the way she looked tonight: light, smoky makeup around the eyes, dark jeans and a low cut top, perfect long curls dangling across her chest. This outfit was perhaps a little overkill for a house party, but her clothes don’t reflect a desire to impress her guests, but rather, a desire to impress Caedmon.

Her desire for him was suddenly instinctual. Adhesive.

Anyway, he supposed it was probably easier for her to introduce him to everyone than it would be for him to awkwardly move toward groups of people and then away from them just as awkwardly. He’d always felt like a wave visiting the sands of a

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beach and then slowly receding back into the formless ocean at parties; the shore held no familiarity for him.

When will scientists create a device that indicates if a group is receptive to having someone else join their conversation?

And then a second device that allows people to join conversations and then leave them at will? Perhaps a traffic signal could do the job?

Fortunately, Caedmon decided after much debate, Renee was sparing him all of the newcomer awkwardness, allowing Caedmon to sink back into his usual nonchalant demeanor.

She escorted Caedmon around, introducing him to all of her friends, not letting him dawdle in conversation for longer than a few minutes before sweeping him away to the next semicircled group.

Probably thirty people had shown up for the soiree, which was a very fitting amount considering the size of Renee’s house.

From the outside, the house looked old enough to be unique, shoddy enough to be labeled “a fixer-upper with a lot of potential,” and big enough to support…well, a party of thirty. The dull green façade was nicely accented by popping blue trim and a great blue door. The inside of the house is certainly where the value was added. Aside from the splendid, finished basement, the house boasted fifteen foot vaulted ceilings, hard wood floors, and an upstairs that could be accessed via the main staircase or the servant’s staircase which connected directly to the kitchen. There was even a cupboard beneath the main stairs in which a messy-haired wizard may have been found were this a different story. The best thing about the house was that a person could stand in the large living room and see someone in the adjacent dining room through the giant window gap in the wall. In Midwestern cookie-cutter homes, the builder would never have made time to craft such an aesthetic nicety, but would have squeezed the drywall together, leaving yet another eggshell canvas.

“Cad, this is Marcus, Reagan, and Dan,” Renee said, basically shoving his hand toward the three guests. “Marcus”—the brunette man wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a confident

49 † F IRE FOR CLAY

smile—“is a teacher volunteer with my company. He is so good at finding the kids who, like, really need support, you know?”

Caedmon did not know. What he saw was a guy who was probably teased regularly in middle school who was now changing the world and feeling really good about himself.

Perhaps the world needs these “changers” just to keep the rust from building.

“Oh, interesting. Do you see Renee often?” This was the only follow up question Caedmon could think of, because, although he tried, he really didn’t remember what Renee’s job was. And while he was familiar with what a teacher did, he had always seen his teachers as robots with no feelings or lives outside of the dimly-lit classrooms they inhabited. Their primary function was to distribute information, and he sat and received that information. The concept of a “teacher who cares” seemed so excessive. He, at least, hadn’t needed one.

Renee, however, smiled hugely after this question and before Marcus could answer it, she continued, “Oh, and Reagan and Dan are co-founders of the Brain Trust; which is a nonprofit that’s making crazy changes to the schools around here.”

Reagan and Dan, who were both attractive women wearing mostly black, looked at him with a kind of hunger. Unused to this look, Caedmon hesitated and smiled crookedly, and this loss of confidence was all the two women needed to see to become immediately disinterested.

“Oh, well, we’re still new. We haven’t solidified our role in the city yet. But we’ve gotten this huge grant and we’re looking to do some cool stuff,” Dan interjected, afraid that she wouldn’t get a chance to be heard if she didn’t speak up during Renee’s brief pause. “What do you do Cad?” she asked as though the words he was about to utter may just spark the next big idea for the Brain Trust.

But before Caedmon could respond, Renee stepped in, “Oh, Cad went to U. Mass., and studied some intense stuff. He’s actually leasing the basement from me now!” Caedmon looked at her with squinted eyes as if to say, “What in the lukewarm-est of Hells was that?” But, instead of talking, he raised his eyebrows.

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To his amazement, the hunger, having once dissipated from the eyes of Reagan and Dan, immediately returned with a renewed voracity. A theater teacher had once told him that raising one’s eyebrows makes others think one is smiling even if one is not.

Apparently, it also helped with “making oneself desirable to other selfs.”

He was beginning to pick up on what he assumed were Renee’s intentions. This was not just a party; Renee was vetting him, seeing if he could be acceptable in her world. Or so he thought. But that was not the only oddity about this party.

The people there didn’t act like people acted in other parties Caedmon had attended.

Everyone had out his or her iPhone, which was synced to the laptop playing music through the speakers around the house.

They were voting up songs to play next, or texting, or exchanging contact information.

These people had not come to blow off some steam and let loose. They had come to network. And since Renee was prancing Caedmon around as though he were a French Poodle at a dog show, they had all, mistakenly, guessed that he was someone worth adding to their webs of associates. He had been asked to show the whiteness of his teeth, the curliness of his tail and the ability to not drop a steamer while being groomed.

Caedmon felt nauseated by the procession.

He felt above it all, a unique feeling for him.

Satisfied that she had made an impression on Marcus, Dan, and Reagan, Renee chauffeured Caedmon around to the other clusters of “Marcus, Dan, and Reagans” around the living/dining room. Everyone was wearing well-fitting J. Crew, Anthropologie, or Banana Republic outfits. Everyone cared a lot about something, usually a cause or a demographic, or a disenfranchised minority group. Everyone was invested.

But Caedmon had no cause; he had no battle; he claimed no war.

And Caedmon’s feet, in their Toms shoes, felt as he imagined the little boy’s feet in Africa, wearing the matching Toms shoes, felt. He thought this despite of how politically incorrect

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it was to think it. He thought this because the boy in Africa was not really real to him. Unlike Tolstoy, he thought this because he had somehow picked up the idea that everyone’s suffering was the same. And that when we die everyone’s average amount of time spent suffering was about the same. Wisely, he decided not to share this sentiment with his present company.

As a point of fact, suffering is not equal from person to person; Caedmon had simply not yet suffered enough to recognize the true depth of misery in the world.

Caedmon finished his circuit of the lower floor with Renee and began frantically searching for the nearest table holding PBR. But no such table was to be found. He saw only a corner loaded down with several cases of “Beers from Around the World.” Who spends that much money on such a small amount of alcohol? This was a party—who the hell was going to be focusing on the different tastes and textures of the various beers in a setting like this? At some point in his twenties it became very cool to know what makes beer good; Caedmon had avoided this trend and conversational topic. But, he needed alcohol.

He began with a German, then went on to a Swedish (which may as well have been water with food coloring), moved on to an Irish, took a restroom break, returned to a Jamaican (weird, right?), and had just started on an Indian when his circumnavigation of the world’s beers was interrupted.

Everyone had found a comfy spot to sit on or something not obnoxious to lean against, and people began sharing work stories. Many of the people knew each other from one work situation or another, so every story ended with an overly enthusiastic, half-drunk laugh from the people who at least kind of knew the storyteller. The music was playing some electro-indiepop-synth nightmare, and Caedmon was rubbing his eyes with one hand and lapping up his Indian with the other.

The guests all forcibly took their turns being storyteller. The general, undeclared rule seemed to be: the storyteller gets one punch line, if not enough people seem to laugh, then someone else can talk over the original storyteller no matter how loose of a connection existed between the original story and

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the new one. No one really heard anyone else’s story; they all just waited until the appropriate time to interject a story of their own. No one was listening. No one but Caedmon.

What he heard sounded more like a group interview in which you have to work with your competing applicants to accomplish a goal. But the goal never matters in these settings; all that matters is that you are heard; that you leave an impression. Caedmon heard stories about neglectful parents who used electrical tape to bind the fingers of their autistic child together; now the child covers all of her dolls in electrical tape and hits them. He heard stories about the crazy teacher in the room next door who let students in high school bring in any movie they wanted as long as they could tie it into current events. The result was students bringing in Super Bad to address the issue of underage drinking, Step Brothers to address divorce, and every Tyler Perry movie ever made in order to show how no matter how bad your life is currently, eventually the right pastor or gospel song comes along to help you through it. Principals who had never worked with the age group of kids of which they now were in charge, social workers who took 3 hour lunches, CEOs of CMOs that tricked parents into graduating their students early to bump graduation rates, policy makers who had no business making laws for teachers because they had never even been one, and a rousing guessing game about which nonprofit was run by a dick and which one was run by an absentee founder. During the course of these discussions: 12 people told a story from start to finish, 6 people started stories but were interrupted (usually by the same couple of people), and 3 people tried to start their story more than once but never gained enough group interest to get out more than “Oh that reminds me, I was working with this,” before getting cut off. To their credit, in Caedmon’s eyes, the other handful of people didn’t even try to topple the storytelling powerhouses in the group and just sat back and laughed when appropriate.

And, since this was Renee’s party, she laughed aloud at each and every tale, showing that she really did know exactly what they were talking about.

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And as Caedmon rounded the corner of his sixth beer, and his stone indifference turned to stone honesty and indifference, someone directed a question at him. And this question hit like a nuclear torpedo poisoning the water in which the rest of the party was swimming.

“How about you Cad? Anything exciting going on for you lately?” Caedmon could almost hear the wheels of excuses grinding in Renee’s head.

But he beat her to the answer, “Well, to tell you the truth, I could never hope to have anything happen quite as exciting as you all seem to experience.” Renee cleared her throat to speak, but he continued. “I just don’t know how all of you survive.

You all seem to be the only ones where you work that know how to do your jobs right. You all seem to be saving the world, so I guess by comparison, no, nothing at all exciting has happened to me. Although, I guess I did get stoned last night and have a crazy-ass dream.” Now everyone was listening. “But you know what? I suppose I should get involved in some organization that protects the children of the world. But to be honest, I just don’t fucking care. And I sure as shit wouldn’t find it as self-satisfying as you all do.” He had gone too far, and he knew it, and he really was unconcerned. Which was normal.

But what he had said was as incomprehensible to the party guests as Ebenezer Scrooge’s words had been to the charitable people who came around asking for donations. “Are there no prisons? Are there no workhouses!?”

All any of the host of people could understand was that someone didn’t love and appreciate them for what they were doing. And since they could not imagine a reality in which their actions didn’t precipitate love and appreciation, they were left with a vague feeling of unease. But Renee, jaw offset, understood him perfectly, and was furious.

Caedmon looked at them all, expecting some kind of backlash, but was met only with eyes of pity. They felt bad for him that he simply didn’t understand all the ways they were impacting society. But one man’s grey eyes saw him with complete clarity. One man stared at him with the purest comprehension.

54 † J OEL THOMAS

And this man looked an awful lot like a Viking in a green argyle, quarter-zip sweater, skinny jeans and brown dressy-casual shoes. Nice clothes hiding what was a bulky frame. When the man realized he had been noticed, he half-smiled at Caedmon; his long wavy blonde hair bled perfectly into his perfectly groomed blonde beard. Caedmon could not remember meeting the man, or at least did not remember his name, but he instantly disliked him.

Caedmon stood up shakily and walked to Renee’s kitchen, and with eyes that were beginning to glaze, he began searching for the vodka. Which he found in the freezer. While in college he had become close friends with the clear, cool drink. He didn’t like how long it took for him to feel like he had been drinking it, but once it kicked in he felt complete free. He took four long gulps from the half-full bottle, placed the lid back on top, and put it back in the freezer.

He figured he had about 30 minutes until he blacked out.

So he walked back through the party and left, completely unnoticed. Or almost completely. Two clear grey eyes followed him every step of the way.

Caedmon walked into his basement, coughed a loud, hacking cough, noticed the Root poking out from under his couch, and—without knowing why—broke off the tip, stuffing the small twig into his pocket next to his lucky lighter. He laid down on his bed stomach down, head hanging over the side, shoes still on. And then, he was gone.

CHAPTER SIX

Caedmon had always been very good at remembering dreams.

They were usually bright and colorful, he was usually the hero (unless he chose to play the villain), and sometimes he would fly. But upon wakening, Caedmon could not remember anything after finding the bottle in the freezer. This was not odd to him; however, what was odd was that he was not in his bed.

He was in Renee’s and she was lying next to him. Caedmon was confused, Renee was asleep, and they were both naked.

Caedmon could honestly say that nothing like this had ever happened to him. He had passed out before. But he could not recall ever getting up immediately after a black out, and convincing a woman to sleep with him. He crooked his neck to get a better look at her face and he saw that she had black mascara lines running down her face. She had been crying, but did he make her cry?

Climbing out of bed, he quickly realized that his clothes were not in the room. He began hoping that last night’s party did not end with people crashing on Renee’s couch or floor.

“Hey you,” came a gravelly half-yawn from the bed. Caedmon looked around uncomfortably. “Where ya going? I had a lot of fun last night.” He turned to look at her and saw her sitting

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up, sheets pulled to her belly button, leaving her soft, porcelain breasts exposed.

“Yeah, um. Me too.” It’s a tricky thing, sleeping with your landlady. “Hey, have you seen my clothes?”

Renee snickered and rubbed her eyes. Feeling the dried mascara, she said, “I must look like such a mess right now. Last night was crazy. I’ve never seen you act like that. You were so strong and,” she scrunched her eyebrows together, “passionate!” Caedmon didn’t think he had been this drunk. He could not remember a time where he simply could not remember.

There were no fuzzy details, no flashes of activity.

Caedmon didn’t respond to Renee, who was now encircling her bent legs with her slender arms. He simply continued looking for his clothes. “Cad, stop,” she smiled, “Why are you looking up here? Our clothes are down in the living room. Do you not remember last night?” Her smile began to fade quickly, but Caedmon didn’t want to stay in this room for a minute longer.

His stomach lurched as though he had just driven over an unexpected hill and was now experiencing weightlessness.

So he stopped moving, looked at Renee, and said, “Oh, yeah.

So thanks, I really had a great time last night. Really.” He realized that the second “really” probably did more to show he was lying than reinforce his first “really.”

He grabbed the long door knob, turned and pushed the door open leading to the hallway on the second floor of the house. He made his way down the servant’s staircase to the kitchen, and peeked around the corner. The coast was clear.

He traversed the wooden terrain to the saloon style doors leading to the dining room. Thinking he was now safe, he swung open the saloon doors to see that several of last night’s party members had indeed stayed over, and that many of them were paired and spooning on the floor. At least they were all mostly clothed, he thought. Stepping cautiously over the human clumps on the ground, he found his boxer briefs next to the main staircase and hastily put them on. He decided to skip the rest of his clothing, unwilling to roll anyone over to grab his remaining articles, so he opened the door next to the

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Harry Potter-esque cupboard under the stairs, which lead to the basement.

He took the steps down slowly, pulling on the dangling string that clicked on a light bulb which illuminated the stairwell.

Furious with himself for returning to that party, he didn’t think about his hallucination from the day before, or the fact that his hair was matted with blood but no gash was found, or the fact that a large root had popped up through his floor. With an attitude resembling the greatest complainer of all of literature, Holden Caulfield, all he could think about were the phony bastards upstairs and how he must have looked returning to the party after making such a scene. And it was fortunate that he didn’t have the presence of mind to draw comparisons between himself and Holden; he hated that book purely because of what a whiny prick that kid was.

He failed to notice his lack of hangover. Here again pain is tricky: it’s hard to even consider its existence if you’re not experiencing it.

The piece of his hindsight which most annoyed him was not yet 20/20, however. There was something that had really bothered him about last night beyond the “save-the-worlders,” and beyond how stupid and obvious Renee had been. What really bothered him was the way that Thor-ish guy had looked at him.

“What was his problem?” Caedmon said aloud, once he pinpointed the tiny splinter stinging and digging at his mind.

Caedmon held the belief that deep down the rest of the world was really as indifferent to the suffering of others as he was; he was just honest enough to admit it rather than live like these other people, people who had their whole identity and self-worth wrapped up in the number of people they have “impacted.” Caedmon truly believed that when people say they want to make an impact, what they are really saying is they want other people to recognize and thank them for existing in their lives.

The way the Norseman looked at him seemed to say, “I understand every angle of your argument, and I know that you’re full of shit. I know that you, secretly, also know you’re full of shit.”

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Caedmon sat down and looked to the right of his couch at his bookshelf; still loaded down with the required reading from his undergrad work. He stared directly at The Master and Margarita.

This man had been Woland. This man had been Satan, observing Caedmon to see if he was any different than any other man on Earth, and found Caedmon to be exactly the same. No surprises.

Once again we see how absence is the great progenitor of an amnesiac. And much like once we have recovered from a sickness we forget we had ever been sick, because Caedmon did not see the Root that had been coming up from under the couch, he did not think to notice it was missing. The Root was indeed gone, but he did not see it, and he did not think about it. He was sitting right in the middle of the couch so that the Root would have been shooting up between his legs.

Caedmon stopped in the middle of his thoughts to notice that he was hungry and then he smirked. “You know,” he thought, “I’m probably the only single man alive that would be super annoyed to wake up and find that I have slept with a gorgeous woman.” Then he put on a pair of jeans and t-shirt and left. †† Saturday morning may be the best time a person can be awake.

So much potential exists in that morning, so much distance from the rest of the week. It was sunny and warm, but not in a foreboding “I hope you wore sunblock and a t-shirt that breathes” sort of way. Caedmon walked three blocks, cut through a community garden, and saw his destination: The Boston Common Ground.

The “BCG,” as it was referred to, was a play on words referring to the Boston Commons (a fun green space in the middle of an otherwise oppressive, old city), and…well, coffee grounds. He knew the owners of the spot. They had a full menu of breakfast items available all day and every kind of espressobased drink a customer could think of. As he opened the door,

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the standard relaxing indie music shuffled through the owner Greg’s iPod. The deep aqua walls were exciting and retro, and Arcade Fire spilled out of the speakers, which were placed haphazardly laying around the store. The scent of dark coffee flooded into Caedmon’s nostrils as an organ crescendos: “My body is a cage.”

“Morning Cad,” (phonetically: Mwa-nin Kehd) came the voice of a smiling Greg from behind the used cash register; next to it was a sign that explicitly indicated: “Patrons who order a tall, grande, or vente sized drink will be served with a lack of enthusiasm.” Caedmon was reminded of the time he ordered a “tall” mocha and was immediately and literally frowned on by the two baristas behind the counter. “I don’t remember the last time I saw you during an hour that had an ‘AM’ attached to it!

Couldn’t find an interesting enough party to attend last night?

Man I went to this one, jeez, the ladies!”

“Oh yeah? Actually I had the opposite; my night was a little too exciting. In fact, most of it has slipped my mind,” said Caedmon dryly. He liked Greg. Greg was genuine and Greg actually enjoyed his work.

“Atta boy! What can I get you?”

“Umm, three eggs scrambled, three slices of toast, two full orders of bacon. Oh, and the hottest coffee you’ve got, extraextra hot please,” Caedmon said without hesitation. When was the last time he had been awake for a true breakfast? Greg poured the nearly boiling coffee into a mug, and then steamed it, the rising steam bubbles were likely disappointed that they had been released into this bitter coffee concoction rather than thick, creamy milk.

Greg handed the mug over to Caedmon more daintily than a man born and raised in Boston ever did anything.

“Here ya’ go. Careful, it’s hot. I’ll have the food brought right out. That’ll be eight-oh-six,” Greg said as he shook the heat off of his fingers. Caedmon paid with his debit card; he couldn’t have paid with credit if he had wanted to. No one would give him any. He managed to blame his parents for this: they wouldn’t allow him to have a credit card until after college,

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but by then, no one would give him one because he had no credit history.

“Thanks,” Caedmon said, and sat down facing a window.

He blew on the coffee and circled his thumb around the rim of the magma container. He looked up to see what looked like a big man with long blonde hair and a green sweater walking away from the window. This startled Caedmon so much that his thumb slipped from the rim of the cup into the steaming, brown liquid below.

“Aaaaahhhhaaaaa!” was the sound he made. That is going to burn, that is going to really burn, he thought.

Sure enough, as he looked at his thumb a big white blister began to form just above his knuckle. So he did what every man has done after burning his finger, all the way back to the first caveman who touched fire: he stuck his thumb in his mouth.

However, unlike every man who has stuck his finger in his mouth after burning it, all the way back to the first caveman who first touched fire: the pain in his thumb instantly subsided.

And as he drew his thumb out of his mouth and examined his knuckle, he managed to finally notice an absence of something.

His blister was gone.

But he was sure it had been there. †† Caedmon stirred one sugar packet into his coffee. As the manmade eddy within his cup, he felt the grains of sugar at the bottom disappear, and the distraction that getting breakfast was supposed to provide also disappeared. And Caedmon’s mind returned once again to the previous night.

While he brooded, eggs sizzled, bacon fried, bread burned, and the music shifted to the light, fluid piano of Bill Evans.

His food was delivered, and Caedmon received it with a grunt of gratitude, and his mind was once again filled with thoughts of greasy food, pushing out all thoughts about the night before. Breakfast is perhaps the most selfish of all meals; once it is in front of its victim, it will not be satisfied unless its

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aromas, flavors, and textures are the only thing on the dupe’s mind. This is why Breakfast has always called itself “the most important meal of the day.”

But much to this breakfast’s dismay, someone had different plans for Caedmon. “Hey, Cad,” came a thickly accented voice to his left. “Do you remember me?” It was Brad, from his night of clam chowder and curiously intrusive conversation.

Amnesia caused by seeing something in the wrong context stung Caedmon. “Oh, yeah. Brad, right? How’s it going?” was Caedmon’s clearly annoyed reply. Brad stuck out a hand, which was much hairier than Caedmon remembered, but it had been late and dark, and the lighting in the bar wasn’t particularly illuminating. Caedmon shook his hand. “I’ve never seen you here before.” Caedmon was again finding this man suspect, and he had a feeling of déjà vu about him. The familiarity stretched back beyond the bar two nights ago.

“Well Cad, you don’t get up for breakfast much. I come here regularly,” he confirmed this by giving Greg, behind the counter, a wave, which was reciprocated with a smile and upward jerk of the head. He then sat down across from Caedmon and smiled, showing all of his teeth.

“What do you mean, ‘I don’t get up for breakfast much’?

How the hell do you know that?” said Caedmon with a tone of confusion and anger. Breakfast was now furious at the lack of attention she was receiving.

Brad continued to smile, “Well, you work the graveyard shift.

It only makes sense.” A coffee was brought to him, and he stirred in three packets of sugar. “I like mine a bit sweeter than you, it seems.” Caedmon was again about to question him, until he saw that there was only one empty sugar packet next to his coffee and three next to Brad’s.

“You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were Sherlock Holmes,” Caedmon said in the most obviously sarcastic tone he could muster.

“Maybe I am? I could remark on the color of mud clinging to your shoes which tells me you walked through the Commons to get here, and that your ungroomed appearance indicates

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that you had quite the party last night, and that these things together indicate that you probably did not come from further than eight blocks to get here; however, maybe I just followed you,” Brad said this with a wink, but Caedmon only found that wink all the more invasive.

This was not a normal conversation. Normal people don’t talk like this.

Brad drank down his coffee in three long gulps and continued, “Well, Cad, I’m glad to see that you’re well.” He reached into the inside pocket of the grey striped vest he was wearing over a t-shirt and said, “Here’s my card. If I can help you, or you have any questions about anything, give me a buzz.” Caedmon took the card and read it: “Bradley K. Shaamhat, Director of Admissions, Eastern College.”

“Thanks,” Caedmon said with an intentional lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll definitely hold on to this.” He put the card in the pocket of his jeans, unable to imagine why he might need to talk to an admissions rep.

“See that you do. You never know when having an inside connection can help,” Brad said this forcefully, and Caedmon quickly straightened in his chair. “I’ll see you around,” were the parting words of the thickly accented man.

Caedmon looked into the man’s stormy eyes and nodded.

Brad stood up, left a two dollar bill on the table and left, his coffee sitting undrunk on the table.

Returning now to his icy eggs, Caedmon scooped them onto his toast to make them more palatable. The bacon, of course, was delicious cold or hot.

Finished with his meal, Caedmon stood and left the coffee shop feeling more troubled than he had when he walked in. He wanted to be distracted from all of the thoughts that were troubling his normally unbothered mind. But the more he walked, the more consumed his mind became.

He found himself circling the perimeter of The Bunker Hill Burial Ground, letting his fingers slide over the iron bars that fenced in the green space. During his first lap, his hands slid freely up and down each rung, feeling the cold surface, which

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had not yet begun absorbing the day’s heat. On his second lap he found himself taping the tip of each blunted spike that poked up from the fence with his finger. All the while, he was thinking, but his thoughts did not cling to one idea any more than did his hand cling to one spike.

His actions became compulsory, and it wasn’t until his feet began to hurt that he realized he had been walking around the park for far too long, and that his presence had been noticed by a child. The boy was probably nine, and his dark skin was the perfect contrast to his beautiful, white smile. He had a mixture of adult and child teeth, which made his mismatched grin all the more endearing to anyone who saw it. But the presence of the child so startled Caedmon that he actually tripped on the uneven sidewalk and fell. Hard. He tried to catch himself with his left palm, but his skin was instead shredded by the jutting cement waves in the sidewalk. His right hand hit next in the form of a fist, but despite his knuckles being hard, his soft skin again fell victim to the choppy ground. Caedmon’s body finally hit the ground and did so with enough force that he did a complete summersault.

The kid started cracking up. His laughter was so forceful and crippling that he hunched over, holding his stomach.

This was not the laughter kids put on display to show other kids that something is funny; this was the kind of cackling, uncontrollable laughter that would not subside for several minutes.

Caedmon finished his acrobatics on his side, and looked at his left palm and right knuckles. Both parts of his body burned in the way he remembered them burning when he was a child falling off of his bike. But unlike then, he did not cry. He stared at the little drops of blood forming expectantly.

After a few seconds, he rubbed his right knuckles with his left thumb, and wiping the blood away, he saw exactly what he had been expecting: an undamaged hand. His knuckles looked as though nothing had happened. And there was no pain.

Caedmon repeated the same movement with his right thumb on his left palm. No scratches, only the pink streaks of a small

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amount of smeared blood. The only sign that he had fallen were the scuff marks on his jeans.

Caedmon stood and ran—something he had not done in a few years—back toward his home. He had expected to be winded after the first block, but he was not, so he pushed himself and ran faster. When he was within view of his basement door, he slowed to a jog. Two of the girls from last night (not Reagan and Dan, but who cares) were emerging from Renee’s door looking disheveled. When they saw Caedmon, they leaned into each other and began giggling and whispering. Caedmon could not have cared less; he no longer gave any amount of concern about what had happened the night before.

The only thing that mattered was the tree Root under his couch. He unlocked his door without fumbling for his key or missing the lock; he did it with finesse and grace. Running into the room he noticed a second absence. He saw that the Root was no longer poking up from beneath his couch. He crawled on his hands and knees and rubbed his hand on the cold concrete floor beneath his couch. It was smooth. “What?”

Caedmon said aloud.

He stood and easily slid his couch over to reveal the spot where the Root had cracked the foundation of the house. But there was nothing. He didn’t understand. On his coffee table were the crumblings of marijuana and papers from the two days ago, but there was no blood on the ground or coffee table from where he had banged his head. Had he cleaned up the mess?

Running to the bathroom, there was no splatter or droplet of blood in the sink where he distinctly remembered rinsing himself of blood and vomit.

“Dammit!” he yelled at himself in the mirror. When he looked in the mirror more closely he realized that he did not look like himself, not as he remembered himself looking anyway. His cheekbones were more pronounced; the bags under his eyes were almost completely gone. There was a vein popping out from his bicep that he had never seen before, and when he lifted his shirt, the formation of a muscular abdomen had begun. And suddenly the dream of every middle school boy

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had been fulfilled in him: he had become handsome and fit overnight. But, in the end, this was the thought that pushed him over the edge. And it was the obviousness of the muscles and smooth skin that took his memory from vague generalities of what had occurred to an evaluation of the specifics.

His mind was being confronted with paradoxes and inconsistencies that his mind could not reconcile. So many pieces of memories were fighting against each other. Part of him said this was clearly all in his imagination: there was no Root, there had never been. The other part of him was screaming, “But remember the blood, the scrape, the new body! Remember the woman!” But the sheer impossibility of it all was too much and Caedmon began hunching over the bathroom sink, clinching his hair in his hands and weeping uncontrollably. Then he did something that he had not ever done. He became violent.

Caedmon began slamming his fist against the counter top with a great deal of force. It seemed as though the white porcelain was not going to take much more when Caedmon caught another strange reflection in the mirror. Mind and body raging together, Caedmon punched the mirror so hard that there was an impact crater an inch larger than his fist in the glass.

He pulled his hand away slowly. Three shards of glass approximately a half inch long each were clinging to his hand. He extended his fingers, then contracted, the glass stayed fixed in place. There was no blood at all. He plucked each of the three slivers from his hand with a strange calm, and pulling them out revealed three dots of blood. Yet again he looked at his hand expectantly, wiped away the blood and found that there was no cut.

It was not the pain of having his hand stabbed with glass that refocused him; it was the releasing of all the rage and tension that had been building in him for three days that centered his mind. It was then that Caedmon remembered something else specific: last night, before he went to sleep, he had snapped a piece of the Root off and put it in his pocket. He remembered doing this and not understanding why. Now he understood that if he was ever going to understand any of this, it was going to be through that root.

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He knew this with such certainty that when he reached into the pocket of his jeans, he was positive that he would find the twig there.

But it wasn’t.

How was this possible? He remembered putting it there, he remembered coughing a loud hacking cough and then falling asleep.

Defeated, he collapsed on to his couch which was now facing nothing but the mini fridge in the basement. He sat staring, motionless.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Renee walked down the stairs. He had not heard her knock, or maybe she hadn’t and just let herself in. “I heard a loud banging. I knocked for a while but you didn’t answer, so I let myself down.” She was holding a pile of dirty laundry in her hands.

“Is everything all right? Caedmon?” Something was off. Renee always did her laundry in her part of the house. “I brought you your clothes,” she said with a tone that sounded very much like fear. Caedmon seemed almost comatose.

“You brought my clothes?” He said these words softly, slowly, wrapping his mouth around each syllable. “You brought my clothes. Why do you have my clothes?” If Renee was not scared before, she definitely was now. His eyes were different somehow.

The chestnut eyes she was used to seeing were fading. And as he stared at her, it was as if she were watching them being drained of color, like watching coffee being emptied from a French press.

“You left them upstairs this morning. Don’t you remember?”

She said this, and he shook his head. “But you remember last night?” Again he replied by shaking his head, but this time a smile was creeping across his face.

“Right. Well, I’ll, um, just set them down here.” She placed them on the coffee table, which was far to the right of the

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couch. “I’ll stop in and see you later.” She walked backwards a few steps to the stairs and then walked up as quickly as she could while seeming polite.

As soon as the door upstairs shut, and then locked, something clicked in Caedmon’s mind. He had not been wearing these jeans last night; he had been wearing the khakis that were now sitting in front of him. The last time he had reached confidently into pants looking for this twig, his hubris had been crushed; now he was like Odysseus disguised as an old beggar.

And just as the king of Ithaca had reached hesitantly for his bow, Caedmon moved his hands toward his Banana Republic (Goodwill) khakis. As soon as his fingers penetrated the ridge of his right pocket, he felt the rubbery wooden stick next to the bulge that was his lighter. And in a movement that must have echoed Odysseus’ preparation of the bow, which would reestablish his reign as king, Caedmon drew the stick from the pocket, rubbing his index and middle finger carefully along its smooth exterior.

Caedmon did not weep, did not smile. He was holding the proof that he was not mad, and really that’s all most people need in order to keep on living: validation that they are not crazy.

“So,” he reasoned, “If this is real, and the healing is real, then the visions are probably real, and the paranoia that someone else is involved and covering up what’s happening is definitely real. It would have taken a lot of effort to cut the Root from the ground, and fix the broken cement in the basement floor.” But again, even paranoia and conspiracy theories somehow seemed manageable and not as frightening when you knew they were real and not a figment of an overactive imagination. But then again, didn’t all crazy people think that? †† This time he would not be hasty, would not be wasteful. He remembered that the man Gíl from his dream had mentioned tea. Perhaps that would make the substance less shocking. So

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he heated water in his microwave, shaved off a little sliver of the branch with his pocketknife, which he then actually placed in his pocket, and dropped the sliver into the water. He then let it steep. He didn’t know what steeping was exactly, but he knew tea drinkers waited, so he waited as well.

The drink finally ready, he began to prepare himself mentally. Last time he began by seeing only thick black. He closed his eyes and thought about exactly what he had experienced.

There had been only two things he could see: a third person view of Siduri’s actual body from behind, and a circle that projected Siduri’s first person view of her surroundings, letting him see what she saw. He finally remembered how everything had changed when he tried to reach out and touch her shoulder: he had become her. He thought as she thought, he asserted some amount of control over her, and she could speak to him with her thoughts. She knew he was there.

Before sipping the water, he put the remains of the Root in the best hiding spot he could imagine: taped to the inside of his thigh. He hoped no one would look there. And if they did, he imagined them finding the Root would be the least of his worries.

He raised the cup to his mouth: “Cheers.” He took a sip.

Nothing happened. He drank more.

A sudden urge to fall asleep came over him, but he resisted.

He drank more still.

His eyes began closing of their own accord, but right before they shut he looked toward his door leading to the outside world and saw something that, had he not been so close to sleep, would have startled him indeed. He saw the silhouette of a long-haired, muscular man standing outside his door.

Caedmon faded. †† Absence gathers around Caedmon. He holds what should be his hand in front of his face but cannot see it; he tries to touch his hand to his face, but cannot feel it. He is a ghost, existing through the memories of what it was like to have limbs and solidity. As before, Caedmon is

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tethered to the person in front of him. But this time it is not a woman, but a man in a monk’s frock. Studying the robe closely, he notices that it is made of something like rayon. Caedmon turns his attention to the circle displaying the first person view of the man he knows to be Merlyn. “Seriously?” Caedmon thinks, “Now Merlyn is real?” but as he thinks it, he finds himself already knowing all about Merlyn’s life.

He knows that a drunk but brilliant father raised him; that his mother had been murdered and raped, and that even though his father sought justice, there was none to be had; and with a little direct concentration, he discovers that a mysterious root had popped into Merlyn’s life, only Merlyn was much older, 66, when he discovered the Root. Caedmon knew all of these things, but there was a fine haze around the memories that he could feel.

And suddenly, The Once and Future King makes complete sense to him. At least the Merlyn part—the rest is still a garble of manners and betrayals. He looks through the peephole into Merlyn’s view and is surprised to see Merlyn staring directly at him. He is looking into a mirror and his stark, grey eyes are warm and welcoming.

Caedmon then does what he came to do; he reaches out his hand that is not there and touches Merlyn.

Two long yawns later, and Caedmon sees as though he is the old wizard. “Welcome Caedmon,” Merlyn says to himself in the mirror. “I have been expecting you. You can simply speak to me by thinking, but I find the most normal way to have these conversations is in front of a mirror.” He smiles into the mirror and Caedmon finds himself thinking of his grandfather.

“Oh, don’t let the long beard fool you. Your grandfather, I’m sure, loved you much more than I ever could, or ‘will love you’ I suppose would be the correct phrasing, since he will not be born for a very long time.” The mirror is not like the mirrors Caedmon is used to: it is a cloudy glass over a silver plate. The image, therefore is distorted and blurred.

“You’re Merlyn,” Caedmon thinks. He will have to be careful about his thoughts, otherwise this conversation would take a long time.

“Well done. It took me several tries before I got the hang of searching my host’s mind for information. You’re a natural at

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this. I am, of course, at your disposal. Although I do anticipate us being interrupted at some point very soon, so be concise, please,” said Merlyn, completely unapologetically.

“What is the “this” I’m a natural at?” Caedmon thinks, “What’s happening to me?”

“Well, I suppose asking is the easiest way to understand, although I have only begun to scratch the surface of what this means. You have, of course heard of the Tree of Life? Well, to put it simply, you have ingested a piece of it.”

Caedmon begins huffing in his mind at the incredulity. Maybe this man is too mystical to be scientific about what’s happening.

Merlyn smiles. “You scoff because you are uncomfortable thinking about that which was impossible only two days ago.

Trust me, the process goes much smoother when you learn to just stop doubting it. When I first learned about your airplanes, I laughed as well. But what seems more impossible: a mysterious Root growing from the ground or a flying piece of metal?”

“Why me?”

“To be honest, each of us addresses that question differently.” He holds up his hand as if to stop a question. “Yes, there are many of us. All with our own senses and ideas about the purpose and method of all of this. In this time, I aid King Arthur Pendragon. My mission from him is to follow the Lord, Jesus Christ and find the Holy Grail. ‘Why me?’ You’ll find that the answer to this question changes with every age of mankind.

I think the answer to your question comes from evaluating your actions in hindsight; granted, your hindsight will grow to be very impressive over time.”

Caedmon pauses, trying to decide what his next question should be. Unable to make up his mind, Caedmon decides to let the expert tell him. “What question should I ask?”

“Well, you are talking to a famed psychic, a true Wizard of Oz,” Merlyn says with a wink. “An appropriate question would be: ‘What happens next?’ And the answer is simply this—“ But his words to the mirror are cut short. A man walks in who Caedmon knows is Galahad. “You!” says the knight in surprise and rage. “How many have died because of your deception?

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And you are here in Pelles’ temple, pretending to be dead. As though the ‘man born of demons’ could die, or be trapped in a tomb by a whore!” Merlyn winces slightly, but Galahad’s voice and words do not panic him. “Where is the cup Merlyn? The true secret of your power—you must have had it for many years.”

And suddenly, a bit more of the knight’s story becomes clear to Caedmon. The Holy Grail everyone was seeking has nothing to do with a cup; it is about what’s inside the cup: the Root.

“Yes, you’re right of course, Sir Galahad. Why don’t you calm yourself and talk with me a while?”

“I will not be calmed! Now you will give me the Chalice of Life, or I will tear your head from your body.” At this, Merlyn smiles. Caedmon thinks back to the destruction Gíl’s fists had caused, and the resilience of Kidu’s face afterwards. Caedmon understands why Merlyn isn’t worried.

A strange split happens now: Merlyn says the words, “You are not worthy to bear the cup,” but he thinks the words, “You have seen him! When you awaken, you must run!”

“You will not stop me,” says Galahad, and charges Merlyn, who grabs the knight’s armored wrists and squeezes so hard that the chain mail and greaves bend inwards. The bent metal punctures his wrists, and the blood pours out and begins to pool on the floor. Merlyn releases the knight, who drops to his knees. Galahad tries to take off his armor, but the blood is making it too slick and his grip slips, unable to remove the crushed metal from his skin.

“Why? Where should I go?” thinks Caedmon, ignoring the fight, focusing on himself only.

Galahad lies on the floor passed out from a loss of blood.

Merlyn rips the armor off of Galahad’s arms with two easy strokes, and Caedmon is reminded of peeling a banana. He soaks two white cloths, which were lying on his stone table waiting to be used in a warm liquid and lightly wraps Galahad’s wrists. “What will you do with him?”

“I will…educate him. Go to the Orange Line, take it to downtown Boston, and someone will find you at the USS Constitution. Now as payment for all of these answers, you

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must give me an answer. What happened to Ross and Rachel in the end?”

“Oh, she got off the plane.” And Merlyn smiles, and wipes a small amount of water from his eyes. “Goodbye for now.”

A large yawn emanates from Merlyn, and Caedmon feels the now familiar shove in the chest, pushing him back to the darkness.

Caedmon sees Merlyn lift Galahad with one hand, carry him to another room, and chain him. And from the circle in the dark, Caedmon sees Merlyn’s hand grab a silver utensil and, with the practiced finesse of one who has made the same motion several times, stick the silver rod deep into Galahad’s skulls from the nape of the neck. Caedmon’s gaze lingers on the old wizard as a colossal shadow of what must be a large man stretches out from the doorway. Merlyn jerks his head up with a look of surprise and calculation on his face as he reaches for another silver rod.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Caedmon awoke to find things almost exactly as he had left them. But suspiciously so.

He was sure he had seen the silhouette of the large blonde man in his doorway before going on his mental trip. But as he looked around, everything looked as though nothing had been disturbed, although he felt uncomfortable. Like the roof of his mouth being burned after trying to eat pizza before it was sufficiently cooled.

He then realized what was bothering him: even though he had not moved an inch while under the influence, his boxer briefs were twisted against the grain of his leg hair. Typically when he or any other man put on underwear and then jeans, there is a certain amount of twisting and tucking to make sure everything lays, sits or hangs as naturally as possible. He felt as though someone else had hastily pulled up his underwear with no regard to how comfortable he would feel afterwards.

So naturally, he felt unnatural.

After making the connection between his discomfort and the place he had hidden the branch, he immediately checked his inner thigh.

Gone.

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Caedmon did not panic, did not become paranoid. He had figured that whoever had stolen the Root from his basement would return if they suspected he had more of it. He did feel a bit violated when considering the order of body parts the intruder would have checked in order to retrieve the twig. Where else on or in his body had they looked? He wondered.

But Caedmon was thoroughly nonplussed, because of his visit with Merlyn (which, yes, still seemed a ridiculous thought to have). He now knew he was not alone, that there are good guys mixed up in this whole bag as well, and now he knew where to find them, and they knew he was coming. But Caedmon had learned a specific skill during his time in college, which he felt would come in handy: a studious skepticism. While in college, he had worked at one of the university libraries as an assistant research librarian. His job was to help students find resources, narrow thesis statements, and parse through research that he found for them.

Caedmon Rainier was not going to go to the Constitution completely unarmed and ignorant based on the words of a wizard living 700 years ago. So he got up, headed for the T, and went to the library. †† Walking into the library of the University of Massachusetts brought back strange memories, vaguely familiar smells, and a strong sense of familiarity. A home that he had forgotten existed. He walked straight ahead, down the stair which wraps around the elevator three times (he decided long ago that this was the most inefficient staircase design imaginable. But the W.E.B Du Bois Library is beautiful in a rectangular sort of way.

The red rows of brick that make up the 23-floor library made the building look like a domino God might use. And the sheer isolation of the building serves to enhance the beacon-like nature of the library.

In the sub-basement, Caedmon found the two things he was looking for: the collection of historic texts and a computer. He

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began with the computer, searching every database he could for “Tree of Life,” and “Tree of knowledge” (which covered Christianity, Judaism and Islam). He expanded his search to include other world religions and belief systems: Yggdrasil, the tree at the center of Norse mythology; the Bodhi Tree, under which Siddhartha Gautama sat to become enlightened. He looked up information on the Fountain of Youth, Shambala, and—in a moment of desperation—the Tree of Might from Dragon Ball Z. He widened to El Dorado and Atlantis, and narrowed to the Indian tree Asvattha, the Latvian/Lithuanian World Tree of silver leaves; the Greek World Tree, which holds up the heaven and the Earth; and the talking tree of the Yaqui Native American tribe. He further narrowed his search to specific deities: dryads and nymphs, even Pecos Bill (who, it turns out, was not even a tall tale so much as an advertising scheme).

What he found in common was that practically every major religion and mythos referred to a tree of some kind as a major facet to the structure of the world. He found that in almost all of these belief systems someone was attempting to misuse the tree or destroy it, and someone else attempted to protect it. Usually, the destroyers were seen as monsters: dragons, goblins, etc. But occasionally it was just mankind misusing or abusing it. Remembering back to his Political Science 101 course, Caedmon reminded himself that all history is a story told by those in power. Every regime: Nazi, Socialist, American historians of the mid-fifties—all of them wrote and rewrote history to make a specific group look good. Even in fiction, The Epic of Gílgamesh, for example, is one of the oldest known pieces of writing in history, and it says that the two protagonists cut down a grove of trees and one giant tree. But the author of the tablets is unknown, so who knows what he or she left out?

Maybe the mass deforestation led to the downfall of the people or took away the living space of woodland creatures. In all of history, it’s clear that the storyteller wields absolute power to shape the world.

After his meeting with Merlyn, Caedmon had begun to think that there was some element of truth in all of these religions,

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and that if one could sift out the fantasy of the stories, the truth may become less opaque.

He tried to form a question, something that would help him come one step ahead, instead of lagging one behind. Rubbing his temples he thought of people: Brad, Merlyn, the long-haired blonde man (which he had decided to call Thor, because, well why not?), Kidu, Gíl, Siduri, Galahad—everyone who seemed relevant or he knew had contact with the tree.

His mind began moving in rings of circular conspiracies.

It was grasping for straws of the Illuminati, Templars, and Knights of the Round Table, anything that might fit into the puzzle and give him some idea of what he was looking at. But, if anything, the picture was becoming more confusing. How does one encapsulate every faith and mythos stretching back to Gílgamesh? So he settled for researching what he knew he could learn about: Galahad and Merlyn.

Having read all he could find in summaries, blog entries, and Wikipedia about the two, Caedmon began going through a few of the primary histories the library had copies of. He learned that, although he professed to be a Christian after the will of God, Merlyn was, in his earliest historical appearances, a warlord. It is only later that he is given magical characteristics: shape shifting, necromancy, psychic prophecies. With the context of the Root in Caedmon’s mind, he was able to understand how all of these things may be possible. And his experience inside Merlyn’s head helped him understand that the Grail was never what mattered, but rather the liquid drunken out of the Grail, which had obviously come into contact with the Root. But the picture painted in the books was of a man who is a murderer, rapist, and home wrecker. Again, Caedmon was reminded that history is written with a purpose, and that Merlyn had been kind and rather informative. He remembered that it was Galahad who attacked Merlyn, forcing Merlyn to take defensive measures.

The story of Galahad was long and confusing. He was the son of Lancelot and is seen as being Christ-like. He is at the center of the Arthurian quest for the grail; he is the catalyst of

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the whole story: the vision of the grail appears after he is seated at the round table. He even has his own “sword in the stone” moment, and it is he who finds the grail and is whisked away to Heaven. But this story did not align with Caedmon’s experience either. Galahad seemed manic, obsessed, and dangerous.

Storytellers had been very kind to him from what Caedmon had seen. But what didn’t make any sense was that Galahad returns to his traveling companion after being asked to take the grail, now in his possession, to the town Sarras. But why would he do that if the Grail was meaningless? If it was only the water, spiked with the Root that mattered, why the charade? And, even more perplexing, Galahad is allowed to choose when he will die and decides to be taken to Heaven before returning to Arthur. None of this made any sense.

Exhausted, Caedmon looked at the clock to see that if he were going to take a tour of the USS Constitution today, he had to leave the library 10 minutes ago. “Shit.” †† Caedmon ran from the Orange Line stop at Medicentral all the way to the USS Constitution entryway. He arrived at 5:30, which only gave him half an hour to find whatever or whoever he was looking for. Ignoring the tour guide and his speech on “The Most Fortunate Ship,” Caedmon walked up the extremely steep and wet plank onto the ship’s deck. He scanned the top deck quickly, not expecting to find anything, and then made his way down the stunted ladder to the next level (bumping his head somewhat forcefully on the way down). He looked around the 44 cannons for any sign that he was on the right path, but found nothing. Time was running out. He heard over the loud speaker a nasally female voice say, “Tours of the Constitution will end in 10 minutes.” Caedmon thought there was probably a political joke in that statement somewhere, but was too preoccupied to give it much consideration.

As he approached the velvet rope quartering off the Captain’s Chamber, he noticed something peculiar on the door. There was

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a yellow Post-It note clinging to the side of the door. On the yellow-paper surface was quickly sketched what looked like a tree a caveman might draw, but with a long middle root tipped with an arrow.

No one was technically allowed in this room (hence the purple rope), but seeing as no one was around, Caedmon took the chance. What was the worst that could happen, he’d be drawn and quartered?

Upon opening the door he received a bit of a surprise: the back of a longhaired, blonde, bulky man sitting in a chair.

CHAPTER NINE

“Please, come in and shut the door,” came a voice from behind the small wooden desk. Caedmon’s eyes drifted up from the hulking blonde to see a clean-shaven man with grey hair pulled into a ponytail sitting behind the desk.

Merlyn motioned for Caedmon to sit, indicating the only other chair in the room with his deep grey eyes. Caedmon sat.

He didn’t know if he had been expecting to see Merlyn himself or someone who worked for him. In the end he wasn’t even sure if he was happy to see Merlyn—his research had not painted a pretty picture of him. Caedmon slid the chair a few inches away from the man he thought of as Thor and sat.

It was then that Caedmon was struck by Merlyn’s dark complexion. He had the look of a Yogi: chestnut skin, white beard, and long hair bristly with black streaks poking through, and the wiry frame that belied flexibility and agility despite old age.

Caedmon realized how far off the old Sword in the Stone Disney cartoon was. Merlyn did not have the lovable quirky look of his movie counterpart, who flopped about in slippers and a blue robe to cover his pasty skin.

Silence settled amongst the three of them. Caedmon was making direct eye contact with Merlyn, but kept Thor in his

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periphery. He had decided that he would not speak first, since he had not called the meeting. He would sit and allow whatever this was to simply happen, rather than be an active participant.

He felt especially strongly about this since the man who had been stalking him for the last few days was sitting right next to him. But the silence continued, until the fight for not being active became too much work.

Amazing how the stress of inaction is often the only way to stoke a person to make change.

“Look, I don’t know what the hell’s going on here, but this guy’s been following me for days.” Caedmon said this in a nonconfrontational but simply informative way.

“Of course! I told him to,” Merlyn shouted this with the exact opposite tone Caedmon had used; it was as though he wanted a confrontation and was not going to be volunteering any information. He also said this with a slightly British accent, which made no sense to Caedmon, because in his vision, Merlyn had spoken with the same non-regional American accent Caedmon used.

“I figured that when I walked in.” More silence, and then, “Look, you told me to come here, I’m here. Would you mind telling me what’s going on, Merlyn?” His name tasted so bitter and fake in Caedmon’s mouth that it emerged from his lips bathed in the saliva of hostility.

The old man smiled and instantly the uncomfortable awkwardness of the moment melted away. “Merlyn. If I may quote one of my favorite films, ‘That’s a name I’ve not heard in a long time, a long time.’” And as he said this, Caedmon was amazed at how similarly Merlyn sounded to Alec Guinness. “Most call me Michael now, it doesn’t attract as much attention. You have already met my friend here. You’ve been thinking of him as Thor, and he does bear a fair resemblance to the images of the godling, but we call him Dane.” The frown returned to his face. “Do not imagine we have brought you here out of some altruistic impulse. You have been making our lives difficult, and you are in danger of becoming dangerous.” Merlyn’s use of the words “our” and “we” seemed to imply something larger than just “me and the guy sitting next to you.”

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Ignoring this “dangerous” bit, Caedmon asked the question most pressing on his mind: “If you know this man has been following me, then you must have my branch. I would like it back. Also I’d prefer to stick with Merlyn; it’s the name you had when we met.” He did not acquiesce, but Merlyn did not become upset either.

“Your root? Caedmon, this is the Root. The Root of Everything: this entire planet and all that is on it. You cannot own such a thing. It is beyond you or any of us. You may have access to it again, but not until you are ready. You’ve been wielding It like a child with a plastic sword; you have been careless.” The words were aggressive. Caedmon had hit a nerve, but he was not sure how or when.

“Well, you invited me here regardless of my childishness; why else would I be here?” Caedmon’s tone implied that Merlyn was at fault, which only made him seem more childish. It was the same tone he used when talking to Randy at Family Video.

Before he could blink, Dane had reached straight out with his left hand and caught Caedmon by the throat. And with his thumb pressed against his trachea, he said in a deep reverberating voice, “You will show him respect. He has saved your life, and you talk to him like a dog.” Dane did all of this without blinking or taking his eyes off of Merlyn. He had a Germanic accent, a thick one. He released Caedmon, who began gasping for air. Caedmon was amazed not by the strength and power, but by how automatic the movement had been, like he had done it without even thinking about it.

Caedmon let out his final koulgha and Merlyn spoke again.

“My friend here is still a bit of a slave to his baser instincts. But let’s not let that get in the way.” Caedmon nodded and raised his head to once more lock eyes with the old wizard. “Allow me to provide some context for this conversation and determine if our relationship can continue.” Merlyn’s eyes bore down on Caedmon and seemed to see through him. He was reminded of when he first spoke to him through the mirror.

“Now, I am going to ask you a series of questions. It would be unwise to lie to me, for I will know. First, what visions have you had?”

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Caedmon weighed the honest answer in his mind. In stories, the characters often are eventually lodged into conflict that could have been avoided with honest communication. And in the real world, people don’t hold on to information to create suspense for the casual observer. “Umm, only two. In the first one, I was in the mind of a woman named Siduri. She owned a bar or something, and she watched two men fight. I have a hard time with that one, because it was so mixed up.”

Merlyn quickly jolted his head back in a show of surprise, and then said, “Of course, you were already stoned when you took the Root. Who were the men?”

“One was Kidu and the other was Gíl. They fought like nothing I have seen before, not even in movies. But I think they resolved their issue in the end.”

Merlyn rubbed his chin, “They did not, at least not right then. Continue. What else have you seen?”

“My only other vision was when I met you?” Caedmon didn’t understand, Merlyn’s friend had been following him. How many visions could he have had?

Merlyn looked at him quizzically. “I see. Tell me about your impression of Kidu.” As Merlyn said this, his gaze hardened.

“Well, there isn’t much to tell. I’ve seen him in the vision. I think he had something going on with the Siduri chick. I know he was really, really hairy.”

“And you have not seen him since the vision?” Merlyn pressed.

“No? I’ve only seen your people. Why are you so concerned about him?” Caedmon’s eyebrow raised and his now greybrown eyes squinted. His irises showed the color of a sink after cleaning mud off of soccer cleats.

Merlyn exhaled. “The man you saw in the vision, Kidu, is perhaps the most dangerous man on earth. He runs in direct opposition to the health of humanity, seeking to gather all of the Root up for himself. He seeks to tear down all of the progress we have made.”

Caedmon was not going to let this one slip. “Who is this ‘we’ you keep referring to? And to be honest, you’ve taken my

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Root, so the whole ‘hoarding’ argument does not really hold water here.” Caedmon kept an eye on Dane, ready to duck if he attempted to grab his throat again.

“Huhagh!” Merlyn laughed violently. “I suppose that is true.

But your question stems from a misunderstanding. That is all.

I am only holding onto the Root until you have proven yourself worthy of it. You have seen only a fraction of its potential, and even I haven’t fully plumbed its depths. But knowing even that small amount of power, would you have it so that just anyone could use it?”

Caedmon had to admit that this was logical. He could only imagine a world in which Hitler had discovered the Root, and, no matter how many bullets were fired at him, he got back up.

“Fair enough, but who is the ‘We.’ Are you part of some secret society or cult, secretly controlling the fate of mankind?”

The air about Merlyn was lightening. The tension in the room was easing. “Oh, heavens no. Nothing so contrived. A group of us live and work together, true, but the life of an immortal would be hopelessly lonely and boring without the existence of others like you.” This again resonated with Caedmon.

Everyone before the Root bored him; he couldn’t imagine becoming more interested in them when he was becoming even more distant as a person.

“So what, you go around recruiting people to come to your Isle of Misfit Toys and anyone who doesn’t make the cut is what? Killed?” Caedmon knew that this answer didn’t make any sense, but he felt like someone needed to say it.

“Oh no, nothing so serious as all that. We simply part ways, denying them further access to the Root. You see: without It, we have access to only a fraction of the power we have with It. The Root acts like a conduit to other lives and strange, mysterious power. Once you have consumed it, you gain access to that power, but if you don’t use it, you will eventually die. Granted it will be a long while before that happens: The first to ever lose possession lived for about two hundred years before the aging process continued. Interestingly, that rarely happens. It seems like the Root usually chooses pretty wisely when and

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where it will appear. But I will not speak to you more of the Root’s power until you have proven yourself. I will, however, give you something of a history lesson, in order to give you greater understanding.”

“Okay. Are you going to give it to me here? I think they’ve closed, and I would assume someone guards this place at night.”

“Oh no, we should be fine. You see, this is my ship. I had it commissioned. And while the ship is not the history lesson I had in mind, it may serve as a good metaphor to help you appreciate what’s happening here.” Caedmon shifted and got comfortable. He had the distinct impression that he was in for a speech. “This ship may seem rather remarkable from a historic standpoint, but it’s really a fraud. You see, the Constitution may have been successful early on, defeating a few other ships in mild skirmishes, but her power was not in her weapons. Her power was in her ability to rally people around her. The reason the Constitution is remembered and honored is because she always came back. “Old Ironsides” became a symbol for immortality, the nation’s immortality. But I have seen nations come and go, and you can be certain that no nation will last forever.

You need only ask your friends from Uruk about this.” Merlyn was referring to Caedmon’s first vision. “You have a city so magnificent and wise that it became the first group of people to lay down the written word. And yet, it is not on any map. But the people of the city saw its heroes as immortals, which they were, and so they had faith in the strength of the city.”

“Humans are always very quick to cling to anything that they perceive as immortal. But eventually, the leaders of this country will allow this boat to sink. Just like how, eventually, the leaders of Uruk sunk their own city, despite having the Root. Just like the Roman gods allowed their city to burn. Eventually, the immortal patrons of the city realize that they cannot save it, and they move on. You can be certain, Caedmon, that only one thing will last forever, and it is the Root.”

“But enough with the lecture, that is not the history lesson I have for you.”

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Something inside Caedmon groaned. This reminded him of having an absent minded college prof who gets so wrapped up in tangents that the class gets let out late, and no one learns anything about whatever the prof had set out for. “Oh, really?” mumbled Caedmon.

Merlyn pours two cups of something that looks like honey mead and hands one cup to Caedmon. “To your health.”

“I thought I was getting a history lesson?” Caedmon said, smelling the mead.

“You are,” Merlyn said with a smile. “Bottoms up.”

Caedmon shrugged and both men drank.

The mead was potent and Caedmon slumped over in his chair, his head hitting and resting on the captain’s desk, while Merlyn climbed on top of the desk and sat in a perfect lotus position, knee resting on Caedmon’s head.

Dane sat and stared, listening to the footsteps behind him.

He was afraid and had been for a very long time.

A man had entered the room. He had grey eyes, a plaid, tan slim-fitted suit on, his hands were covered in dark hair, and he unbuttoned the top button of his jacket and crouched down, looking at Dane. “You poor bastard” came the completed unaccented words. He leaned the blonde giant’s head forward and something small and silver protruded from his head by about a centimeter. “I’m sorry, brother. This time, you must forget that you have seen me.” The man then put his thumb in the center of Dane’s forehead and hummed long and deep. Dane closed his eyes and slumped forward. “I’ll be right back,” he said calmly into Dane’s ear.

He then grabbed the unfinished cup from Caedmon’s hand, clutched the back of Caedmon’s neck, drank the liquid, lowered his head, and stood perfectly still and upright.

CHAPTER TEN

“Caedmon, can you hear me? Caedmon?” The reverberations from the voice bounce around Caedmon’s mind. He feels as though he is the bell and the voice is the little ball inside making his brassy shell vibrate and hum.

“Yes,” he thinks, “I can hear you.” This is different than before.

There is still darkness around, but this time no one is in front of him.

There is no circle showing him the view through the eyes of the person he is tethered to.

“Caedmon, I need you to think of Rome. You have not been there, but you can picture it. Picture it in its splendor. The Coliseum is whole, the city has not burned, but it is civilization’s light on a hill. Can you see it?”

A burst of light and Caedmon sees it as though from space.

Everything is so small below him; he can make out seven patches of green, all of which have small splotches of grey. He concentrates on seeing everything closer, and he can. He feels the city coming toward him, and he feels the people inside the city. But he cannot grasp any of them.

As his mind sees streaks of people and market booths rushing by him, he realizes that he is no longer choosing where he goes, but that he is now being drawn in by something with the quick, snapping affinity a magnet has to metal. He soars outside of the bounds of the city.

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“It’s okay, they will bring you in from here. You must only observe for now.” He feels the bass of the voice reverberating in the place his chest would be; he feels it in his center.

A mountain is before him; the top is shrouded in clouds and snow.

But as he passes through, he does not feel the wet or the cold. He sees a family. They are beautiful. Their ages seem to range from 20 to 40, but there are many, and they laugh together.

“You have arrived. Take time to observe each of them, then choose one to be your host. Do not be afraid. They know you are coming, but be warned they are also dealing with their own problems in this time.

This you must respect.”

Caedmon hovers around the lot. He hears their names, the names of the planets. The oldest man sits with a woman by his side, but the woman is displeased with him. He tries to tickle her and get her to come around, but she will not meet his gaze. He wears a necklace with an eagle on it; she, a peacock. Behind him sits a young boy, maybe 13, holding a cup. And though he is not as radiant as the rest, he is beautiful.

He moves to two men looking at a map. “You cannot allow them to stop here. Hannibal will find and destroy them. You must convince them to move their camp so that his men will move through the mountains.” The man who says this wears a serpent on his necklace, or is it a dragon? He is speaking to a man wearing a wolf necklace. His people are in danger. No, not danger—they are at risk only of ending their greed. The man wearing the wolf grows tired of them, but his face is the most beautiful, most bright of the family.

He explores and sees another woman gardening, and a woman shooting a bow. Caedmon understands where he is and looks for a crippled blacksmith, but the only blacksmith he sees is perfection incarnate; however, his feet are chained to the anvil with something brighter than iron or steel.

He hovers over to two people playing a game, a man wearing a horse and a woman wearing an owl. The woman plays the game with a stringent playfulness. She knows she will win, so she focuses on making sure her opponent has fun. No one else will play her. The man has a good spirit, but he is clearly annoyed with the game. Caedmon decides that he will join in with the woman, so he reaches out with hands that

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are not there and touches her shoulder. She coughs twice and looks up suddenly at her opponent; this game has just gotten more interesting.

“Who are you, and why do you possess me?” asks Minerva within her mind.

A wonderful nostalgia grips Caedmon. He is thinking of stories: tragedies, metamorphoses, love, and tests.

He sits among gods.

“I don’t really know,” replies Caedmon.

She places her last piece on the board in front of them; now begins the game’s bloodletting. “In a manner of speaking, we are gods,” she answers his unasked question. “But since you are here, I suppose you know how we came to be that which we are.

Tell me, have we met in your time?”

“No, I’ve only met a few others like us. One goes by the name Merlyn, the other Dane. Have you met them?” She moves her piece so that she has one piece on either side of her opponent’s piece; she has captured it, but Caedmon is reminded of an Oreo. She moves again and ends her turn.

“I have met your Merlyn before; he is clever. But I have been warned about him by another.” She thinks. Her opponent captures three of her pieces in a row. How did she not see that? She scrutinizes her opponent whom she calls Neptune. She thinks for a moment before making her next move.

“Probably Kidu has warned you. He comes from a past more distant to me than yours. He and Merlyn seem to be not on good terms, but I’m still new to all of this. To be honest, I’m not sure what to trust.” Caedmon’s mind begins to explore.

And as his mind drifts to the people he has met lately, he begins seeing images in his memory that are not his own; they are Minerva’s memories. He searches throughout Minerva’s mind and sees battle and war. He sees her tear down walls circling a city. He witnesses her teaching a native city about how to make oil from olives and feeels her joy as they erected statues to honor her.

And then, he becomes her. He moves her arms, scratches her itch behind her right shoulder blade. Her bronze skin smells of lilac and pomegranates. In a moment of immaturity,

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he brushes her breast using her own hand hoping she won’t notice. Neptune looks at her, squinting. “Are you through?” He takes another of her pieces. “It’s your turn.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says in her silky voice. He searches through her mind to try and figure out the rules and maybe even some strategy. As he concentrates, he finds that her mind is open to him. He knows all she knows. He uses her hands to move boldly, taking three of Neptune’s pieces. But as soon as he lets go of his piece, he sees his mistake. Neptune smiles and takes four in return. Caedmon digs deeper into her mind and finds fighting stances, war strategy, and then he accesses a new part of her mind that combines all of her knowledge and experience, and here he sees clearly the path he must take in the game.

A female voice hums in his ears: “You’re pretty good at this.

You claim to be new to transcendence, but you can access my mind as though you have done this many times. But I can see you as well Caedmon, and you are not happy. You are weak; you have no joy. And, in response to your statement about trust I say this: the only thing I trust in is the greed of humans. You have seen my brothers and sisters, my aunts, uncles and parents. They repeat the same mistakes over and over again, and they hurt each other. They do this and bring in other people, mortal people, to settle their quarrels. They do this because we have been immortal for so long that we don’t remember what it’s like to be human. And so we use them like these pieces in front of you to try and find answers to our own questions.

Trying to determine our significance and purpose. We now represent a whole new civilization, and still we replay our old mistakes. Being like us does not solve all of our problems, it just puts our problems on a cosmic scale.”

Caedmon continues looking at Neptune through Minerva’s eyes. There is something of recognition in the stare.

Something is different.

“Hello Caedmon,” says Neptune, “It’s good to see you again.

I don’t have long, so I will be brief.” Something in the cadence of the voice is familiar to him. “Listen, you must gain the trust of Merlyn, but you must not trust him. He seeks only power,

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and he will leave you with nothing. I will be in touch again, but you must completely do what he says in the meantime. This advice will seem backward, but for the time being, you must ignore your conscience or many will suffer.” And with a cough, Neptune was back at the helm of his body.

Caedmon’s mind within Minerva whirls. Is this Kidu speaking through Neptune? What does he mean by “see you again?”

Did Kidu see me during my first vision when I joined with Siduri? And perhaps most importantly, was his advice really to ignore my sense of right and wrong?

Neptune interrupts his thoughts. “Caedmon, huh? Well that explains why my niece is grabbing her own breast. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t done the same thing when I first transcended to become one with a woman. But I will tell you that it doesn’t feel much different than feeling yourself as a fat man.”

“So someone had you, uncle? That explains why you became so good at our game of Latrunculi all of a sudden.” These words come from Minerva directly; she has regained control.

At this point the two gods begin talking directly to Caedmon.

“Listen Caedmon,” says Minerva aloud. “As I have said before: trust only in the greed of men. I cannot tell you what is right and wrong from my current perspective in time. I don’t think anyone could. But I will tell you this: a man has been coming around here; he is like us; he found us. He seeks our Root, and we don’t yet know why.”

“Yes,” buzzed Neptune in a strong but high voice, “What is troublesome is that none of us can transcend to become one with him, though we suspect he has been a part of all of us.

Furthermore, some of us have been visited by our future selves, and some of us haven’t. I am one who has not. Do you know what this means? It means I approach my death,” Neptune spills this out hurriedly; there is fear in his voice. Few things are more horrific than the ability to destroy an immortal. “Because I suspect my end approaches in this time, my only hope for survival is in transcending to try and alter the past. Though I do not believe this is a simple thing. Perhaps this will not make any sense to you yet, but my course is divinely set. I can still change

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the future by visiting the past, but I cannot change my fate, only reinforce the path that got me to the here and now.”

Neptune is right: his words live in a space outside of Caedmon’s ability to comprehend. Perhaps with time.

“Tell me this Caedmon,” Neptune continues, “have you met me in your time?”

“I’m sorry,” Caedmon thinks to Minerva, “I don’t know; I don’t think so.” Minerva looks at Neptune with pity and shakes her head. She has seen through Caedmon’s mind; she knows Neptune will not be there.

A commotion erupts like a volcano from the entrance to their campsite. A dark, hairy man stands in front of Jupiter.

The man speaks calmly, but mighty Jove is yelling, his face red.

Neptune and Minerva stand and run over to the commotion.

The intruder wears only a dark loincloth. He looks as though he has made a long journey to get here. Caedmon recognizes him at once as Kidu from his first vision, though his brow is no longer slanted, and his hair is shorter. He now speaks as an educated man. And he holds in his hand a small, black sphere.

Kidu looks only at Jupiter. “You will tell me where you keep your Root, or I will destroy everything you call home and everyone you call family.” At the sight of the family, Caedmon stiffens with fear. He holds Minerva back, having seen this man fight before.

“You come into my house and threaten me? The last time we spoke you talked of peace and sharing wisdom and knowledge.

What you say today is a declaration of war. You are not the man I thought you were.” Jupiter screams this and reaches for his sword, which is straight but for a place where the blade suddenly juts inward and then back out. The sword appears to be made of gold, and as he swings it, the blade flashes in the sunlight. Kidu throws the sphere at the great god and the sphere explodes. Fire consumes the father of gods, melting the flesh from his bones. But still he stands and moves toward Kidu.

Kidu pulls one of several small daggers from his belt. Jove takes a heavy swing at Kidu, who uses the god’s own strength against him. Forcing Jove’s blade into the ground, Kidu spins around

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him and plunges a dagger into the back of Jove’s skull. The family charges to attack their assailant, and Minerva clears her throat and thinks, “Sorry, no hitchhikers for this.” She runs after the others who have already charged in.

And once again Caedmon is ethereal. He hovers above the family now fighting Kidu. What seems like it should be a one-sided victory for the family is anything but. Kidu moves as though he has made a deal with gravity. Some of the group put up a good fight, but none of them can stand before him. After only a few minutes of fighting, the whole family lies motionless before him, daggers sticking from out of their skulls. Kidu then begins to decapitate them using Jupiter’s own golden sword.

Caedmon tries to move in closer, tries to become one with Kidu, but something blocks him from going in. It is as though his body is covered in a clear coat that repels Caedmon. Minerva finally arrives onto the battle ground, but instead of fighting her, Kidu yawns twice, stretching out. A strange expression comes over his face as he looks at the bodies lying prone and then at Minerva who picks up her own spear and charges in. Kidu disarms her with hilarious ease, throws the spear what must be fifty yards, and puts his thumb to Minerva’s forehead.

She collapses.

Caedmon begins getting sucked back. “Not yet! What happens next?” But all he can see is Kidu running down the mountain, with a small tree strapped to his back. He disappears into a haze of smoke as everything Caedmon sees goes black. †† Caedmon awoke to find Merlyn already standing and Dane sitting in the chair slumped over, asleep. Merlyn crossed the small cabin to where Dane sat and lifted the man’s head. He examined him for a few moments, seemingly unsure of what to do next. The sorcerer closed his eyes, put one hand on his own forehead and one palm on Dane’s forehead. He took a deep breath in and began to hum.

The hum was deep and slow at first. Then the pitch lifted higher and higher. Finally the hum was so high pitched and

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loud that Caedmon had to cover his ears. “Hurghumah!” shouted Merlyn. Dane opened his eyes and looked at the aged man. Merlyn smiled at what he had accomplished, although the movement seemed rehearsed, as though he had done it hundreds of times. Despite its practiced nature, it was clear that it was draining for Merlyn.

“I think we had better go,” Merlyn mumbled to Caedmon.

“After that experience, I am feeling very exposed.” Dane stood, clutched Merlyn around the waist and helped him off of the old ship. As they left the premises, Merlyn nodded at the guard, “Evening, Riley.”

“Good evening, Mr. Ambrose. No trouble tonight I hope?” was the guard’s amiable reply.

“Oh no, none whatsoever. Say, I don’t suppose you saw anyone come onto the ship after hours?”

“No, sir. I’ve been here the whole time in front of this here boarding plank,” the man beamed with something like pride.

He had a desperate desire to be recognized by the man he knew as Michael Ambrose.

“Excellent. You’ve done a wonderful job,” Merlyn said this and reached out his hand. The man, Riley, seemed a bit disappointed that it was just his hand and that nothing was in it.

But he shook the old man’s hand. “I’ll see you soon I hope?”

“Sure, sure,” Merlyn said with a wave of his hand.

And with that, the three walked into the night, which was not truly dark in the lights at the heart of Boston’s downtown.

But as Caedmon looked out over the bay into the direction of the ocean, Caedmon was reminded of something: And he stretched out his hand, and the city was covered in total darkness. It seemed the ocean was slowly sucking the light from the city. If Caedmon looked far enough out, he saw the city light become blackness as thick as those he experienced when transcending.

They walked to the end of the pier where the ferry carried them over the water and docked near the aquarium. By the end of the ride, Merlin had sat down long enough that he no longer needed Dane to assist him. And with no words spoken, Dane knew he was no longer needed and let go. Once they stepped

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off of the ramp leading to the ferry, a man in a dark suit came and escorted the three to a car.

The man was of Asian decent, and Caedmon, relying on his countless hours of watching anime and Akira Kurosawa films in college, decided he was Japanese. “And who are you?”

Caedmon’s tone was not quite insolent, but it was certainly aggravated.

“This is Visu,” said Merlyn, not waiting for the man to reply.

The man had given no sign of recognition to any of them; he did not flinch and had not acknowledged Caedmon. He had caramel skin and a lightly groomed goatee, and Caedmon figured he must have been sweating like crazy under his suit and heavy cotton white shirt. Everything about his demeanor was dense and weighty. Visu’s presence carried an authority.

“So Visu, you’re the chauffeur? I bet you’re sweating through that nice shirt pretty badly.” Caedmon didn’t know why but he was feeling annoyed with all three of these grey-eyed men. He moved from aggravated to aggressive, but he wanted a response from this man. He wanted to know he could feel, that he wasn’t a stone. Dane was enough of a rock, unmoving, unthinking; Caedmon was hoping someone else in Merlyn’s band was capable of conversation.

Merlyn closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“I am no one’s chauffer, and in consideration of your second statement: I sweat when I want to. I am the master of my body, and if I wish to be warm, I am so, if I wish to be cool, I am so, if I wish to have an itch, I have one, and if I don’t, then I don’t.”

His cheekbones were high and pronounced. He was not balding, but his extensive forehead indicated that he could some day. “Now, why don’t you shut your mouth, so that we can move along?”

Satisfied that he had gotten under the man’s skin, Caedmon made himself comfortable in the back seat of the tan Mazda CX-5. “I’ll be honest Mer—uh—Michael, I figured you would have a nicer car than this. Where’s the intimidating, black limo or Humvee? Where’s the car that compensates for the manly shortcoming or suggests the black hat operation?”

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Caedmon was smiling. He actually enjoyed trying to push these people’s buttons.

“You are seeking negative attention. Why? You will soon see how childish it is to seek attention. Once you realize you have no shortcomings, you cease to allow insignificant comments and frivolities to concern you.” Merlyn said all this while looking at the front window of the passenger’s side of the car.

Visu smiled.

Caedmon sulked.

“No shortcomings, huh? I can think of one,” mumbled Caedmon. But true to his word, Merlyn didn’t even acknowledge that he had said anything. It was odd, how peacefully he handled himself in these conversations, allowing his minions to choke or verbally abuse the offender.

“Tell me, Caedmon, what did you see in your vision?” Merlyn said with a sigh.

Caedmon jerked to attention and weighed his experience.

After all his thoughts about avoiding unnecessary drama, he wasn’t sure he should tell Merlyn about Neptune’s words.

“Well, I saw a big group of gods get beat up, maybe destroyed.”

“That’s what I saw as well. I saw a man who wanted power for himself take that power and destroy people who got in his way.

Many of those “gods” did not survive that day. And you know who is responsible.” Merlyn said this question as though it were a simple truth and not a question at all. And he was right.

Caedmon faltered. He thought he knew where Merlyn was going with all this, but it just didn’t make sense to him. “That was one of the men from my first vision, Kidu, I think.”

“You don’t think that, you know it. He is among the oldest of all of us—he has had thousands of years to tap into the secrets of the Root. My own knowledge of it is as nothing when compared to his. Believe it or not, he was one of the first people I met in person who had consumed the Root, and he seemed genuine and kind,” Merlyn took a breath. His grey eyes reflected something like sadness, which was the first real emotion he had seen from Merlyn other than playfulness and apathy. “But he was not either of those things. And now he

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pursues you. It is my belief that you could be a great asset to my companions and me.”

Not sure how to feel about this, as feelings were not his strong suit, Caedmon opted for humor. “So, I’m being hunted by a man named Kidu, and Merlyn wants to help?”

Caedmon could see Merlyn’s smile from the front seat. The same confident smile he had shown in the mirror when first they met. The smile of every cartoon villain he’d seen, and yet he had seen what Kidu had done. “He has a different name now, as you will some day when ‘Cad’ has gone out of style.

Believe me, ‘Merlyn’ was an extremely common name when I was born. My mother was upset because she thought she was being quite original, but then several peasants began taking the same name. It’s like the ‘Ashley’ of your generation.”

Chuckling, he replied, “So what is ‘Kidu’ called now?” He was really hoping for a Harry Potter-esque reference to “he who must not be named” here; he was, after all, speaking to a wizard.

“I don’t know.”

This answer didn’t make any sense to Caedmon. How could he not know? This was the man who knew the future. He knew the answer to every question, had a witty remark for every statement. “So this guy is the closest thing to an enemy that your little club has, and you don’t know what he goes by?” The idea of not knowing went against every classic hero and villain tale he had ever seen. Everything was so backwards right now.

“We know of names he went by: Kidu, Enkimdu, Eabani, Enkita, and Erik. Then he strayed from the Es and he learned how to block himself from others transcending into his mind.

Once he learned to shut others out, we could no longer identify him by his looks, his name, or anything else. He could be anywhere, look like anyone, and go by any name. We, like all humanity, contemplate the unknown more than anything else.” Merlyn leaned back in his tan fabric seat, and, in anticipation of Caedmon’s next question, said, “We know he is out there because he can still invade our minds, and occasionally he siphons off enough information to damage us in one way or another. I suspect that he ran out of the Root a long time

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ago, but he manages to steal enough from us to get by. He has managed to live.”

“I thought the whole point of this ‘Tree of Life’ business is that it allows you to live forever. Are you telling me it doesn’t?

Seems like this lifestyle is made more of addiction than a freedom.” Caedmon continued to rail on every word Merlyn said.

He would find his limit, but he also felt like this whole thing was, in fact, a sham.

“You continue to try and push my buttons, but you will not succeed,” he said as confident as ever. “And we are here. I will give you no more answers tonight. You should try and rest.

Tomorrow, you’ll learn a bit about my ‘club,’ and what it takes to join. Goodnight, Caedmon.” The car pulled into a parking garage and into a reserved spot three feet from a private access elevator.

Caedmon entered the elevator, and shooting up rather quickly, got off with the other three on the third floor. But the driver held up his hand, which signified something like, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” and then actually said, “Where the hell do you think you’re going? You’re on the next floor up.” He then swept a key card, punched the number 4 and watched as Caedmon stood perfectly still inside the elevator, shaking his head with a look that implied, “I don’t really care.” The doors reopened into a sparsely furnished room.

Caedmon walked over to the bed, sat down, lay down, and was immediately taken by sleep.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“I don’t think I ever imagined I’d wake up to see a creepy old man sitting on the edge of my bed, staring at me.” Caedmon says this, though his eyes are closed. He can feel the indentation of someone sitting on the edge of his bed, and really, who else would stare at him while he was sleeping? Suddenly the movie The Sword and the Stone takes on yet another new kind of meaning to him as he considers the handsome youth Arthur spending an inordinate amount of time with the old Brit.

“I know what you saw yesterday,” comes a deep voiced reply, “I remember that day vividly. It was a defining one in my life.”

Caedmon is surprised by the voice, but he knows to whom it belongs, so he does not stir. Being immortal has become the ultimate valium that never quite wears off. “I’m going to leave you now, but you should know that you will have a choice to make soon. As you come to this choice, I want you to consider two things you learned in school: firstly, that history changes based on who writes it, that the author holds power. Secondly, consider the ramifications of saying ‘no’ when confronted with your next big choice. Think beyond your own feelings and morality, which you hide so well behind your veil of postmodern bullshit.”

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At this, Caedmon coughed two times and rose to see Merlyn was indeed sitting on his bed.

“You slept well it would seem,” Merlyn said in his nasally, British twang. “Tell me, what did you dream about?”

Caedmon sat stark upright, fully clothed with what he had worn the day before. He looked at the old man and tried to protect himself from the interrogative stare of Merlyn’s grey eyes. “I don’t dream—haven’t since my first puff.” Caedmon was trying to piece together what had just happened. He had not been “invaded,” but he also had not been the only one inside his head.

He was unsure how much he should tell to the old man sitting at the edge of his bed. He didn’t have Caedmon’s trust, but the words of the man Kidu rang out in his mind. Cryptic asshole.

“That is a shame,” was Merlyn’s slow, deliberate reply. “It does not happen to all of us. I for example still have very vivid dreams, but it is a known side effect. It’s interesting, as strange as it must be to not dream, I find myself continually having repeated dreams. When I was a child, I dreamt of my parents loading up a cart and leaving me in the woods. Now I have dreams of my parents getting into a Ford Fiesta and leaving me at Aldi. Objects inside the dreams change, but the heart of them is all the same. My imagination, it would seem, is no longer able to create anything new when asleep. Also, my dreams are in black and white now; I wonder what the significance of that is.” Merlyn said this to no one in particular, and Caedmon had the feeling that these single person dialogues were a normal occurrence. Sometimes, Caedmon had the distinct impression that Merlyn was stuck in an infinite loop of senility.

“I remember flying in my dreams,” Caedmon said with a shrug. “So what’s on the agenda for the day?” He looked beyond Merlyn, toward Visu and Dane encouraging them to chip in. They did not.

Merlyn smiled, but probably more at himself and the mystery of his repetitious dreams than at Caedmon. After a pause, which was a little too long for comfort, he muttered something like, “Oh, um, right, take a shower and coffee it or something.

Then we’ll, um, things.” Then he stared. He stared at the

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strange floral design on the comforter on Caedmon’s bed. The comforter was one of those itchy, cheap jobs that Motel 6es use. He slid his legs out from under the blankets and went to the shower.

Once again, he found himself staring at his ever changing body and face in the mirror. His eyes were completely silver, the muted brown gone forever. He wondered when the silver would dull into the grey of iron, the grey of all of these other people’s eyes. He decided not to dawdle in the shower, but simply washed, rinsed and got out. He was used to allowing the hot water to raise his body temperature from the near shivering state that he usually entered the restroom in, but he found that he didn’t really feel cold this morning. In fact he hadn’t really felt overly cool or warm in a few days; another side effect he supposed.

“Oh Caedmon, don’t put your old clothes back on, we have some for you when you’re ready.” So the old man had returned to his formerly abandoned senses.

“Underwear too?” Caedmon called from behind the closed bathroom door.

“Yes, underwear too. Don’t take this the wrong way, but that car ride was not all that pleasant for us last night.” Caedmon smiled, and then stopped when he saw that the only towels in bathroom were each maybe a foot and a half long. So he entered the bedroom holding the cloth over his now ample penis, grabbed the dry-cleaning bag hanging on the chair near the door and retreated back into the steamy bathroom. He was expecting Merlyn to be staring at him uncomfortably as he exited the bathroom with his tiny towel, but Merlyn’s eyes had been closed, as if he were concentrating on something very hard.

However, the blonde Thorish man, was staring at him with undue attentiveness.

Unrolling the bag from Star Rise Cleaners, Caedmon took a pale blue polo off of the hanger and pulled it on over his head.

He then put on the linen khakis thinking, “How impractical.

In about 10 minutes, these are going to wrinkle and look like a tan plastic bag.” Then he thought about how odd it was that he

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was even worrying about wrinkles, such a thought was usually far outside his purview. Looking in the mirror he saw that his awkwardly lengthed beard had somehow, as if by the means of a magical twig, evened itself out. He was now the owner of a level, seemingly manicured beard about a quarter inch in length. Of all the physical changes that he had experienced, this one was the most annoying. His awkwardly lengthed beard was a defining characteristic of Caedmon’s personality, and that characteristic was defined as: n. belonging to a man who has evolved beyond the need to care about his facial hair. He found his lucky lighter, wallet, and cheap pocketknife sitting next to his toothbrush on the sink and placed them into his new pants.

Caedmon came out and stood before his audience of three men. His clothes fit fine, but it wasn’t like he was hard to size up. Now he waited for their judgment. “You look appropriate, let’s go,” came from Visu’s mouth. He was still wearing a dark, heavy suit. Whether or not it was the same one was something Caedmon didn’t care enough to even consider considering.

“Hold on. How about if before we go to wherever it is we’re going, you clue me in a little bit about what is going on here?

I’ve had no trouble trusting you so far because, I had no connections before—” “Am I to understand that you have developed more connections since last night?” Merlyn said with a sharp look and calm voice.

Without hesitation, Caedmon recovered: “No, of course not, but my point is: I don’t know if I have any desire to go anywhere with you. Why don’t you try selling me a little bit on whatever it is you want me to do beyond the whole ‘be respectful, this man is saving your life’ thing?” Caedmon did not feel that this request was unreasonable, and so was not expecting anything but compliance.

Instead what he heard was Visu saying, “You know what you need to know for now. I would like to further explain in a room that at least has chairs for us to all sit down. Now put on your fucking shoes and let’s go.” So Caedmon complied, putting on the blue sneakers provided him by his new friends.

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The three got back on the elevator, and with a swipe of a card and the push of a button, they were headed up. Looking at the options, it seemed the building had 5 floors, and they were going to the top. “What, only five?”

Merlyn looked at him quizzically, “With you it’s always how much, how fancy, how big. You are beyond that now as we are.

This is not an action adventure movie, and we are not some elite group controlling the world. In your old life, you took pride in not focusing on appearance, while secretly caring about little else besides how people saw you. We live a modest lifestyle because we are not looking for fame or power or recognition.” Caedmon considered picking up the argument, but he suspected the outcome would be him trying to dig his way out of a hole. He instead looked at Merlyn skeptically, implying that maybe he did secretly control the world and desire fame, power and recognition.

The elevator door opened with a subtle ding and the three entered an office suite. There were several chairs around a large ovular table. The egg-like nature still implied that there was a head of the table. Although from a functionality standpoint, Caedmon couldn’t figure out how the person sitting at the head could see everyone else.

“So what do you do?”

“Sit down,” Visu commanded. The four men sat near the egg’s large rounded bottom, Merlyn in the center, his two comrades on his right and Caedmon on his left. Upon further analysis, Caedmon understood that the middle of the base of the egg was truly the seat of power, as it was the only position that allowed you to see everyone with ease. Every other chair at the table would leave the occupant unable to observe at least one other person at the table. The chairs swiveled, were made of leather, or some leather knock-off, Caedmon couldn’t tell.

Caedmon reached underneath and raised the chair to its full height, making himself comfortable.

Continuing, Visu added, “Understand that just because you have made it this far, does not guarantee you any answers. We will tell you what we wish to tell you, and if that’s not good

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enough for you, you can leave. We don’t need you Caedmon, but we think you would—” “Be a valuable asset, yes I got that. So why don’t you start with the ‘we’ part of this conversation?” Visu did not look pleased at being cut off.

Merlyn chuckled, “Oh, he’s gotten to you has he, V? Very well, I shall start with the ‘we.’ Several people have discovered the Root, or perhaps the Root has revealed itself to specific people. Regardless, people have consumed It since the creation of the earth, animals have as well, but the effect isn’t as interesting as you might think. When we consume the Root, we are instantly connected to anyone else who has ever consumed It throughout time. As you practice transcending beyond ‘simple self,’ you can learn to control where you go, to whom you go, and what you do while you’re there. From across time, I used this ability to arrange appointments, which have led others to me. It does not take long for this life to become extremely lonesome, as you may have guessed. I simply became tired of being lonesome and began looking for others.”

“And that’s how you met Kidu?”

“Sort of, you see this was his idea. He found me and taught me how to find others. But when I realized he had more nefarious plans, we parted ways. You see, he wanted to control the Root wherever It sprang. He wanted to use those who had consumed It to control others while hoarding the great substance for himself.” Merlyn paused to make sure Caedmon understood and absorbed all he was saying. Caedmon just looked and nodded; this did align with what he had seen in Rome.

“So what about you guys?” he gestured at the three men.

“I’m sorry?”

“I understand what he’s doing and what his motivations are.

But you haven’t told me anything about what your group does or what your motivations are beyond fighting loneliness. To be honest, if all you’re offering me is a clique to hang out with, then I’m not interested.” Based on Caedmon’s dream, whatever happened to him this morning while he was lying in bed, he already had decided that he was going to try and join this

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group of merry men, but he didn’t want to seem too needy. He didn’t want to appear too easy (there it was again: appearances.

How had he never noticed this before?).

“You have heard the story of Prometheus? The titan who brought knowledge of fire to man and was eternally punished for it? Well, all myths exist to explain how something in the world works. Typically explaining how something works that people can’t explain in any other way. Why does the sun move across the sky? A god drives a chariot over the earth with the sun attached. Why do we speak different languages? Someone built a tower; God got mad, so He confused the group by making them speak in strange tongues. Why do we have seasons?

The goddess of the harvest gets taken down below the earth for half of every year, creating winter. So Caedmon, what is the purpose of the myth of Prometheus?” Merlyn waited. He actually wanted him to answer.

Caedmon considered. Despite the pomp Merlyn displayed, Caedmon had always loved talking about mythology. “Well, if I’m following your logic, it’s to explain why we can use fire?”

Caedmon immediately squirmed after answering, because the look on Visu’s face made him feel too small for giving that answer. The look was reminiscent of everyone’s least favorite high school teachers who get off on disrespecting and holding power over the heads of their students.

“What a quaint freshman level 101 response,” Merlyn said with a condescending smile, “Fire is too narrow. The purpose of the myth is to explain how mankind advances at all. Humans are creatures of habit; nothing of consequence changes from day to day, so how have we grown from hunting with sticks and rocks, to building bombs that can destroy continents? Well, the Greeks and Romans believe that mankind advances because of the intervention of the gods.” Merlyn swept his hands palm up across the table in an “everything the light touches” gesture.

A level of understanding was beginning to set in. “So you’re telling me that every major step forward mankind has made in history has come as a result of your little group? You are the gods of this metaphor, and you pass along knowledge and skills

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to people in order that they may advance?” Caedmon’s ego was somewhat hurt. Had he never thought of anything original himself? He had studied the nihilists and postmodernists and decided that life was pointless all on his own. That was at least a step forward he had made as an individual, and if he could progress, couldn’t all of humanity? “I don’t believe you. How can you claim that all progress comes from your group?”

“Well, let’s see. I imagine you’re clinging to the assumption that your lifestyle was a result of a synthesis of your own original ideas mixed with your studies. So let’s walk backwards for a bit.

The greatest philosophical minds you studied were all a result of the Root: Nietzsche, Wittgenstein, Hume, Kierkegaard, Kant.

You’ve heard it said that all philosophy is a footnote to Plato?

Well, let me be the first to tell you that almost all of those later philosophers were Plato; today, his last name’s Rorty. And he knew how your mind would ‘synthesize’ all of that information he presented before you were born. So much for intellectual advancement. And as far as technologies go, Kidu himself was the first person ever to put a story down on paper. We would not have books were it not for him. You, your culture, your ideas, all of them are a result of the interference of those who have consumed the Root.” Merlyn finished this whole speech, which, while impressive, came off as a bit rehearsed, with his arms raised in excitement. And Caedmon was impressed, and hopelessly defeated.

Then Merlyn began to quote something in an accent more thickly British than normal, and it was the Bible.

“The words of the Teacher, son of David, king in Jerusalem: ‘Meaningless! Meaningless!’ says the Teacher.

‘Utterly meaningless!

Everything is meaningless.’

What do people gain from all their labors at which they toil under the sun?

Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.

The sun rises and the sun sets,

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and hurries back to where it rises.

The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course.

All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full.

To the place the streams come from, there they return again.

All things are wearisome, more than one can say.

The eye never has enough of seeing, nor the ear its fill of hearing.

What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.

Is there anything of which one can say, “Look! This is something new”?

It was here already, long ago; it was here before our time.

No one remembers the former generations, and even those yet to come will not be remembered by those who follow them.”

“Solomon goes on to discuss the grief that accompanies wisdom,” Merlyn said like one reading a term paper, “And though he was one of us, he knew grief. His grief could not be quenched though he was one of the richest men in history, though he had 300 wives and 700 concubines. He experienced the very depths of loneliness that come with the Root.”

Caedmon looked grief-stricken. Everything he knew to be reality was only a fabrication. A shadow play being directed by these “transcendent” people. “So, although my ‘ideas’ were only the result of the actions of people like you, I was right. There was absolutely no meaning in my life. Everything that I thought made me different and original was a construct of you and your people.” Never had Caedmon been so miserable to be so right.

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Even though he had always leaned toward this nihilistic belief, a part of him also knew it was all ridiculous postulation.

“In some respect, yes,” Merlyn seemed genuinely happy about this. He completely understood what Caedmon was feeling, but did not care. “But you are thinking only of the past.

You are beyond the past! Don’t you see that now you may become truly original! You are now on the other side of the equation, no longer are you on the right side of the ‘equal sign,’ a result of the actions of others; you are the ‘plus sign,’ the catalyst moving all things toward solutions! You may mourn your former life, but keep in mind that is your life no more!”

Merlyn looked at him with the joy of a salesman who just made an awesome pitch for why a person should buy a car from the side of the road.

Caedmon only stared.

How could a man who knew so much about the way the world works understand so little about the feelings of those who inhabited it? Wasn’t he a person once?

“So now Caedmon, you understand what we do?”

He nodded.

“And you understand why we do it? That without us, humanity would remain stagnate. We don’t manipulate things like politics or infrastructure: all of that changes over time. What we control is the zeitgeist. We are the spirit of the age.”

He nodded again.

“Then now you must decide. You may live your life as an individual, alone, doing what you will for as long as you live, which even without the Root will be a long time. Or you may attempt to join us, gain a new understanding of the world and help assist humanity in the path it will take. If you are looking for purpose, I promise you that we can help you find it.

Interestingly, the last part of that verse from earlier is: ‘Fear God and keep his commandments, for this is the whole duty of Man.’ I wouldn’t say I’m a religious man, but I can tell you this: I have met God. Caedmon looked up in surprise. “What do you mean by ‘attempt’ to join your group?”

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“Well, my dear boy, you could not have imagined that you’d get to guide and direct the path of history just because the Root decided to grow under your ass while you were getting high?

No, first you must prove your state of mind. There are a few tests you must first complete to confirm your practicality and state of mind. They will not take long, but their results are absolute. If you complete them to our satisfaction, then you will be one of our ranks and you will have a seat at our round table.

You will meet others like you and begin to develop your own skill and power with the Root.”

Caedmon sat for a full minute, pursing his lips in and out, cracking his knuckles, rubbing his forehead and making every other kind of gesture that might indicate that he was thinking very hard.

“I’m in. What now?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

The four men walked for several blocks; their feet did not hurt.

While three of them moved with purpose as though they were all of one mind, walking in step, turning their heads in different directions but always at the same time, the fourth sauntered behind. He was content to observe. He observed the men in front of him; he observed the street he was on; he even observed the mother lifting, releasing and catching her infant daughter as he entered a park. He observed the smile on the infant’s face, noticing that it was not pointed like an adult’s smile; it was a perfect O shape. Lips completely covering empty gums, eyes wide and chubby hands flapping in the air. The girl wore a white onesie with pink stripes and a pink headband covering wisps of yellow hair. They walked over to where the old men play speed chess, 5 minutes on each clock—if no one had won by the end of time, then whoever’s clock ran out first paid up. Images of Lawrence Fishburne entered Caedmon’s head.

A woman was sitting tall, wearing a green sheer blouse with a cream camisole, and pressing her finger tips together at one of the chess boards. She was wearing a necklace with an Owl dangling from the chain. She had a distinctly Greek look: dark hair parted down the middle, heavy—though well

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manicured—eyebrows, wide nose and creases in her face from a lot of smiling and, he suspected, crying. He knew her, though he had never seen her face.

Merlyn gestured for him to sit across from her, and he did.

“Hi,” was what he said, but what he thought was: I was in your mind like 2,000 years ago.

“Hello, shall we begin?” She gestured to the board. It did not have chess pieces on it. Rather than the pawns, knights, bishops, rooks, kings and queens, this board had on it several black and white circular pieces and a white and black pyramid.

“I suppose I have to play you as my first test? Doesn’t that seem a little absurd? I have to beat the goddess of war and strategy in an ancient Roman game of checkers?”

“Latrunculi is infinitely more complex than chess. I trust you remember the rules from your, um, visit?” She was referring to when he shared her mind, but her drifting gaze revealed that their game together was obviously not what she was remembering from that day.

“I remember the rules, but it’s not like I was the one playing the game. It was still all your knowledge and experience.”

“True, it surely seems that way,” she smiled, “But you accessed my mind. The brain is not made up of compartments with one box full of memories and one full of emotions.

It is all one mechanism and by being a part of one of my thoughts, your mind absorbed all of my thoughts up to that point. Have you not thought it odd that though we were all speaking Latin, you understood every word, and probably in your own dialect?”

“I have noticed that, yes.”

“That’s because our mind does not think in ‘words;’ rather, it absorbs and relays information, and the vehicle for that information is not the word—it is electricity, sense and intuition.

So when you were part of my mind you sensed everything with me. Surely you noticed the slight accents we all carry? We have all been speaking English long enough to speak in any dialect we choose. Most of us maintain our original dialect as a means of holding on to our roots.”

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“I see. So, I should be able to remember all of your thoughts and senses from the ‘you’ of 2,000 years ago?”

“That is precisely what we will determine during this test,” she said this with a wink. It seemed as though a goddess were flirting with him. “Here is the only hint I can give you: you have heard, perhaps, that humans only use a tenth of their brain.

This is not true—we use nearly all of our brains; however, we don’t use all of it at once or at the same high capacity at all times. The Root works as a conductor, allowing you to easily access all of your mind at once and in so doing you surpass your normal functions. Lastly, you may have noticed that when you transcend into someone’s mind that person’s breathing changes in some way. The key to you learning to access your mind is in breath control. We cleverly have called this ‘The Breath of God;’ I think it’s catchy.”

“So if I can access my mind to access my memory of your mind, then I’ll pass the test?”

“Yes and no, but you must beat me. And I’ve also gotten a lot better at this game than I was 2,000 years ago. You have three chances.” She said this and he nodded. Merlyn and Dane grabbed chairs to sit. Visu walked away and out of the park.

“White is first,” she said, and he made his first placement on the board. The game required each player to lay all of his or her pieces on the board in a strategic way before anyone can move.

In other words, random haphazard placements can lead to a defeat before anyone has moved a single piece.

Caedmon took a deep breath in and tried to remember something, anything that might help him. He was able to come up with the rules of the game pretty easily. Great. That was most certainly going to help him in his game against the 4,000-yearold Grand Mistress.

He tried yawning, sighing, guffawing, hurrumph-ing, sneezing, and gargling. He had placed over half of his pieces and had nothing more to go on than the memory fragment: “If you choose to cross the path of another set you won’t be injured.”

And he only barely knew what this meant.

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He thought back to his out of body experiences. He felt as though he had tried every nuance of breathing he had seen any of the others take. So he began focusing more on his memories from each experience. He remembered talking to someone who was not Neptune while playing the game. He remembered, as I’m sure did his opponent, copping a feel on Minerva’s breasts, which was a good memory. He remembered how scared she felt when she saw her father get blown away. He concentrated on that fear. He concentrated on the look in Kidu’s eyes after he had blown up Jupiter. And he placed his last five pieces.

She looked at him and smiled, “Nothing yet?” Apparently, his placement had not been good. So he began moving, getting frustrated with himself. He thought back to the last time he had not been able to do something that required only his mental faculties. He couldn’t. He felt as though he had never been mentally challenged, but this moment: this was humiliating.

She easily moved through the board, cutting in and out of his pieces. In this game, as in checkers, if you take one of your opponent’s pieces, you get to move again. He made a grand total of seven moves before the first match was over. She just moved elegantly through the squares on the board.

He reminded himself that he was playing Minerva, but this did not comfort him, especially because he had been Minerva.

“So what name do you go by now?” Caedmon asked as they gathered their pieces.

“Mini,” she replied with a playful smile. “A word of advice, start thinking of some names for the future now. It’s damned hard to rename yourself. Everything sounds too new, or outdated, or too trendy or just overused.” They had gathered their pieces. “Ready for round two?”

He was not ready for round two. But he placed his first piece.

Slow down. Even if you’re not a pro, you’re not stupid. But with every piece he placed, he found himself only getting more heated. He was nearly panting when he got to his remaining ten pieces. He could tell from the board that it would be almost impossible to win. His breath was coming faster now and he actually began to cry. He was so mad at himself for not being able to do this.

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Was it all of the weed and booze and other shit he had put into his body for the last few years?

He realized that he was almost sobbing and that he was hiding his eyes behind his hands. He must have been quite a sight.

And he was sure she was looking at him like he was pathetic, which was only all the more infuriating.

Then he remembered. Not a transcendent experience, but he remembered being in fourth grade in Mrs. James’ class.

He had gone to the eye doctor for the first time he could remember, and they had dilated his eyes. Everything was blurry.

He remembered his mom driving him back to Mary Adams Elementary and feeling his way down the hallway to his classroom. He had missed all the new lessons for the day, so he sat in a desk by himself in the corner with several worksheets of multiplication tables. He tried to stare at his papers, but everything he saw looked like little black ants smudged all over his page. He had never had a hard time reading or doing math or anything else in school.

Mrs. James could see how frustrated he was, so she moved him to the back of the room and asked for another student to help him: Amy Joy. Obviously, Amy was the most beautiful 10-year-old girl Caedmon had ever seen. Gold curls dangled down her face and her blue eyes carried a smile for him at recess. After five minutes of Amy reading to Caedmon, he felt like a fool. He got so mad that he started crying, and just like adult Caedmon sitting at the chessboard, he tried to hide his face knowing that the other kids would only laugh at him, if they saw him crying.

Not to mention how awful it would be for Amy to see him unable to read and crying!

His teacher walked up to him and squatted down asking him what was wrong, and he was so mad he couldn’t say anything besides, “Can’t, hphmsph, see.” Then he thought of how she got him to stop. She excused Caedmon to the restroom to get himself clean and presentable. After a few minutes of long sniffs and longer sighs, he returned to the class. And when he returned, the little blonde girl with curly hair was still sitting

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next to his desk. He, in his dinosaur t-shirt and blue sweatpants, felt overjoyed to have Amy sitting next to him. Mrs. James probably knew he was madly in love with her, but mostly, she knew the kind of help that was going to get him to accomplish his task.

Caedmon took several long sniffs with longer sighs of exhalation.

He looked at the board with his own eyes, but saw it with someone else’s. Let her believe you are weak when you are strong.

The board is not in our favor right now. Change the layout, but take no pieces. We will not strike at once. She will be arrogant and swift; use this against her. And so Caedmon moved slowly, thinking excruciatingly hard before making each move.

“You are playing more timidly than last round, but that’s not what’s going to help you win. Playing more passively will only prolong the game, not help you to achieve victory.” She moved her pieces deftly, taking three. He moved; she only taking one.

He thinks, then moves. She is unable to take any pieces and so repositions positions herself. He moves, and she takes one more piece, but as soon as she withdraws her hand she sees a problem. The seemingly random cowardly moves he was making have taken on a form. She looks and sees how he can win, but she also does not think he can see it. “Why don’t you man up and do something already?” She says this to break his concentration; he has one last piece to move into position. “You’re strong enough to paw at my breast when using my mind, but not strong enough to simply act!”

Caedmon smiled. He understood her perfectly. He understood every victory she had had or caused during the height of the Greek and Roman empires. Troy, Athens, Carthage—she was behind them all. He knew she saw it now, and that she was scared to lose. “Well, I was reminded of the old myth where Zeus turned himself into a woman to find out whose orgasm was more pleasurable, and discovered that it really was the woman who enjoyed the sensations of sex the most. I think I decided that the opposite is true of breasts: it’s way more enjoyable to be the one handling them from the outside, than it is to handle your own. Also, if you’re trying to use the manly bravado thing

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to goad me into making a mistake, you have greatly misjudged me. There’s a reason I don’t have many macho friends.” And with that he placed his last piece into position.

No matter where she moved he would take all of her pieces in the next three moves. “Well done,” she said and, looking at Merlyn, she nodded. “I see no reason for us to continue; he has beaten me.”

“I quite agree,” Merlyn said smiling. “Thank you for your time, Mini. Shall we go?” Dane, Minerva, Merlyn and Caedmon all rose.

“So I completed the first test. Do I get a button or anythi—“ A sickening crunch and the sound of squealing tires was heard at the edge of the park. The mom and child playing near the entrance had been hit by a car. The driver fled. The victims lay in a twisted pile, mother woven around daughter.

Caedmon ran over to the woman and child. Blood was coating the grass around them. A small crowd gathered immediately.

He felt for the woman’s pulse; she was dead. Gesturing to one of the onlookers, Caedmon yelled: “You, call an ambulance!”

He moved to the child, an infant less than a year old. Blood was coming from her head, and it looked as though someone had torn her halfway down from her left clavicle to her sternum.

There was her white and pink onesie as torn as her body, her headband lying next to her mother’s body. Caedmon did not know how she would survive. He looked around for his companions, but they were not there.

He held the child in his arms until the paramedics arrived.

He was there when the girl took her last breath; he felt her chest rise and fall knowing he could do nothing. And Caedmon wept. †† Walking away from the scene, Caedmon felt numb. There was no rage or feeling of injustice, not even sadness for the life of one so small. All he could do was walk.

His mind was instantly transported back to another car accident. Another time when two lives were taken, leaving him to feel hopelessly alone.

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And so he walked. For many blocks he put one foot in front of the other. He examined the shoes, which were not his own; the pants and shirt, splotched in now dried blood; and he considered his hands. Holding them up in front of his face he thought, these hands were burned but did not scar, scraped but do not bleed. Caedmon considered why this was, considered why the opposite was true for everyone else. He considered the Root.

He heard footsteps behind him and guessed that they belonged to Visu, or Dane, so some other member of Merlyn’s cohort. He did not turn; he just continued to walk.

He coughed. Twice.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

“So, how did you find the first test?” comes a voice rushing through his head. Caedmon realizes that he is not the one in control of his body, but that his steps have not altered. His head is still hanging low. But he is now a passenger in his own vessel.

“I trust you found the game engaging.” The voice is like the passing of a train, starting soft, then increasing until it begins fading away. It is the voice of Kidu.

“Oh, it’s you,” Caedmon thought. “Kidu. But I suppose you would have me call you ‘Brad,’ right?” Caedmon’s thoughts seem muffled; he feels like he was taking a time out.

“Very good, you have finally identified the villain of the story.” Brad’s echoing thoughts ring with sarcasm. “But you didn’t answer my question. How was the first test?”

“Well, I won the game if that’s what you mean. But let’s just say it was a hollow victory.” Caedmon’s mind begins drifting back to the little girl.

“I wasn’t referring to the game; I was referring to the test.

Surely, you didn’t think that they were testing you to see if you could remember how a game was played?” Brad sounds genuinely surprised, as though Caedmon may have actually not understood. “Caedmon, I know the kind of studies you pursued.

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You know what this is about; it’s the same thing everything is about. And while it is a game, it is a zero-sum game.” And Caedmon thinks of the one word answer: power.

“You’re suggesting that Merlyn killed the girl to get power?”

Caedmon’s muffled thoughts are becoming even more dizzied.

He is sure he’d be getting physically ill right now if he was in control of his body. His mind felt shivers though his body remained steadily walking down the sidewalk in the Boston summer heat.

“Hmm, Merlyn huh?” Kidu chuckles at this inside Caedmon’s head. “Well, think about it like this: the first thing they did once they discovered you was take your Root. Why do you think that is?” Suddenly, Kidu is the patient schoolteacher allowing the frustrated, apathetic student to put the pieces together.

“I already figured that he wanted the Root, and to be honest, the way he explained it made sense. There are some people that you wouldn’t want to have these kinds of abilities.” Caedmon’s mind is working at a low level of understanding.

“I think perhaps, you don’t want to put these pieces together. You are not one who has ever intentionally chosen ignorance. Albeit, you did chose a pretty stupid lifestyle. All of the belief systems at your fingertips and you choose to believe in meaninglessness? Okay, let me give you some prompts: without the Root, we usually only live about a hundred years.

You also cannot transcend into the minds of others, although they can transcend into yours. So try again: why did they try to take your Root?”

“Well, I suppose they were trying to cut me off? They didn’t want me to have the Root, because then there is less for them to use?”

“Okay, in other words, the Root is the key to this lifestyle.

The more people who use It, the less there is for them to use.

Keep in mind his group is sizeable. They have already used much of their reserves; trust me, I’ve checked. All they have is one Root that still grows, and as long as It grows, they will survive, but if something happens to It, they have no fallback.

Your root gives them a way to connect with new users to find them if something should happen.”

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“So you’re saying that they need the Root to find other places where the Root has come up? So there isn’t like a homing signal for the Root. They didn’t find me because the Root came up, they found me because I consumed It? That’s what put me on their radar?” Caedmon was again reminded of how violated he felt after his home and possibly mind had been invaded.

“Yes, and once they found you, they scanned through your mind and memories, and they decided that they wanted your Root more than they wanted you. Sorry. They have been trying to cut you off since your first puff. However, you did something clever, something they did not expect. And once you consumed It for the second time, they realized you were not going away. So the recruitment process began.” Caedmon had not been under the impression that Merlyn and his group were being magnanimous by testing him, but he had not suspected this motivation.

“Fair enough, I see how all of that makes sense,” Caedmon says, putting the pieces into place. “But I don’t understand why you are so against them. I don’t see how they are any different than you.”

“We are nothing alike!” Kidu’s voice booms and vibrates in Caedmon’s mind. “They seek only power, to maintain their little light on a hill. I asked how your task went. Did it not occur to you that your task wasn’t to incorporate someone else’s memories into your own? That you’ve already done that at least once from their perspective? Your test Caedmon, was to watch the little girl die. Your task was to do nothing and be okay with it. And let me tell you Caedmon, you are about to blow it.”

A moment of rejection. Caedmon began to dry heave on the pavement, crumpling to his knees. He unexpectedly regains control of his body only to crumple. Finally catching his breath, Caedmon feels Brad who is Kidu take over again.

“You mean they—Visu—hit the girl. And if I show that this bothers me, what, I’m too conscionable? I can’t be in their club if death bothers me? They can’t be that evil!” Caedmon doesn’t like how black and white this is all becoming. Life does not exist in black and white; it exists in color and greys.

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“Don’t be so concrete. Death still is unfortunate, even from their perspective. But they believe that it would be bad to use the Root to save people. That if they tried to save every dying infant, then their way of life would not be possible. There would be a whole world of infant immortals. In some ways, they are right in this belief, but if you show them that you would be willing to save the infant’s life using the Root, you would not be able to join them. They couldn’t risk it.”

“So, when I go back, I should act like I don’t care about the kid’s death?”

“No, as I have said, they don’t lack empathy. You must make sure that you show you are emotionally affected by the loss, but that you understand that death is an important part of the process of life. You must show that you are okay with others experiencing it. Of course, now you see the hypocrisy?”

“Yeah. Why is death so necessary for everyone else, but so obviously not meant for them?” And Caedmon asks the most important question of his past few days: “Can you explain to me why it’s so important that I join these people?”

“Because, Caedmon. I know how we can stop the hoarding. I know how we can give everyone enough of the Root to improve his or her life, without giving them eternal life. We take the light from on top of the hill and disperse it over the world.”

“So you want me to get in, so that we can steal It? Is that it?” †† Caedmon was his own again. He understood Kidu’s motives, he understood Merlyn’s motives. He still was certain both sides were keeping things from him, but he figured he would continue the path he was on until he had all of the information.

Once he fully understood what was going on, he would make a decision. Maybe neither group would like that decision, but that was something to worry about later. For now he needed to get back to Merlyn and the others.

Rather than walking back, he simply turned and waved at

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the guy following him. It was Visu. “Great,” Caedmon thought, “Just the asshole I wanted to see.”

As Visu approached him, Caedmon noticed that his appearance had changed. His grey eyes did not show the swagger and confidence they normally had. The skin around his eyes was puffy. Irritated. He had been crying. Or at least, he had been on the cusp of crying. “Are you ready to return?” Visu said this and looked away from Caedmon out into the evening. How long had Caedmon been walking? How long had he been possessed?

Visu pulled out his phone, sent a text, and a few second later the Mazda SUV pulled around and both got in.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Back in the office suite, Merlyn sat waiting at the head of the oblong oaken table. Dane sat to his right. “Welcome back,” Merlyn said in a less than cheerful tone. “Congratulations on completing your first task.” There was a distinct lack of mirth in his voice.

“Which part?”

Merlyn shot a quick look at Visu. Visu returned his glare with a flat look showing that he had not said anything. “Well, your victory against Minerva, of course, although I must admit the balling in the middle of the game was not a particularly attractive strategy. But you accomplished your goal.”

“Stop the fucking lies! I’m not an idiot; I know you were involved in the car accident,” the last word was said with as much venom as he could muster. “But I suppose I did what you hoped? I’m not happy about the child dying, but now you know I won’t use the Root to help others directly.” Caedmon looked away. He was careful not to tip his hand, but he also wanted to be seen as an intellectual equivalent to these people.

Merlyn stood, and leaned forward with his knuckles on the dark table. “But, you understand?” All three men in the room looked tense, as though they may move to attack Caedmon.

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They looked as though they were steadying themselves for a fight.

“Don’t get me wrong, I will probably never forgive you for this, but yes, I understand why you did it. And I suppose I see why it was necessary, considering the power that we have.” He hoped he was not coming off as too rehearsed. He certainly had practiced this speech repeatedly on his way to this meeting.

Merlyn paused and looked away. “Yes, well, you will be surprised what you can and cannot forgive over the course of a thousand years. Somehow, some things shrink in significance.

But others do grow, I suppose.” A long pause settled in, followed by, “Are you ready for your next test?”

“What? I don’t get time to rest?”

“Oh you will. You see, the next task is to maintain possession of someone over a period of several days. And in that time you must truly become one with the person. This is not something I can fully explain now, but you will understand it if you achieve it.”

“Great, so are you going to guide me to the person, like last time with the Romans?”

“No, this task really is based on your ability level with the Root. But I will tell you your target. You must find and possess Visu. This way we will know if you accomplish your goal.”

“Okay, so here’s my time travel question. Doesn’t Visu now already know if I became one with him hundreds of years ago?”

Caedmon realized immediately how sexual that sounded, but chose not to laugh.

“Well, yes. But that doesn’t change the fact that you have to do it. We know what the result will be, but you have to do it, to make the result a reality. But while I could spend all night explaining how the temporal nature of the Root works, and we do understand it for the most part, there are more important things to be done. For now, just understand that in order for something to change, in the past, you must make the change happen.” Merlyn said this with an extravagant, almost magical wave of his hand. Caedmon got the impression that Merlyn was being intentionally cryptic.

And of course, he was.

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Caedmon noticed a pint of water sitting in front of him. He also noticed the tiny gratings of wood floating inside. “Bottoms up,” Caedmon said without enthusiasm. †† Caedmon does not completely finish the water before fading into the black. As he begins to fade, no figure comes into view.

No circle appears revealing someone else’s perspective. So he begins to think. Picturing Visu in his dark suit, cool despite the heat.

Nothing. His mind continues to experience only the abyss around him.

Caedmon continues thinking through his experiences. It wasn’t until he felt emotionally attached to his 4th grade self that he was able to access his full mind. So he tried remembering specifics from his time with Visu. He pictured the surely abrupt man, the rude manner in which he seemed to constantly address Caedmon.

Still nothing. Not even a spark or hint of light.

He considered the boredom of being stuck in darkness for as long as the effects of the Root lasted.

Then Caedmon considered a different Visu, the Visu from after the car accident.

He pictures Visu’s face, but not the stern face that first greeted him. He pictures the puffy, red-eyed face that picked him up after killing the girl. Likely, he was the one who hit the girl and her mother with the car.

He immediately sees the world as though from space. As he begins focusing more on the creases of Visu’s eyes, the extended forehead, his sight zooms in. He is now flying toward small specks of land surrounded by a vast, blue expanse of waves. He flies over a large hill, and into a thicket of woods. He comes to a middle-aged man holding an axe.

He stops.

All of the land that had been surrounding him sucks into the circle to his right; everything else is black. And the back

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of a figure emerges. From the third person point of view, Caedmon can see him in a farmer’s garb, swinging an axe down at an angle. Prying it out of something hard, only to swing down again. But in the circle showing a first person perspective, Caedmon can see the tree, thin, white in color, coming down. Before reaching out and touching Visu, Caedmon concentrates on him. He doesn’t know what the process is for becoming “one,” but he figures he’ll go in, knowing something about his target.

Surprisingly, Caedmon sees—visibly—a memory of this Visu’s past. He sees Visu chopping down trees and finding a strange root with a single leaf. He sees Visu shredding and then smoking the leaf in his long pipe. He sees Visu flashing into the mind of another. The other is tan, and is standing over workers with bare backs, moving large tan bricks. But that is all Caedmon sees. Caedmon understands now, that this Visu has only experienced the vision once, and is as confused as Caedmon was after he first lit up the Root. As Caedmon further considers Visu, he realizes that Visu is chopping, because that’s what Visu knows. That is what he is comfortable with. He knows his woods; he knows his green hill.

Caedmon concentrates and sees Visu’s family. He can clearly picture Visu’s son who is handsome and gentle; he can see Visu’s wife, beautiful and strong. Her finger’s touch is rough.

She is one acquainted with the labor of solitary survival.

Caedmon reaches out with his mind and touches Visu’s shoulder. Visu, strangely enough, sneezes twice in rapid succession.

“What is happening? Why do I feel you?” Caedmon hears Visu shout out loud from inside his mind.

Caedmon calmly thinks, “I am like you, but from another time. I also consumed the Root, and just as you experienced the life of another, I am experiencing yours.” Caedmon enjoys being the one in with the experience for once. This Visu is not as cocky or smug as the man he knows in Boston; he is scared.

“I don’t understand. Why have you come?” Visu begins trying to figure out what was going on through his own experiences.

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Caedmon can feel his thoughts shuffling through stories Visu’s father had told him. He considers stories heard on the ship to this island from the other families joining on the journey. He finds nothing.

Instead of answering, Caedmon tries something else; he tries to share his mind with Visu. Caedmon tries to think in terms of a film revealing his past few days.

“Aaaaaugh!” Visu cries out, clutching his head. Caedmon stops, realizing that Visu’s pain is from his (perhaps over enthusiastic) sharing. Caedmon now sees the problem: although he himself is ready to try and become one with Visu, Visu is not at all ready. Visu is still so confused about everything. He is experiencing now what Caedmon had felt circling Bunker Hill after running into Brad at breakfast.

Caedmon thinks to Visu, “You sent me here. Or you will send me here, many years from now. But let’s start at the beginning, can you go to where you first found the Root?” Visu, no longer in pain, nods his head; Caedmon knows he nods his head not because he can see it, but because he can feel it. Just as when he possessed Minerva, he is beginning to feel the movements of his other.

Visu begins walking toward the great hill at the edge of the woods; he carries his axe. “My name is Caedmon.”

“I gathered that much from when you tried to break my head open a moment ago. I also understand that you must come from very far away and perhaps thousands of years in the future. What can you tell me about your time?” Caedmon considers this as their shared body continues to walk.

“May I try and show you? Just a little, I’ll try to not let it hurt this time. I think if I focus on just one thing at a time, it won’t hurt.” Caedmon thinks about his house, what it looks like inside and out. Visu is not screaming, so he continues. He pictures a car, a road, and a highway. He thinks of trains and planes. He thinks of skyscrapers and of malls, of restaurants and of gas stations. He pictures televisions and computers, golf and basketball. He ends by thinking about his research into the tree of life.

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“Was that better?” Caedmon thinks.

“Yes, although I do not understand everything you have shown me. It is strange, as though I now have two set of memories: my own and yours.” Visu stops. He cannot believe what he is seeing.

Two white foxes are gnawing and clawing and pulling at the Root, his Root. He doesn’t know what to do. Foxes are good luck; he cannot chase them away or attack them.

Caedmon, however, does not share these beliefs. Taking control of Visu’s limbs, he raises the axe and runs the thirty yards to the foxes screaming. Before he can get there, the foxes pull the Root from the ground and begin running. Caedmon does not stop to consider where he is or where he is going. He is suppressing Visu’s desire to let the foxes go and release his body.

He follows the foxes up the large hill. They climb high, but he follows, not getting winded in Visu’s strong and transformed body. The foxes run into a cave, and Caedmon follows in a body not his own.

Caedmon makes it inside and begins searching, but he cannot see beyond where the sun illuminates the dusty cavern floor. Frustrated with himself, he sits down. Control once again returns to Visu. “Why have you done this?” Visu thinks. “My house—my family is many miles away now. I will not reach them before nightfall. My son will be scared, my wife will worry.”

Visu’s tone is one of fear and anger. He has never had someone else control his body before; it had not been a comfortable process. “Tell me what you want or leave.” His thoughts were tinged only lightly with aggression.

“My job is to become one with you, even if it means I must stay with you for several days. You, well—future you sent me.”

Caedmon says this with shame, like a child who has been found out after breaking a vase. He knows that this is not his fault, but he had taken the drink. “I am sorry. And to be honest, I’m surprised you have a family.”

“Why is that?”

Caedmon thinks back to the Visu he knows from his time; he thinks about his puffy eyes after the car accident. “Well, you

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sent me here, kind of. I know you in my time, and, well, you just didn’t seem like a family man to me.”

“You know me, but you don’t know my family?” Visu says with alarm, “How old am I? Where are my wife and child?”

Caedmon considers this while sitting in the semi dark of the cave. “Well, I have only known you for like two days, and you’ve been more concerned with business than you have been with my personal life. I suppose you just haven’t had the opportunity to discuss them. To be honest, you’ve been kind of a dick to me.” This is a strange power struggle, as if Caedmon wants this Visu from so long ago to apologize for what he will do in the future. Caedmon considers what his future self will do that will require forgiveness.

Caedmon cannot reconcile how incongruous the two Visus are. This Visu seems so normal, so human and humane. He looks into this Visu’s mind and sees the conditions under which he had been raised, how he had escaped to this island with a few others just five years ago on long boats. He sees his wife Katara working the farm with his infant son tied to her chest, and he smiles and feels Visu’s warmth as he sees his son Shenji getting older, walking, saying “daddy,” and playing Go with him.

Visu smiles and his eyes water as he feels Caedmon sifting through these memories. He squints into the caves to see the two foxes biting and salivating all over the small Root. It seems to him that they are trying to actually devour It. He moves slowly toward them and lunges at the closest of the foxes. The lunge is powerful and spans about fifteen feet. He snatches the Root with his left hand and rolls into a summersault. At once, the fox is facing him, growling, barking. Visu’s axe sits over near the rock he was sitting on. He has never seen a fox act so aggressively. He is armed only with his piece of the Root.

“Visu, let me take over, I think I can kill it,” Caedmon thinks to Visu.

“I will allow you to take control, but do not kill the fox—it is bad luck.” And with that, Visu fades into the background, and Caedmon stretches his fingers and tries to remember what

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he learned from Minerva. With two deep breaths, he is able to remember ever strike and blow Minerva had taken against her foes. And as one fox circles, the other fox—distracted from his branch—also enters the fray.

Both foxes leap at Visu’s body and clutch his forearms with their fangs. Caedmon shakes one off of his left arm and quickly reaches down and clutches its tail. He does the same to the other fox and both foxes howl as Caedmon holds their flailing bodies upside down. He throws the two foxes against the cave walls and looks at his forearms as the bite marks heal themselves.

Both foxes face and circle Visu again, but before they lunge, Caedmon sees their eyes dart all around. They begin barking, but not at him—they are barking at nothing. Their fur bristles and quivers and they begin making their way frantically toward the cave opening. Caedmon does not feel Visu’s thoughts within him and he wonders if this is the process of becoming one. “They are gone, Visu. Can you hear me?”

Nothing responds. He walks over to the other piece of the Root and stuffs both pieces inside his tunic. He picks up the axe and begins walking toward the entrance when his feet stop moving.

“Caedmon, did I kill the girl? Did I hit her and tear her body like that?” And Caedmon understands why he could not feel Visu; he had been going through Caedmon’s own memories as Caedmon had done to those he had possessed.

Caedmon, once again in the back of Visu’s mind, replies, “Well, to be honest, I don’t know. If you have been through my mind, then you know what I know. What do you think?”

“I think I did kill them, but I cannot imagine myself behaving so wickedly. Am I following this man, this Merlyn?” Visu says all this aloud and falls to his knees, his fists on the ground.

Light is leaving the cave; the sun is setting.

“Yes.” Caedmon has nothing to hide, but he feels as though he has wounded Visu in a way that he cannot imagine.

“I am ashamed. I do not deserve to call myself a father. I do not deserve to live. I cannot return to face them, not my

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family, not now.” Visu sits in the dirt of the cave, not moving but to weep. Eventually he falls asleep. And Caedmon dreams with him. †† In his dreams, Visu is dressed as a samurai. The imagery of what surrounds him is unlike anything Visu has ever imagined.

The weaving of a dream is complex and caries its own logic.

A dream created of two minds creates a fabric so dense and interwoven that it echoes truth. And changes truth.

His black and blue armor glistens in the heat of his surroundings. Sitting atop a dragon, he feels himself diving down, deeper and deeper into red flames. At first he thinks the flames are coming from the dragon, but they do not. The flames are as liquid. And the dragon swims through them as an eagle swims through clouds.

Visu travels to the center of the earth through magma atop his scaled steed. He feels the heat of his wife’s body pressed against him as though the armor he wears is made of her very skin. He feels the support of his katana. The weight of it in his hand comforts him. He knows that if he were to plunge the blade into any enemy it would not fail him. Were he to stick the blade into the very dragon upon which he rides, the scales would not resist his steel.

And yet the magma is hot. It shifts around him as shadows shift. He swings his blade and the magma parts for him like water before Moses. In the wake of the flaming waves, a great tree.

The tree is surrounded by the fire liquid, but Visu knows he must hack it down. And so he rides his dragon around the branch, which must be thousands of miles long. And as he rides, he circles the wood, chopping and hacking with his blade. With each whack, he does not hear the familiar thud of splintering wood; instead, he hears the laughter of a child. He slices down over and over again, each time the laughter growing more and more boisterous.

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Unnerving, it morphs into the cackling of a child being tickled and thrown into the air. Visu feels hot tears come down his face, but as they reach his chin, they ignite. His face becomes so hot that his mask melts from him, and yet the tears still fall.

The tree begins to yield beneath his blade, but his tears have now begun falling down to his body armor. As before, the tears turn into flames. And the warmth that once reminded him of his wife now feels more like someone is wrapping his body with flaming vines. The tears circle down his arm, cracking their black obsidian plating. He begins to attack the tree with more and more fervor, but the laughter of the child continues to morph and change from laughter to screaming, and every time his blade strikes the tree he hears the scream not of a child, but of a mother. And as he hears the scream he is able to see her bloody face. And he knows that he knows her. And he knows she is dead. And he knows it is his fault. †† Visu awakens to a paradoxical sight. The sky outside of the cave is dark; stars do not shine, nor the moon. There is light, but it is not the silver light he is accustomed to seeing at night. The light is the red of fire. He runs toward the mouth of the cave, but he is knocked off balance by shaking all around. It is now that he realizes that the mountain he is inside of is vibrating violently. Caedmon thinks, “What is this mountain called?”

But he knows the answer before he finishes the question: Fuji.

Images and videos of volcanic eruptions play through his mind.

Visu sees them too and understands. The two work together to scramble to the opening of the cave to see what they feared the most: the hillside is alight with bright orange lava. Fear takes them both by the throat and they cannot breathe. Smoke is filling the cave, and they sputter for clean air. They reach out of the cave mouth toward where their home is, and a string of molten rock drips down from the upper lip of the cavern and lands on their hand. A hole burns straight through it. They scream and hold up their hand to the sky and watch as the hole slowly fills.

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But the lower lips of the cave has caught the string of hot rock and as they step backwards into the cave, they slowly watch as their only way out becomes filled with lava, which cools so fast that it forms a solid wall over the opening of the cave. They don’t know what to do. Images of Shenji and Katara float before them. Another harsh vibration lays them out on the floor, and rocks from the top of the cave begin to fall behind them.

They are trapped in a 15-foot square, blocked by rubble behind and a screen of hot, black igneous rock in front. They know that even if their way were open, they wouldn’t be able to make it to the bottom of the mountain without their feet melting off. All they can do is scream and cry and pray that their family makes it to the boats before the words ignite in flame.

They plead to God that his family does not wait for him, but goes to the boats. They bang their hands on the cave walls until their knuckles bleed, only to watch the blood vanish, which makes them want to hit the walls more. †† After a few hours, the mountain has stopped shaking and only they shake and quiver. In the dark, they pick up their axe and walk to the smooth rock wall covering the cave’s exit. They feel this new wall and see that though it is scorching hot, they could now make it down the mountain if they break out.

So they lift their axe, as they have done many times, and let it fly at the wall. They hear the dull clang of their steel losing its edge on the rock, but they do not care. They can also hear the cracking of the rock. They swing and swing until they see small pockets of light begin to peak through the black rock. But before they can break through, their axe head snaps off of the wooden shaft. Through the red light now peering in, they see the black rock dust covering their hands mixed with the dull maroon of dried blood.

They feel their limbs fill with rage and hate for the rock, and they scream as they punch the hard warm surface with their fists. This is an unfamiliar motion for this body and

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comes slowly at first. The pain that comes from every hit on the stone is eventually dulled. His fists stop bleeding as he continues to punch, scar tissue building and bones toughening.

Large chunks of rock begin loosening from the cave and falling outward. They feel powerful, but also impotent. They take out their frustration on the rock; as sunlight spills into the cave they know they will be too late to save their family. And as they break through enough to squirm out, they do not pause long enough to rest. They get to their feet and begin to run down the mountain. The shoes they are wearing begin to ignite and melt, so they kick them off.

Running barefoot down the smooth mountain, the flesh on the bottoms of their feet begins to smoke and then burn. But every time they lift a foot, the fire snuffs out, and the skin is replaced with tougher stuff until they no longer feel the pain of running and increase their speed. Eventually their sprinting doesn’t seem fast enough, and they leap down the mountain.

After only a few jumps they hit horizontal land and begin to sprint once again toward home.

Tears stream from their eyes as they reach the place where their house had stood. They can see from many yards out that the house is shorter than it should be, that half of it is covered by black rock. It has clearly been on fire as the once white and blue exterior is now black and charred. The roof has collapsed in on the small remains.

They enter one step at a time, calling out the name of their wife and child, wailing because of the futility of it all. They see no signs of them anywhere, not even bones. Hope remains that they are alive. They begin to walk the path they imagine they might have run if they had been in the fields when the volcano erupted. They traced their way toward water, scanning from side to side to make sure they don’t miss anything. The closer they get to where they know the shore is, the more hopeful they become about their prospects.

But as they enter the final valley before the landing of the shore, they are horrified by what they see. Charred bones stick out from the black rock everywhere. Apparently many made

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it to the valley, but people were too slow in making the climb back up to where the shore is. They begin checking the remains, all are blackened, many have the skin peeling away from their corpses, but they can recognize many of them. About one hundred of them had made the crossing, searching for new land and a fresh start. At least fifty lay here, but they know Katara; she is strong.

They are making their way closer to the rock wall that separates the valley from the shore. The last person they see is covered from the waist down in rock, but her arms are uplifted, pressed against the ridge. As they approach, they know it is her. Memories of their meeting flood their mind, stealing away in the night to make love, the child born to them, building their new home together. First, all of the major moments invade their mind like a flood, leaving behind the tiny stones and pebbles of memories. As they look around her, they do not see the boy. She would have carried him until the end; they know this. She’s not bent down looking for him in the rock, and so they know: her last act was pushing him upward to be taken by someone else to the boats that he might live.

Her charred remains sticking up from the hardened lava are black. The chart peals away with the slightest touch. Her head is completely hairless, burned off during her desperate climb to the boats.

They stroke the back of her head and climb the rock face to the beach. There are no boats in sight. They are all gone. They believe that their son has survived. He has gone to another island.

They fall on their knees into the white sand and burry their faces. Tears, wailing, screams. This is so unjust, the woman they love, the son they raised, both taken from them just as they discover their own immortality. They mourn the loss of their wife, but they praise God for the safety of their son.

They take a deep breath in and separate.

“You won’t go after him will you?” Caedmon says out loud through Visu’s mouth.

“No. I do not deserve him. He has a fresh start now, as I have had. Even if I wanted to, there are no trees for which to chop

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and make a boat. No, I will wait and bury these dead.” Visu also said this aloud. “Caedmon, I don’t understand all of what has happened to us, but I will tell you this: these experiences move in a circle. If you had not come, would I have been able to save my family? Or would they have both died? I don’t think there is any way to know. But I know that my pain is also your pain. My loss, your loss. I suspect this series of events has happened before and will happen again. We are granted glimpses of true beauty in the world, but it is not right for us to possess them. My son, I must let go, at least for now.”

The two look out as the sun sinks into the ocean. Caedmon nods Visu’s head, coughs twice and leaves him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

A firm hand grabbed Caedmon by the shoulder and shook him awake. Visu was standing above him in a black suit; he looked as though he had not slept in a long time. Caedmon was lying in the bed from before, but he was on top of the itchy, uncomfortable comforter and fully clothed. It was likely that he had simply been carried down.

“You have been out for two days, but I planned for that.” Visu seemed different, less guarded, less aggressive. Tears formed in Caedmon’s eyes while looking at him. “He does not know at what point in my life you joined with me. I would like him to not know. I would like to know what you have learned.”

Caedmon begged himself not to cry, “I know you.” Caedmon quivered, “I remember everything so vividly. You were such a good man. You truly loved your family. The Root may have given you eternal life, but you are definitely not one who would seek Its power for your own sake. I have learned about you, and I don’t understand why you are here, working for him.”

Caedmon broke down into sobs.

“It is okay for you to cry; my loss was your loss. For you, the loss just happened. I have certainly cried many times since it happened, although it was long ago. But you know why I have

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worked for—” he paused here, collected his thoughts and said, “Him. What was the last thing we discussed on the beach? Do you remember?”

Caedmon wiped away the tears and snot from his face. He knew he was an ugly crier. “You said you were thankful for me coming because it meant that your son lived. But what does that have to do with—“ “Caedmon, I have been a slave to the future, to you, since that day. Every decision I have made has brought me closer to working for the man I saw in your mind, has brought me closer to finding you, to hitting that mother and her daughter. I knew I had to do those specific things if I was going to make sure that my son lived.” Caedmon blew his nose on a tissue from the box on the nightstand. “Everything that I saw in myself through your memories I had to make happen, but now time has caught up with me, and I am free.”

The burden of expectation. The maneuvering of a life to meet such a specific set of expectations seemed impossible.

Caedmon was beginning to appreciate what was being said to him. “But, let’s say,” Visu continued, “That although I have made sure that I followed each part of your memories of me to a T, I have not been the blind follower of Michael that you believed me to be.” He said this last part so quietly that Caedmon wondered if they were being monitored.

Caedmon was not sure what to do. He didn’t think Visu would try to trick him; there was a bond between them now that was not easily quantifiable. “Caedmon, let me begin by telling you the third test, and then I will tell you my plan.”

Caedmon could not have mustered a grain of interest in his task this point; he was still grieving the loss of his son and wife.

But he nodded. Visu looked into his eyes, “We know you have been contacted by Kidu. Your third task is to lead us to him.”

Visu waited for this to sink in. “But let me say this, and look at me because I want you to understand: he is instrumental to our plan. How can I find him?”

Caedmon of course knew that Kidu now went by the name of Brad Shamhat and that his business card was in his wallet in

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his back pocket, but this was his only piece of reserved information. It was the one thing he had and knew that Merlyn did not.

He was not comfortable just handing it over. But something about the way Visu had looked at him, or said those words, or something reassured him that everything was going to be okay.

He reached into his pocket, removed the card and handed it over to Visu with a look that meant something like: I hope you know what you’re doing. Visu winked, flipped open his phone, punched in some numbers, closed it and put it away.

As soon as the phone was in his pocket, Merlyn entered the room with Dane beside him. They were both beaming the same stupid grin.

“Welcome Caedmon. Welcome to our ‘Little Club.’ We don’t have an official name or anything, but we do have amazing life insurance! And thank you for this,” he said, pulling the card from Visu’s hand. “It truly shows your commitment.”

Caedmon sat on the bed looking puffy-eyed and feeling anything but celebratory. There was still the blood of an infant on his shirt and slacks that had now hardened like acrylic paint.

Merlyn positively beamed as he took out his own phone, looked at the number and sent a text to someone. “So now what? Do I get to go to your secret lair?”

Merlyn looked a bit taken aback. “Oh my, what a snap! We will be going to our little ‘clubhouse,’ yes. But, Caedmon, if you don’t wish to go, then you shan’t. I thought this was what you wanted? You gave a lot to get here.”

Caedmon willed his response from his mouth, “Yeah, I just had kind of a traumatic experience. I’m sorry if I seem a little annoyed.” Visu looked at him, eyes wide as if to say: shut up before you blow this whole thing. “Let’s go.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Caedmon watched as they passed out of the Boston city limits and made their way into the countryside. He was expecting a long trip, but it turned out that they were headed for Concord.

They had given him a chance to change, and had once again provided him with a very nice outfit. Caedmon had been here many times in college on American author tours and to see houses of historic significance. He had once had a girlfriend that made him go see Louisa May Alcott’s house. That had been one of the worst experiences of his college years: “What do you mean you don’t know the difference between Little House On the Prairie and Little Women?” But he did enjoy Walden Pond and the Hawthorne stuff. But Concord is definitely a fall spot.

Going in the summer was hot and miserable. As he passed the green trees lining the road, he began contemplating the kind of place they were going. No one was saying a word to anyone else, so what else was there but to contemplate?

His mind drifted to his former life. Family video seemed so far away from him now, but it had only been a few days. He wondered how Renee was doing. Did she miss him? Was she worried that he hadn’t been home? In retrospect he considered what a positive force she was in his life. She knew more about

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him than most: school history, parents, and not to mention knowledge of a more intimate nature.

He hoped Brad was okay. He did not really trust him, or buy in to what he said, but he appreciated the fact that he was against Merlyn’s façade. Caedmon had not figured everything out, but he knew that Merlyn was an ass, a magical and immortal ass. And no matter how immortal one is, an ass is an ass.

They pulled into a long gravel driveway, which twisted and curved through trees until they reached a large house which brought to mind the word “Manor” as in “Wayne Manor” or “Gatsby Manor,” or some other billionaire’s manor. There were spires and gables and a grey and red brick edifice. A large arched doorway was weighed down by a black iron door. Dane turned the large brass knob in the center of the left half of the door and pushed. The left side of the great door opened and Caedmon walked into a brilliantly illuminated palace.

The Czar’s Summer Home was the only place Caedmon could think of that matched this place in beauty and opulence. “So much for laying low,” Caedmon muttered to himself. Doesn’t the Government know you’re here? How low of a profile does a place like this allow you?”

Merlyn chuckled, “Well we built this on our own, runs off of our own cold fission power generator. And we don’t really need the government for anything, not even sewage or water.

Self-Reliance at its best, I’d say. Which is appropriate considering our surroundings. Now, Dane will take you upstairs to your room. Prepare yourself; your entry ritual will take place in about one hour, provided I can find Akinro. Damned, spidery bitch.” Merlyn said this last part loud enough to be heard by anyone within ten rooms of the foyer, but as there were at least 30 rooms in the house, there was no guarantee it had been heard at all.

Dane led Caedmon up the grand staircase with its plush green carpet. “What, no marble?” Caedmon said. Dane replied, as per the usual, with no words or in fact any indication that he had heard anything at all. They walked past several rooms on the second floor. Some of them had a few not so curious

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people in them, one was a ballroom with a grand piano, and one was a massive library, which—if he were being honest— made Caedmon’s stomach lurch, but just a little. And then they reached his room. He opened it to see a space at least twice the size of his basement home. There was a collection of books on the bookshelf, which on first glance may have been chosen specifically for him, containing both his favorites and many that he wished to read. He opened his armoire to see a collection of clothing very similar to the things one might see in a J Crew store front. A large plush bed was covered in a goose down comforter of light blue. The room itself might have been coated in honey. The walls glistened as though a malleable and translucent rock face coated the walls. He had heard of the Amber Room in Pushkin, but he was looking at one here (he resisted the urge to check for fossilized mosquitos). As he continued the tour of his room, he saw a collection of rapiers (though he didn’t know why, he had never used one), a desk with a turntable on the end of it, a lower shelf containing about one hundred albums on vinyl, and a mini fridge filled with several different kinds of beverages, and in response to all of these things, Caedmon was able to say, “Cool.” And he meant it.

He then noticed the two doors: one looked as though it would open into a closet; the other seemed more important.

And indeed when he opened it he saw that he had his own bathroom, complete with clawfoot bathtub and collection of new, fluffy, turquoise towels.

“That’ll be all, Jeeves,” Caedmon said in his best Merlyn voice. And with that, Dane left, closing the door to his bedroom behind him. Surrounded by all of this, well this stuff, Caedmon wanted to be uncomfortable. This went completely against his past few years of trying to be a non-conformist. He was not one to be bogged down by the material possessions of this world. All he needed was Bob Ross.

Apparently, he had been predictable enough that someone who had been in his mind once was able to create a place filled with everything he could have wanted—even, yes, there was even a shelf containing thousands of comic books. He felt a

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bit embarrassed by his love of super heroes, but if these people had been in his mind, they knew far more embarrassing things about him.

Deciding to make himself at least presentable to the awaiting public, Caedmon took a shower. The water was hot and highly pressurized, exactly how he, and he supposed everyone else in the world, liked it. So maybe the shower hadn’t been customized to his tastes, but as the water dripped off of his finger tips in curved lines, he reflected on how carefully everything else had been chosen. Interests he hadn’t pursued in years had a place here in his room.

At this point his muscles seemed to have stopped changing.

He had a firm and well defined physique. His nails, still dribbling water, hadn’t been cut in a few weeks he knew, and yet they showed the most well manicured thin line of white at their tips. He wondered if his body was in some kind of stasis. Not changing. Would his hair still grow?

Were these appropriate thoughts for an immortal to consider while in the shower? Did he still need to shower?

He put on one of the outfits already assembled in his wardrobe and felt very much like a child whose mother has set out clothes on the bed for Sunday. But he put them on, admitted to himself that they looked good, and that whoever is providing him with clothing has pretty great—albeit expensive—taste. He transferred his only possessions: his lighter, wallet and pocketknife into his new pockets inside his new pants.

Walking out of his room he knew the one place he wanted to visit before he went down was the library. Entering the room, Caedmon was overwhelmed with the scent of Lemon Pine-sol; someone must come in here and dust every day. He was a bit discouraged that he wasn‘t able to smell the old book smell he had been expecting. The room was covered in exquisite wood with brass trimmings; the brass was so highly polished that each point reflected every light in the room, giving the place a movieesque feel. The books stretched to the top of what Caedmon thought must be a 30-foot ceiling. There were standard Beauty and the Beast sideways-rolling ladders, and Caedmon admitted

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that for a moment he was Belle swishing around the library trying to find “more than this provincial life.”

As he inspected the books, he realized that though many of the covers were new, the pages inside were old, old to the point of crumbling in some cases. And they were all in different languages; some he recognized, many he had never even seen. He was extremely surprised to see that he could read the books written in Latin perfectly, which he supposed he owed to Minerva. After that little perk he went over to a book in Japanese but was only to make out some of the most simple words: go, come, food, water. “You must be disappointed,” came Visu’s voice from behind him, “Remember that when you met me I was only a woodsman; I had had no education at that point in my life.”

Caedmon let out a slight chuckle, “Well, if nothing else, I gained an excellent understanding of how to chop down a tree.”

“Yes, I bet you did.” Visu was smiling for the first time since Caedmon had met him. “We are ready for you downstairs.”

“Look Visu, I—” Visu cut him off by putting his hand on Caedmon’s shoulder. “It is all right, as I have told you; I have had time to heal.

I am more concerned for you. What do you think of all this?”

Tears flooded Caedmon’s eyes; he was not prepared for Visu’s touch. Wiping his eyes, he said, “It’s a lot. I feel like I could never ask enough questions about all of this or what my role is. Everything is happening so fast: just this morning I was morning the loss of my, I mean your family. How is that driving for two hours has made all of the events of the past few days feel like they happened a lifetime ago?”

“Well I can tell you it is not the drive that makes you feel this way. It is your new perspective. What once felt so close is so far away from you now.”

“But I’m not sure I want that. Maybe we could talk about your family?”

“Later. You and I will have some work together after your final test. We can talk with more openness then.”

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Caedmon nodded, but as he walked out, something else caught his eye. They were tablets; there must have been 12 or 13 of them. They were protected behind glass, but they were ancient. And as Caedmon walked past them, he was able to see that he was indeed able to read them. The first tablet seemed to tell the story of a crazy king and his wild man friend. It sounded interesting to Caedmon, but he would have to wait to read it.

He followed Visu back down the main staircase, felt the give and spring of the carpet under each step as he made his descent.

They turned and walked through the dining room, through the kitchen until they were in a room that may have one time been called “the parlor.” Once there, Visu stopped, “This next part is going to seem a bit cliché to you, but understand that it is necessary and not at all for show. Also understand that at this point there is no going back. If you have any hesitations, you should have already left.” Visu said this, but he was still smiling, as though now all of this was one big joke.

“Yeah, yeah, let’s go,” and Caedmon waited. The room had maps and bookshelves and several plush chairs. He assumed Visu would pull on the secret book or tug the candlestick to the right of the fireplace. Visu walked to the corner and lightly kicked inward on the baseboard running behind a bookshelf.

The large bookshelf slid to the side. Amazing how something so large could be held in place by one slat of wood. The two men walked over and slid the bookshelf over the rest of the way and walked immediately down the stone stairway. Visu let Caedmon go first so that he could slide the bookshelf back over until he heard the loud click of the baseboard sliding forward into place.

The passageway was not, as Caedmon had assumed, lit with candlesticks or torches. A mass of cobwebs was not waiting for him. Instead, LED sconces lighted the way; there was a well-polished handrail that curled downward with the stairs. There was no dust, or grime. It was the cleanest secret passage Caedmon had ever heard of. It was almost not as fun because of how not spooky it was. But then again, it was his first real secret passage: who was he to judge? Beautiful tapestries lined the passageway down, and they walked on a plush red carpet.

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Caedmon reached a landing that opened up into a circular corridor with three doors. This was more like what he had been hoping for. In the middle of the stone floor was a mosaic of a large tree. Small green and brown tile broke up the image and the grout between each tile was an unblemished white. Surrounding the tree were circles of various sizes and colors. Caedmon thought the circles must represent planets or the solar system. It was beautifully crafted and seemed fitting.

The three doors were all made of steel and looked extremely heavy to Caedmon. The leftmost door had a symbol that looked like a single flame in the center of it, also crafted from a dense metal. The middle door had the same tree-like image that was sketched on the sticky note in the USS Constitution, only now the lines were drawn much more precisely. The tree symbol must be how they identify themselves, thought Caedmon. The third door, the one to the right, had the outline of a square with four lines running vertically inside. Caedmon was unsure what the image could be since the Roman numeral for the number four was IV, not IIII. This was a question he would have to ask later as Visu had already unlocked the leftmost door bearing the flame and pulled it open. Obediently, Caedmon walked through the door with the flame and froze as several faces stared at him.

“Come and sit Caedmon,” came a voice from inside the room. Caedmon didn’t recognize the voice, but it was thickly African, and very deep, and very soothing. Caedmon entered the room and saw that at least twenty people were standing in a circle around a large cushion. All of the people wore perfectly fitted clothing, and none of them matched one another. The skinny, dark woman smiled with large white teeth. “I suppose you were expecting us to be wearing cloaks with hoods drawn over our heads? Unfortunately, nothing so dramatic will be occurring here today, at least externally.”

Caedmon looked from face to face. He saw Dane and Merlyn, Minerva was there, as was Visu, but the other 75% of the circle he had not met. “Hello,” Caedmon said with a wave

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to everyone. A few returned his wave with a smile; others simply looked annoyed that they had to waste time being there.

“You will have time to meet everyone after your journey, my friend. For now, just know that my name is Akinro, and that I will be your guide for the beginning of this trip. Now, please sit here,” she said, indicating the cushion. Caedmon’s legs crossed on the plush cushion and, for the first time since he was a small child, his legs did not fall asleep while he did it.

“I am going to tell you a story,” Akinro said as groans came from the collective audience. “Shut up, haters.” This came out more as: shawt awp haytaaz. “This will be a short story, but without it, you will not be able to successfully navigate the induction. You, I suspect, know a bit about the history of the Root, but I do not think you know Its history before it became what we call Earth. You see, God—yes, the God—long ago had this Root as a part of his own body. Which means as we consume It, we consume God. We move from being made in his image to actually taking on his characteristics and abilities. Today is the day that you meet him, or her, or whatever you wish to call the Being God; we like to say that God is beyond anything as limiting as gender, just as we are beyond humanity. In many myths and religions, man was made from dirt or clay or what have you, but something happens—a god intervenes, a breath is given, et cetera—that takes the dirt and makes something more of it. The Golem becomes man. You have taken the next step past this. You are now beyond man, and it is time for you to meet your maker. You, this piece of clay, are about to be formed and fired. If you do this successfully, and don’t die or have your eyes burned out in the process, then you will be one of us.”

“Umm, okay, well, I suppose I’m past the point of turning back, but is losing my eyes a real possibility?” Caedmon grabbed the glass next to him and held it to his lips.

“Well, you are an immortal now; you would heal if your eyes burned out. We think. Wait for my signal,” Akinro said. She sauntered up to Caedmon and stretched out her long, spindly fingers. All ten points at the end of Akinro’s hands were placed

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on pressure points on Caedmon’s face. “When I begin to sing, you may drink.”

Caedmon waited a moment and then heard the strangest hum emanate from Akinro. Her tan silk blazer visibly shook from her chest to her ebony hands. The hum spanned three octaves and pierced through Caedmon’s ears. He began drinking the liquid from the metallic cup, and Akinro’s hum changed from octaves to chords; she was perfectly harmonizing with herself. And Caedmon felt as though he were no longer sitting, but vibrating all over.

Everything went black and he immediately saw the Earth—all of it at once. He could see through to the center, he could touch it and spin it. The vibrations continued until Caedmon was no longer the only thing shaking and vibrating; the entire planet, the solar system was as well. He began moving backwards from Earth and watched as it shrank and other celestial bodies flew past him. He felt no force, but as these orbs and gasses flew past him they all seemed to dance up and down with this hum. He felt the void of space so infinite and also considered the space between atoms: equally infinite.

And Caedmon understood that this was the sound of creation, that all things moved perfectly in sync with the notes he was feeling, and that every part of him also moved within this divine rhythm. †† Caedmon stops. He is the ultimate third person now as he looks out and sees the entire expanse of the known universe at one time. The billions of light-years that our universe covers, Caedmon sees as though they are only an inch long. When he looks at it, he sees everything he once knew as though it were a single bulb on a light bright. And his view pans to the right until the universe is out of view. It is now that he feels it: heat.

Flames like he has never seen before. The lava he encountered as Visu was external to his body, but this—this was like having every molecule and nerve of his being simultaneously burned

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by a match. He feels as though every part of his life is on fire; although, he knows that none of his body parts have traveled with him. It is almost impossible to tolerate, and Caedmon remembers what Akinro said about having his eyes burned out of their sockets and tries to close his eyelids.

He does not have any eyelids to close, so he is left with a burning view of a pure white blaze. A single light.

Caedmon can do nothing but wait. He cannot speak, because he has no mouth; he cannot gesture, because he has no body.

But he is very aware that if he stares at this brightness much longer, he won’t be able to see anything else ever again. A reverberation comes from the fire that is so thick, Caedmon can see and perceive every wave of sound as though it were a wave in a bathtub. Everything around him changes as the vibration comes forth and as the sound reaches Caedmon, he finds his mind can focus on nothing else. The sound is beautiful and terrible. It encompasses every note and every song, every rhythm and every verse. How foolish to talk about this Being as a man or woman!

How foolish to even attempt to describe this feeling or experience! How ridiculous to consider all of the recorded stories of people throughout history claiming to have encountered God! And although he knows he could never hope to fully comprehend the sound he has just heard, he does understand the message: “You have journeyed a long way my child. You are part of me as I am a part of you. What it is that you desire?”

Caedmon thinks back to every viewing of Aladdin he had as a child, every conversation he had with friends about what they would wish for if they could have anything. He thinks of everything from super powers to more wishes, but his mind settles on a Sunday school story from when he was very young indeed. He remembers Solomon, to whom God asked a similar question, and Solomon asked for wisdom. God responds by being impressed by his request and giving him everything else a human could want as well. But Caedmon does not have a strong desire for anything in particular. He doesn’t really want money or women or fame, he doesn’t really desire a super intellect either. He decides to settle for understanding.

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And as soon as he thinks it, this being to whom the term “God” seems inadequate, exerts from itself another long vibration and Caedmon feels himself being plunged backwards. The lights and nebulas, asteroids and planetoids he saw on his way to see the Being fly past him as though they are thin lines of light. Everything he sees, he sees as though through goggles which have a bit of water trapped inside.

This isn’t like before; he is not surrounded in darkness only able to see one person; he is able to see everything. With a thought he can move the sun forward or backwards; the world bends to his desire and understanding. As he looks around he sees a wood covered in dense green leaves. Perhaps it is better to say when he wishes to turn around, the world spins and rotates.

Having acclimated to his position he begins to move through the woods, or more accurately, he shifts the forest so that the trees move past him.

And he sees her. Siduri.

The woman from his first vision is moving carefully from tree to tree. She wears a flowing green dress that fits her snuggly on top, but still allows for a full range of motion. Her dark hair is worn half up, and her dark skin seems out of place in these woods. She is looking backwards in the direction from which she has come. Caedmon moves the sun forward faster, speeding up her movements as though he is fast-forwarding a VHS tape. As the sun fades, Siduri’s face starts looking more frightened. He slows the tape of the world back to its normal speed and Siduri is at a creek. She is not out of breath exactly, but Caedmon gets the distinct impression that she has been running for days. A shadow moves toward her in the dark; Siduri hears it, but before she can turn, the shadow is on her, clutching her hair.

A glint of silver in the dark, a slight crunching sound as a spike is driven through the back of her skull. Siduri collapses forward. Caedmon spins the world around him and sees that the attacker is Merlyn. And with only a thought, Caedmon finally sees the connection: Michael and Brad; Merlyn and Kidu; Gíl and Siduri.

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Merlyn is wearing the full mage robe Caedmon had always seen in video games. He really was passing himself off as a wizard. Caedmon hears something harsh and grating on his ears, and he realizes that Merlin is doing the same thing to Siduri that he had done to Dane aboard the Constitution. He has placed one thumb on her forehead and is humming. But he keeps stopping and starting. It is not as fluid and practiced as it was with Dane. But finally he stops and stands next to her with his eyes closed. Now she stands, limply, and walks up the creek.

Merlyn follows.

And Caedmon observes a sort of film surrounding Siduri as though she now had a barrier around her. He considers how easily a person with the Root can enter into another’s consciousness and decides that this silver rod inserted into Siduri’s neck must not only make her malleable to Merlyn’s will, but also shields her from joining with others mentally.

They continue walking only a short way before the unfortunate pair arrives at a small waterfall not more than 10 feet tall.

Caedmon watches as Merlyn stands, eyes open, considering all that is around him. Closing his eyes once more, he points at the waterfall and Siduri begins walking toward it. Caedmon reaches out to her, he tries to inhabit her body again, but he is blocked. Whenever he attempts to touch her his fingers hit the same waves of sound that he saw when the Supreme Being vibrated. Understanding that he could do nothing but gain understanding from this experience, Caedmon allows her to walk into the waterfall.

She enters what must be a cave behind the curtain of water and does not come out, Merlyn opens his eyes and their grey irises reflect anger and sadness in the moonlight. He climbs the short distance to the top of the waterfall and begins hitting the rocks with his hands. Caedmon is reminded of himself trying to escape the inside of the volcano with Visu. Merlyn pounds and pounds and with each hit Caedmon prays that Siduri will escape from the cave, but she does not. Caedmon sends the moon flying through the sky and just as day breaks, Merlyn gets what he wants: the top of the waterfall begins to collapse.

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Merlyn smiles and stands. He lowers his body, bending at the knees and jumps, and the old man sails what must be 60 feet in the air and comes down hard on his feet. With the final blow, what once was a waterfall becomes a simple stream moving at a hard slope.

Merlyn sits satisfied with his slight alteration to the earth. He appears to be waiting, but Caedmon cannot stand to simply sit and watch the old man’s gloating face any more. He manipulates the earth yet again and watches as the sun moves over the sky, then the moon, then the sun again, and as evening comes, a man stands at the bottom of the creek bed. Caedmon stops and sees exactly the person he was expecting to see: Kidu, the man he met at Family Video going under the name “Brad.”

Caedmon hears words spoken, but they are old, and muffled. He feels like he is listening through saran wrap. Kidu begins yelling, but Merlyn only sits and laughs. Caedmon sees comprehension dawn on Kidu’s face; he looks away and begins to cry. Clenching his fists and shaking, Kidu asks a question to which Merlyn simply replies with a nod.

The next thing Caedmon sees is the two men fighting. They fight as they have fought for centuries, for millennia, since the beginning of stories. They move with grace, like acrobats, but whenever a fist or foot connects the target, the force of the blow leaves indentations in the body. But they continue, and without needing to fast-forward or watch the end, Caedmon knows what the result will be. Merlyn is strong, but his old body is still old, and Kidu’s is still in in its prime. For every blow Merlyn lands, Kidu lands two. Finally, Merlyn is lying on his back, arms and legs twisted and broken for the moment, face covered in blood. Kidu sits on top of him. Merlyn cannot move, and Kidu hits him, and hits him. He continues his assault until Merlyn’s face has been kneaded like dough. Finally, he stops and watches as Merlyn’s face reconfigures itself. But that same self-satisfied smile is upon it as it reforms and Kidu understands that no matter how much damage he does, he will not get the result he seeks.

Kidu stands, tears sticking to his face, and says something at a whisper to Merlyn, who begins laughing. And as Kidu walks

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away, Merlyn only continues to laugh, harder and harder, with more and more force until his head is crooked backwards and he is rolling on the dirt and river mud laughing.

Kidu disappears into the jungle, and Caedmon has seen enough to understand, and so the world becomes dissolved in waves. Everything breaks apart in pixels of sound. And Caedmon is now moved by the waves and he feels himself bobbing up and down until every part of him is nothing. †† Caedmon let out two long, deep sighs and opened his eyes and saw that everyone was staring at him intently. His legs were no longer criss-cross applesauce, but were in a perfect lotus form.

“Well, your eyes did not burn out, and you are looking around pretty good. Tell us what you saw.” These words came from Akinro, who seemed more excited at the prospect of a good story than the information to come.

Caedmon was not sure what to say. He did not understand loyalties here; he did not know what he could say about his vision and what was not okay. He closed his eyes and thought for a moment. “I saw Earth and then I saw God, or something beyond anything I had ever imagined God could be.”

Akinro replied, “Ah yes, it is funny how easily churches and religions throw out the words ‘awesome’ and ‘powerful’ but still believe that they understand the will of God; they almost always neglect the word ‘terrible.’ But describe your talk, show us what happened.” Akinro moved in close to him, indicating that he could tell only her and no one else within the circle need know.

Caedmon did something funny then. Instead of describing his talk with God, if “talking” can be said to have even happened. Caedmon began to hum. He did not know where it came from, but he knew that it started with his chest. The sound was strong and deep, but as Caedmon considered the feeling he had experienced while in His/Her/Its presence, he also began using his falsetto and the two sounds blended in and out of beautiful harmonies. As he made these sounds, he no

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longer saw the people around him. He saw the universe as he had while transcending, but this was different, like a painting of a mountain compared to being on a mountain. He was not telling them what happened; he was showing them. He knew that all of the people in the circle could see what he was seeing.

This excited and frightened him and as soon as he got to the point in his story painting when he asked for understanding, he stopped humming.

He looked around the circle and everyone seemed deeply impressed. Some of them made eye contact with him for the first time, mouths open. Anyone who had looked bored earlier no longer even pretended to be disinterested.

Merlyn spoke. “Well, it seems we have a storyteller. I wonder if the understanding you gained was this ability, or if something else happened?” Merlyn’s gaze was fierce. He seemed to punch a hole through Caedmon with his eyes, but Caedmon did not care, for once he knew something Merlyn did not. He knew Merlyn himself. He no longer feared Merlyn’s understanding of the world because he understood Merlyn. And he now understood who Merlyn truly was.

Akinro laughed, “Don’t be sore just because the boy here has learned the Word of God after only a week and it took you a thousand years! Remember he had me as his guide, a gift you didn’t have until only a few hundred years ago.” Merlyn clearly did not appreciate being spoken to as though he were the class screw up or being patronized by one whom he saw as beneath him. “All right everyone, back to your lives. Caedmon, why don’t you come with me? We shall eat and you can have a tour.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Akinro began the tour in the exact place Caedmon had hoped he would: the kitchen. There were no cooks sitting around waiting for instructions (they usually had catering for big meals).

Akinro opened the fridge, pulled out some deli packages of honey glazed ham and smoked turkey, French dressing, peppers, and Pepper Jack cheese. Then she crossed the kitchen to the pantry, removed a loaf of bread (honey wheat), untwisted the twisty tie saying, “I hate these things; they serve no purpose,” and pulled out two slices of bread.

“So what do you think of all of this?” Akinro said. Caedmon immediately recognized that this was the first time anyone had asked him how he was doing since this whole mess had begun.

As Akinro assembled what looked like was going to be a delicious sandwich, Caedmon said, “Well, to be honest, I’m not sure. I do realize that that answer does not make a whole lot of sense considering I was just given understanding from God Him/Her-self, but it’s the truth.” Akinro put the top slice of bread on, and Caedmon’s mouth began salivating. But Akinro did not hand him the sandwich.

“It’s better hot, trust me.” Akinro smiled and put the sandwich on a Panini grill. “Well, what is troubling you?” She asked

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the question, and even though she was nice, Caedmon got the impression that she did not really care.

“Well, I feel like I understand a lot about what’s going on here, but Merly-Michael,” Caedmon hesitated—he was going to take a risk here—“I just don’t understand him. Sometimes he seems all right, but other times, he seems kind of sleazy. I don’t think I trust him.” Akinro stared at him with bright grey eyes as the light on the panini press turned from red to green.

Prying the now perfect sandwich from the press, Akinro sighed and said, “Well, I suppose if you said those exact words to him, he would laugh it off and say that you shouldn’t. I will also add that you shouldn’t. I don’t trust a single person in this house. No one here is without an agenda of some kind, even you I think. But we stay here because even the company of those you cannot trust is better than no company at all. Here, eat. And by the way, feel free to call him ‘Merlyn’ or whatever you want around here. We all have many names.”

Caedmon tore into the sandwich; the crispness of the peppers was perfectly offset by the way his teeth sank in to the turkey and ham. And the French dressing was sweet and tingled the back edges of his tongue. “Pretty good huh?”

Caedmon nodded vigorously and said, “Can I please have some milk?” but with his mouth full, it came out more as, “curd erh purrs hugh su-ilk?”

Akinro laughed and got him a glass. Caedmon greedily drank down the whole glass in a few gulps and finished off the remainder of his sandwich. “I don’t think I’ve eaten in four days. How long can we go without food now?” It was the first time he’d even thought about food, but now he was genuinely curious.

Akinro took his dish to the sink and began spraying it down, washing away the bits of red dressing that had fallen to the plate. “I suppose your body could go without food until it dies, but it won’t die for many years. That’s a long time to be hungry; my guess is you would pray for death after a while. Aging works very different for us now.”

“Yeah, I noticed that there seems to be a range here. How

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exactly did Merlyn get to be so old? Was that just how old he was when he found the Root?”

“As a general rule, I do not like to talk about Merlyn behind his back. Words have a way of finding their way into his ears, and I have no problem with him. We try to stay out of each other’s way; we are neither of us saints. But I will say this: there are two possible explanations for Merlyn’s age. Either he was old when he found the Root, or he went a very long time without it and then found more.” Akinro looked at Caedmon closely, monitoring how he would receive these words. Caedmon thought for a long time and decided that there really is no way to tell from looking at her what the answer was. “Are you ready to begin our walk?”

Caedmon nodded, and the two left the kitchen.

The main floor of the house, which Caedmon thought of as “Merlyn’s Manor,” had several rooms. Caedmon had already seen the parlor, but there was also a grand dining room with a table large enough to accommodate at least thirty people. The table looked old, as if tens of thousands of meals had been served there. Connected to it was a waiting room, large and full of sofas, all of which were upholstered with rich leathers of muted colors. The waiting room also had a large fireplace, which if Caedmon were a betting man, would have bet hid another secret passage. So he asked, “How many secret passages are there in this place?”

Akinro looked at him without smiling, “Only the one.”

Caedmon became visibly uncomfortable at the icy reply, but Akinro laughed, “But let me tell you a secret,” pulling him in close. “My father’s house has many rooms, and not all of them are accessible to all.” Caedmon had the distinct impression that he was walking around the house with the best liar and joker of oral history.

And he was right.

They continued their tour into the map room, and as soon as they entered an owl-eyed man greeted them. “Hello, new friend. Come here and tell me what you see.” He gestured to Caedmon, who looked at Akinro for approval.

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Akinro simply laughed a deep-throated laugh. “You realize you are nearly a god now; you need not ask me for permission.”

Caedmon blushed and walked over to the owl-eyed man. He was young, maybe in his thirties when he found the Root. He wore a white linen shirt that went down to his knees and a pair of tan pants, probably also linen. His head was orbitally round at the top, but jutted to an acute angle from his cheekbones to his chin. He looked as though he were of Middle Eastern descent and had a thick, but well-groomed, goatee that wrapped all around his mouth. He was standing in front of a world map that covered the expanse of the 20-foot wall; at the top of the map were rolled up transparencies. Red dots were all over the map, with one blue dot. “What am I looking for exactly?”

Caedmon asked, approaching the map.

“Hmmm, well let’s test your deductive reasoning skills. What is this map showing? What do you think I am trying to find?”

The man spoke English with a British accent that Caedmon found irreconcilable with the pictures and stereotypes of Middle Eastern men with which he had been raised. He hoped his ignorance and misconceptions about the world would get cleared up before they were made plain to those in the house.

Caedmon stared at the map more intently. He saw a dot near Mt. Fuji in Japan, two dots in the Mesopotamian area, a dot on Mt. Olympus, a dot in England, and several more littering the map. He looked at America; there were two dots near Boston, one in the heart of the city, which was red, and one just to the north, which was the only blue dot. He understood. “This is a map of known locations of the Root. Mine is red because it has been removed, and the blue dot represents the Root growing within this house. My guess is that it is behind one of the other two doors in the basement. And that means you are looking for a pattern? You want to know where the next one will be?”

The man nodded his head vigorously, grinning from goatee tip to cheekbones. “Above, I have transparencies that I can lay over this map that show every regional break down, geographic landform, altitude level, and anything else one could hope to see.”

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“Caedmon, this is Seth: he is a man who puts pieces together.

Everything has its good and proper place, right?”

“With a wide enough perspective, everything fits inside of a system, even us. As a young man in Egypt, I wanted to believe things were different; that, if nothing else, at least we were different, but I now believe there is a pattern even for us.”

“Why the change of heart?”

“Well, to put it simply, I met Michael, though he had another name when I first met him. And he showed me the order of creation. You might say he educated me. But enough about the past; you and I are working toward the future right now. So tell me, what kind of map do you think has been the most helpful when looking for a pattern?”

Caedmon had no guess, but he was far less interested in these patterns than he was in this man’s relationship with Merlyn. “I don’t understand. If you figure it out someday, wouldn’t the first thing you do be to go visit yourself and tell yourself the answer?”

Seth waved him off, shaking his head. “No, no, I do not have the ability to visit others. I also can’t be a vessel. I used to visit others—that’s how I found Michael, but I lost it somewhere.

So I must try to understand this without the help of my future self.” And then, as if shaking off a bad thought, Seth continued, “Tectonic map of course! Today’s scientists believe that there are tectonic plates that move and shift, causing land to move, earthquakes, and erupting volcanoes. This is a misunderstanding of course—one that we have created.” Seth grins and shakes his hands. “We also started the belief that the core of the earth is impossibly hot magma. The Root is the Root of all of these things. It is the axis we spin on! Unfortunately, It grows like a root and is basically unpredictable.”

“But I thought scientists could predict tectonic shifts?”

Caedmon said thinking back to his one geology class in his entire life. “I remember my professor saying something about how Indiana is fifty years overdue for a massive earth quake?”

Seth released a sigh of exasperation. He was so excited about all of this and he didn’t understand why Caedmon was being

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intentionally difficult. Caedmon was of course just taking a while to absorb the fact that everything he had learned about the world itself was wrong.

What Galileo? The Earth moves around the sun? You must be stoned!

“I know and can predict how the Root will move based on Its history, but it is a descriptive prediction only! And it only predicts Its movement, not where It will bloom next.”

Akinro chimed in here. “Seth does not like my answer to this riddle.”

“That’s because your answer makes for a good story and accounts for nothing! You would have me believe that while the Root moves continually, It chooses where It will appear based on who will find It. As though a root could do such a thing.”

“But,” Caedmon said, tentative to point out a logical fallacy since his idea of logic was in a precarious position at the moment, “I thought you said everything had a system and an order? And I thought you guys said that we are consuming a part of God when we eat or drink the Root. Surely, if any Root could have consciousness it would be the one that is a piece of God. Right?”

Seth’s brown face turned red. “I was not lucky enough to ‘meet’ God, like some of you.” Caedmon had hit a nerve. “I must operate from my own experiences alone. And if you are going to continue to point out my shortcomings, perhaps you are not going to be as enlightening as I had hoped.” And with that, Seth stood and walked away without another word.

Caedmon wore an expression of guilt, but Akinro could not have looked happier. “Oh cheer up, that’s how all of my conversations end with him. The man has lost more than a few marbles along with his abilities. He is one of the great mysteries of the house, but don’t worry, he will not remember any specifics from your conversation, just general impressions.”

“You mean, he’ll know he left the conversation upset, but he won’t know why?” Caedmon didn’t understand. He thought the Root made people whole. How could Seth be so fractured?

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“When our memories fail us, emotions are what remain. He is more loyal to Merlyn than any man here, but he does not know why specifically, only that he feels connected to him. That conversation reminded me of something.” Akinro reached into the inside pocket of her tan silk blazer and pulled out a skeleton key. It was made of silver. “This is for the basement. One key will give you access to the fire room, where you were earlier. Three keys will give you access to the room containing the Root, and the master key will grant you entrance to the third room, which holds a laboratory of sorts.”

“Another lack of trust. Three keys are needed to open the room where the Root is? I suppose Michael has the master key?”

“You are correct,” came a new voice from behind them. It was Visu. He entered the thickly carpeted room soundlessly. “I will take him from here, Akinro.”

Akinro’s mood changed the instant she heard Visu’s voice.

Caedmon thought it looked as though Akinro might hit Visu.

“A shame. We were having a good time. He is much funnier than you.”

“I’m sorry if I do not find enjoyment in teasing those who have lost their minds.” Visu met Akinro’s stare and Caedmon used body language cues to pick up on the tension between the two. “Come Caedmon, there is much I need to show you.”

Akinro stepped in front of Caedmon and, in a very low but forceful tone, said, “You had better not fuck this up for the rest of us.”

Visu gave one long nod and Akinro began to walk by him, but as she did, Visu said, “Those who sit by passively will not have their voices heard when history is being made.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Caedmon watched as Akinro left the room. As soon as she left, Visu grabbed Caedmon’s arm and began pulling him to the rear of the house. They stepped out on the back veranda and Caedmon became instantly captivated by the view of the backyard. He momentarily forgot that he had been dragged outside; the veranda had a large grill and fire pit, and the yard was expansive. Rows of huge flowers Caedmon had never seen receded into a large open green space. And behind the open yard, Caedmon saw something he had dreamed of since he was a child: a large labyrinth made of 15-foot high hedges.

Unfortunately, Caedmon did not get to walk through the labyrinth, but was escorted to a small gazebo to the side of the clearing.

Talking in low hushed tones, Visu whispered to him urgently, “The final piece is in place. They have captured Brad, and they are bringing him here. It is time for us to move into the final part of the plan.”

Caedmon, wanting to sound not incompetent but also having no idea what was going on simply said, “Uh huh.”

“Akinro gave you your key, right? We will need it if this going to work.”

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Realizing that this was something he was probably not going to be able to fake his way through, Caedmon owned his ignorance. “I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Visu looked at him, jaw askew and offset.

“I was under the impression Brad had contacted you? Don’t you understand why you are here? What this is all for?” His voice was becoming harsh.

“Brad told me to watch what was going on and that I should leave my morals aside when deciding to join. That’s really all. I can’t say I fully understand everything, just that Merlyn is kind of a monster. You guys have a plan that involves me, and now Brad is captured? I don’t see how those two things fit together.”

“But Brad told you what he wants? He wants to disperse the healing properties of the Root to everyone. Caedmon, I found him through you? I found him because when we became one I had your memories of him. This plan has been in the works for thousands of years. We have been waiting for you.” All of the desperation of a man who has been waiting to do something for a few thousand years was evident in his voice.

“Oh, well, I’m sorry. Maybe you could just tell me the plan now?” The inadequacy Caedmon felt was only magnified by the connection he had to the man whom he was disappointing.

Visu rubbed his temples, trying to focus on where to start.

“Hundreds, maybe thousands of years after you came to me, I found Brad and he told me the plan that you told him! Okay, here are the basics: there are three rooms in the basement: one is a holding cell, one holds our living Root, and one is our room of enlightenment. Three of us will steal the living Root from the basement when Brad gets captured; we steal the master key from Merlyn, free Brad, and then escape to help the rest of the world. I do not understand how you cannot know this; it is time.”

Caedmon immediately saw several problems with this “plan.”

Mainly, there were no details. In the movies, when someone had a plan, they mapped out every step. It seemed as though they were expecting him to have the specifics. “Okay, well, let me point out the first problem I see in this plan: there are only

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two keys between us. We need a third even to get into the room containing the Root.”

Visu looked at him, again in surprise. Caedmon hoped that the third key was not something else he was supposed to have already. “Minerva is our third. Surely you picked up on this during your game?”

Caedmon was now completely lost. “Wasn’t Minerva’s entire family killed by Kidu—Brad? Why would she help him?” The multiple names were not helping matters.

“Only she knows that. Brad told me she would be our ally, and as soon as I asked her, she agreed. Granted, that was over a century ago.” Before Visu could continue, his phone buzzed.

He looked at it, and took a deep breath. “It is time. Brad is here and Michael wants us both to come. You need to be calm.

Michael cannot suspect us.”

They made their way back to the house, down the hidden staircase and into the corridor with three doors. And they waited. Caedmon was reminded of his first ever ride on a rollercoaster, or the line waiting for that ride.

He was 13 and had managed to blame motion sickness on his desire not to ride a coaster for the past several years when going to theme parks with his friends, but Dad was with him this time. And Dad knew he didn’t have motion sickness. So he found himself in the line for the Beastie; he was the oldest kid in the line by far. This was apparently a “kiddie coaster;” that did not stop him from shaking. Dad was confident. He knew they were going to ride, they were going to have fun, and that Caedmon would want to ride again. Caedmon knew he was in a line, waiting to die, and that he needed to pee really badly. He told his father he had to go as they approached the final queue for the ride. He was half hoping he could turn around, and his dad would not want to wait in the whole line all over again. Dad looked at him, smiled, and did not respond. The cart pulled in, hissed, and the gates opened. He grabbed Caedmon’s shoulders, gave a squeeze and smiled. They walked to the cart and got in. 28.3 seconds later their car pulled into the terminal, and two minutes later, Caedmon and his dad were back in line.

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Now Visu and Caedmon were at the final queue. The cart pulled up.

They heard the bookshelf being moved from the top of the stairway. At the bottom of the stone stairs they heard two sets of steps moving downward, followed by the flopping of something one step at a time. As they approached the bottom landing, Caedmon saw Merlyn with Dane walking next to him, dragging with one arm the unconscious Brad, his feet scraping each step.

“Stand to the side gentlemen,” Merlyn said, reaching inside his shirt for an electronic key card. He swiped the card in front of a stone, which looked like every other stone. A large clook and the door farthest to the right pushed open easily. Caedmon thought the symbol of the vertical bars within a box made a lot more sense when he knew the room was a holding cell.

All of the men entered the room and Caedmon shut the door behind them. Three steel, rectangular bars at least three inches thick and six inches wide automatically slid back into place within the metal girders, connecting the door to the wall.

Wondering how exactly one imprisons an immortal, Caedmon noticed that Brad had metal circlets around his four limbs as Dane pressed Brad’s back against the far wall. Merlyn pressed a large, red button and all of them heard a large hum. The metal bindings around each limb snapped onto the wall and Caedmon understood that the wall must be magnetized. He also felt his lucky lighter and pocketknife move slightly in his pocket as the wall reached out to it. “He is sedated for now,” said Merlyn. “When he awakens, we will learn where his supply is, and he will be reeducated.”

Caedmon was not sure what his role was here, and so, asserting himself a bit, he said, “What am I doing here?”

Merlyn looked at him quickly, “Well, to be honest, he keeps reaching out to you. I do not understand why, and that keeps me from trusting you; therefore, I thought I should watch the two of you together until this has all been sorted out.” His eyes searched Caedmon, looking for a tell. Of course, Caedmon was too confused by all of this to have anything to hide. “Oh look, he’s coming to now.” Brad began breathing in heavily and

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snapped his head up with a jerk not unlike that of a leg having its reflexes tested.

He showed no emotion, he said nothing. He only stared. His eyes locked onto Merlyn unblinkingly.

“It’s been some time,” Merlyn said, returning his gaze. “I suppose it has been lonely for you. No friends? Everyone you have ever connected with has abandoned you, and now, here you are hanging on my wall. My prize.” Merlyn’s smile was that of a hunter admiring the stuffed head mounted in his trophy room.

He giggled, though only slightly. Looking around the room at his followers gathered there, he waited for everyone else to notice the punch line. And seeing that he was the only one on the inside of his private joke, he did what all people who find themselves in this embarrassing circumstance do: he laughed harder to encourage them that what he said was indeed funny.

And then he moved on.

“It was only a matter of time. When I discovered the Root, I was already civilized, already intelligent. You were filthy, an animal. Of course the Root would take me further than It could ever take you! I suppose you could say I had a head start.”

Listening to Merlyn’s vaguely British accent giving such a maniacal monologue reminded Caedmon of the emperor trying to convince Luke to give in to his hate. The big difference, from Caedmon’s perspective, was that there didn’t seem to be a very clear purpose for this conversation outside of gloating.

“It’s ‘Brad’ now, right? Well Brad, despite your new name, your rather lengthy past has caught up with you. And it is not my shackles that now hold you; it is the vengeance of all of them. All of our people.” Caedmon thought this speech a little over-drawn, and yet it continued: “I could lock this door for three hundred years, and simply let you starve and die. Deny you what you tried to deny me.”

“I am not so alone,” Brad said in a tone deep and rough.

It was different than how he had sounded any other time Caedmon had heard him speak. His voice had a strange accent that Caedmon could not place: Middle Eastern? Turkish maybe? It was so guttural.

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“So you have not forgotten how to speak? Of course you are not alone! You have been reaching out to our friend here!

Dinner, breakfast, dreams, you have given him so much truth.”

Merlyn wheeled around and grabbed Caedmon’s shoulder with a speed that seemed impossible for one who looked so rickety.

“Tell me, Caedmon,” Merlyn shoved him toward Brad. “Did your friend tell you about the party?” Merlyn chuckled oddly.

“Did he tell you about the feeling of Renee beneath him—I’m sorry, beneath you?”

Caedmon looked directly at Brad’s silver eyes. “It was you?

That night when I blacked out and woke up next to Renee?”

Caedmon’s mind was racing. It was the first time he had thought about that night in several days. It was all so confusing to him that he had not even considered it. “You,” he blinked rapidly shaking his head, “Slept with her, as me? That’s—that’s— well, rape. You took advantage of her with my body?” A visceral anger filled Caedmon, emotion so strong that he could not focus on what was happening around him.

“My guard is down,” is all Brad says in reply.

Caedmon’s mind flashed to his connection with Visu; he remembered the feeling of the rocks beneath his clenched fists beating their way out of the cave. His muscles, his body remembered every thud of flesh on the hot lava. And as he considered this he realized that it was not the warmth of the lava he was remembering; it was the feeling of Brad’s warm blood that was splattering against his fist and forearm. He was beating his fists so forcefully into Brad’s face that he was beginning to hit the magnet behind Brad’s head. He paused for a second to see Brad’s face begin to reconstruct itself and began pounding again. “You raped her! You raped her using me!” Caedmon’s rage was genuine. He had used him; he was still using him. He watched Brad’s face reform and when he was sure he could be heard and understood, he said, “You are a user of men. You would have me believe you are trying to help others? You will use them like you used me, like you used her.” A single crack formed in the magnet behind Brad’s now doughy face. Merlyn reached out and grabbed his hand.

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“That will do, Caedmon.” His arms were covered in blood to his elbow, red splattered across his face and nice shirt. “Have your eardrums reformed yet? I know that the more times you are hurt the longer it takes. Bradley, where is the rest of your supply? I am sure you do not have an intact Root, so where are the leaves and branches you do have?” The old man looked to be beaming. A smile stretched enormously across his face, and a dancing motion entered his hands and feet.

Brad sputtered blood and coughed out something black. He looked at Caedmon, and he was sure he saw a look of confusion in Brad’s eyes. “But you should already know.” Caedmon was too infuriated to pick up on any subtleties. “It is in the vault of my office.”

“Well, now that wasn’t so hard, was it? Behind a painting I’d wager! How prosaic,” Merlyn smiled. “I’ll go pick it up; Dane will stand guard, and you two may go about your business. After I have verified that he has not lied to us, I will return, and we will begin his reeducation.” Merlyn turned, scanned his security card, opening the door, and walked out, followed by Visu and Caedmon.

Caedmon was vaguely aware of the locks slamming back into place as Merlyn said, “Well, I’m off boys. Should be back in a couple of hours!” He practically danced back up the stairs.

Caedmon slowed his breathing from his recent activity.

He didn’t need to breathe hard, but he was exasperated. Visu looked at him smirking, “I thought you didn’t know the plan?

That was perfect.” His rage having not yet subsided, Caedmon turned on Visu, linking his words to what just happened.

“Shut up,” Caedmon said. He turned on Visu and used his key to access the room with the flame on it. He entered and locked the door behind him, wanting to be alone; he was tired of all of these games. He had only been in here a couple hours earlier asking for understanding, but now he found himself more confused than he had been since the first time he smoked the Root. He was sure Merlyn was the bad guy here, but it was Brad who took over his body and slept with Renee. And what was Visu hinting at, that he had somehow acted according to plan by beating Brad’s face into mush?

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Certain he was missing some crucial thread to this insane tapestry, he sat down on the cushion in a perfect lotus pose. He breathed in and out several times trying to make sense of it all, trying to figure out what he should do next. He decided that he was getting nowhere on his own.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Caedmon picked up a cup from next to the cushion. It was the same cup he had sipped from earlier. There was still some of the spiked water in the cup. Figuring that nothing else was going to help, and since he didn’t exactly have a lot of time, Caedmon took a swig and drank down the remainder of the liquid in the glass. And as he started to fade, Caedmon began to hum.

Instantly, he has the full view of the universe from the furthest perspective. He does not view the burning edifice of God, but he does know that it sees him. It is behind him or it is him; he does not know.

He remembers wanting understanding and, as he remembers, the words of Brad from moments before: “My guard is down.” Galaxies rush past him; nebulas and super novae spin as his own solar system approaches.

He enters Earth’s atmosphere and knows that the world is younger than the one he left. As he bends the world around him, he sees deserts and mountains and lush green. He enters the streets of a city he knows, but they are much more dilapidated then the last time he saw them. A bar in which a woman once served wine and tea is next to him. The clay walls have broken down and crumbled. As he looks down the road, he sees the epicenter of this town. He sees the kingdom of Uruk, and he draws it into him. Here he knows he will see Kidu, Siduri and Gíl.

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Caedmon pulls the steps leading to the palace entryway past him with only the slightest effort of thought. He does not feel the coolness of the marble beneath his feet; the marble is as ephemeral as everything else in this vision. He hears the echo of voices and makes his way to what he knows to be the war room.

As he enters, he sees a similar scene to the one he witnessed during his last visit to Uruk. Gíl is yelling at the other two. They all look the same age as when he last saw them—when he first smoked the Root—but their eyes are somehow heavier; many people have died recently. Their city is collapsing around them.

The large, brawny Gíl is wearing a crown. “I told you not to! I told you that you did not know what was going to happen, and you did it anyway. Our city, which was already dying, gave its last breath to follow your ridiculous utopian ideas. Have you not seen from our surroundings? When the people do not have a strong king, one whom they love and fear, they fall into waste. You sought to remove the fear; you sought to remove the kingship from me! Why? To make everyone’s life better? No, you did this in order to write your own name down on that tablet of yours. You wanted fame. Kidu, the great healer!”

The man now imprisoned in the room next to where Caedmon’s body sits comes into view. Brad—now known as Kidu—stands fully clothed like a gentleman of the city. His thick hair still stands apparent, his sloped brow has begun to ease its curve. He leans forward, putting his hands open upon the table in the middle of the room. “I am sorry, brother. You must believe that I wanted the best for our people—“ “Our people! How dare you! These were my people. You have no ownership here. When these people died, they did not call out your name! They did not curse you! They cursed me!

And I loved them.”

“You are right of course.” Kidu’s eyes are gleaming with moisture, but he does not cry. “I am sorry.”

Siduri crosses to him and places her perfectly bronzed hand upon his shoulder. “I do not blame you. You tried to share this gift that we all had. What you did was noble.” At this, Gíl sneers, and Caedmon feels the overwhelming sadness Kidu feels.

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“You would take his side, even after this? Even after they died? When will you two understand? The Root is not for everyone; It is for the few, the chosen. Even after all of this, you two still want to keep trying don’t you?” Both Kidu and Siduri look up at him.

“And you? What do you want? You know these people were deseased; they would have died soon anyway,” Kidu says this in an almost accusatory way.

“Me? I want order. I want systems that protect people, but hold them in line. That is what is best for everyone.” He stares at Kidu only. Both men tense. “You would call me ‘despot’ and label me ‘tyrant,’ but these people loved me, Kidu. And what you are trying to do will destroy all that I have built here.” Gíl stops and weighs his words carefully. “I think it would be best if you left.”

Kidu stands upright now; he is stunned. As soon as he rises, he realizes he should not have been surprised. “And, where am I to go? Your majesty.”

Gíl looks away. “Kidu, you are my brother. I do not wish ill for you. I have been given a vision from a man in Egypt. His name among his people is Set. He and a few others have discovered another Root there. He has invited me, but I cannot leave my people. Not yet.”

Kidu’s mouth gapes, “You would send me over the waters to a land I do not know based on one of these dreams?” Gíl looks at him once more. “Fine, you give me hope at least, but what about you? We have used the entire Root, which has grown here. We do not know what will happen without It.” “I know. I have seen it. Some time from now, I will come back and visit myself here and now. I have seen a great deal of the future already, Kidu, and I have seen myself in it. I will be there, though altered. Siduri and I must stay and try to repair the damage your foolish experiment caused.” At this, Siduri shifted.

“No, I will go with Kidu. I will not abandon him, for I love him.” Gíl rounds on her, but Siduri stands her ground. “Do not play dumb. You have known this for a long time; you have

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not wished to admit it to yourself. But if you wish us to go to Egypt, then we shall go.”

Caedmon sees where this is going. He begins to spin the Earth, wary of how much time he has before the Root wears off. As the Earth spins, he follows Gíl. He sees him try and repair the broken city of Uruk. He watches him spend the next 80 years watching his people die until there are none left. He watches Gíl as his skin grows wrinkled and his hair white. He sees him shrink down into old age. His beard is grown nearly to his waist. He watches as Gíl ages into a man that he knows by a different name in his own time.

He sees Gíl change into the man who will become Merlyn.

Caedmon follows him as he makes his way toward Egypt on an old boat.

The world turns.

Once there, he reconnects with Kidu and Siduri, who go by new names. He meets the owl-eyed Set, who is a bit of a spitfire, causing trouble when he can for fun. He watches as they all experience the Voice of God. He slows down the passing of time to see Kidu make a journey to Rome.

The world turns.

He sees Kidu cough twice and begin the fire that sets Rome ablaze. Once the city is alight, Kidu climbs the mountain and murders the gods of old. Caedmon remembers seeing this scene through the eyes of Minerva. He remembers watching Brad enter the camp on Olympus and shoving metallic spikes into the heads of the gods.

The world turns.

He sees Kidu return in a fury and run away from Egypt with Siduri in the middle of the night, setting fire to the Root of Cairo. And with this escape, Caedmon understands that Gíl must have possessed Kidu in order to slay the roman gods.

He feels the anguish of being used to murder a whole civilization.

And Caedmon understands that Gíl must be stopped if for no other reason then to keep him from killing thousands again.

The world turns.

Caedmon follows Kidu and Siduri. They move from place to place

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based on the visions they have. And Caedmon begins to feel himself running out of time.

Caedmon accepts his role. He knows that now is when he must intervene.

He slows down the passing of time again and finds Kidu at this point using the name ‘Brawd” in a land of ice surrounded by large men with long blonde hair. Kidu’s dark skin appears as another dancing shadow against the snow. Caedmon sees Kidu sitting by a fire; he reaches out with his mind and touches Kidu.

Kidu breathes in rapidly two times. “I don’t have much time, Kidu. You have not met me yet. My name is Caedmon.” He communicates this within Kidu’s mind, not using the spoken word. The thoughts come quickly with no filter.

Kidu replies in kind, “Welcome traveler. To what do I owe this visit?”

“I know of your ties with Gíl; although, in my time, he is called Merlyn or Michael. I know he possessed you and murdered the Roman Family after burning down their city.

His time is about to come to an end, but there are pieces you must put in place before I find the Root in about 1,500 years.”

“I do not wish to interfere with him. We have spent the past few hundred years damaging each other. Now I wish only to be left alone with Siduri.” The words echo in Kidu’s mind, but as soon as they are uttered Kidu understands. “He’s going to kill her, isn’t he?”

Caedmon sees through Kidu’s eyes as he looks at his wife lying still by the fire. “Yes. And I think you already know there is nothing you can do to change that. Your decisions and his will bring this about by necessity. But there are some things you must know. Are you ready?”

“Yes, speak.”

“My name is Caedmon Rainier, and I live in Boston, Massachusetts, when you find me, and it is important that you find me just before I begin using the Root. In my time, Gíl will have many companions who are like us, but there are two that you must find before Gíl: Visu—a Japanese man—and Minerva,

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whom you have already met.” Caedmon feels a dawning comprehension comes across Kidu’s face.

“Yes, I know her. And I know that she will aid in destroying Gíl. As you seem to have guessed, he murdered her entire family in order to get the Root from them. He sent me on a mission to talk with them peaceably, and he inhabited my body to kill her family and her people.”

“And you can find her?” Caedmon knows the answer is yes.

“Very well, you must tell both her and Visu to meet me with their keys on the night of my induction to the society. We will cut off Gíl’s supply of the Root then. Do you understand?”

Caedmon could not wait for a reply; he was beginning to lose his focus. He is in the mind of a man who used his body to rape Renee. Is he really someone worth saving? Merlyn is malicious, but this man has done terrible things as well, maybe worse things.

“I can hear you still Caedmon, your thoughts are my thoughts.”

Caedmon is being pulled from Kidu’s body, Brad’s body, his body.

As he fades he realizes that his last thoughts are the reason Brad will one day take advantage of Renee. That just now, he planted that seed.

That his connection to Brad’s mind is the root of Brad’s actions.

That if he had not come here, perhaps he would never have been found

by Brad, Merlyn, or anyone.

And as the Root fades, he is cognizant of Visu’s meaning earlier: he has been a slave to the future. †† Caedmon opened his eyes with full knowledge of what he was going to do. He felt in control of his decisions for the first time in a week; he felt in control of his own life for the first time since his parents died. He breathed in deeply, stood, and walked to the door. He exited, seeing Visu and Minerva waiting for him by the door. He checked his pocket to make sure that he still had his lucky Zippo lighter.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Caedmon motioned the other two toward him, and together, the three of them unlocked the middle door leading to the still growing and blooming Tree. All three entered the room and looked around. More beautiful tapestries lined these walls: images of stories from various mythologies throughout time.

More of the same plush, red carpet coats the floor of this room.

“No one comes in this room really. There has to be real need.

Typically,” as Minerva informed them, “Dane, Michael and Seth come and get enough to be used in the fire room and that’s it. The rest of them use those supplies for experimentation and transcendence.”

“We each take one branch for now as insurance. I will take two, one for Brad in the other room.” They each approached the Root, which looked like a single branch coming from the ground, budding leaves despite there being no sunlight to absorb for energy, despite them being underground. The room had nothing in it but a pair of pruning sheers. There was only a circle of dirt and the Root coming forth. Caedmon realized that schematically, this whole house must have been built around this Root. He thought about how old the house must be and then realized that, if Merlyn was honest about the level of

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involvement his people had in philosophy, it was possible that this whole nation was built for the best conditions in which to sustain this very Root. Caedmon reflected that they may have discovered It before John Locke wrote the Treatise that inspired Thomas Jefferson’s founding writings.

Minerva snapped him out of his line of thought as she snapped off her branch. “Enough with this ‘Brad’ and ‘Michael’ bullshit. Tonight we shall be known by our true names. If I die tonight, I will die as Minerva; if it is to be he who falls, he will fall as Gíl.” Caedmon could not argue with that. He was so tired of the name game; he could not care less. Caedmon nodded that it was time for them to go, so they all stuffed their sticks into their pockets.

Caedmon let the two out in front of him, and as they left, he pulled out one of the sticks from his pocket, flipped open his Zippo lighter, and lit the branch. He tossed both the branch and the lighter at the base of the Root, turned and walked out.

The three now stood in the center of the lower level of the basement. Caedmon looked at the plush red carpet, and took what he thought might be a final look at the three doors. “Gíl will be back any minute now.” He indicated Minerva. “Go upstairs and wait for him. We need him to come in and let us back into the room with Brad and Dane inside.” Minerva agreed and went up the stairs to wait. †† Gíl waltzed down the stairs to a slow tune that only he could hear. He had with him a bag filled with branches of the Root.

“It seems, I hold his life’s work in this duffle! Literally!” Gíl gloated as he pulled the key card from the chain around his neck. Once again, the loud clook sound issued forth and the three men walked into the room.

Once inside, Kidu looked at Caedmon pleadingly. Like Visu, he had spent so many years fulfilling a plan, trying to make sure his trajectory was headed in the right direction.

A slave to Caedmon’s thoughts on the future. Now he stood

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in the unknown. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen next.

Four men stood around one. The one was hanging like a animal fur being stretched out on a wall. The operating table in the middle of the room looked sterile, and though Kidu’s face was completely healed from Caedmon’s beating, dried blood still stained his face, clothes, and the floor below him.

“Well, brother, it seems we are at the end of our dispute.

It only took a few thousand years, but you and I are about to finally see eye to eye.” Gíl sat the bag down and Caedmon wondered if he even remembered why he called Kidu “brother.” Gíl crossed the room to a single wooden drawer in the wall. “It’s hard maintaining a large magnet—I’m sure you gentlemen have noticed the pull on your keys. You may be interested to know however, that magnets have no effect on silver.” As he said this, he withdrew a five inch long silver spike from the drawer on the right wall. “I learned a few things about the human body from the embalming ceremonies of Egypt, and I learned a few things about our bodies as immortals. Namely, that they will heal almost unendingly once an intrusive object has been removed, but—until the objects have been removed—the body will simply operate around the object, making do with what it can.”

Caedmon’s mind flashed back to images of a knight having a utensil shoved into the back of his skull, Siduri unable to move inside of her darkened cave.

“You see,” he continued, now facing Caedmon, “Sometimes people like us, we immortals, have disagreements. And when that happens, well, the only way we will be able to move forward is if someone ‘takes control’ as it were.”

“Like Dane.” Kidu blurted out abruptly and emphatically.

“I always thought it was odd how obedient he was to you after our last meeting in Arthur’s Briton. Before we found you, Dane told me he would not leave my side.”

“Well, and what a faithful friend he was! Let it be known that your friend made a thunderous mess of my face, didn’t you Dane?”Gíl said, patting the man’s shoulder. “But, like I said, we are immortals; it doesn’t matter how many times I have my face

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beaten in,” he smiled and slapped Dane across the face, “In order to win, you have to—well, change the mind of your opponent. And that’s what is about to happen to you my brother Kidu.”

Gíl walked around the room, behind Dane, behind Caedmon, behind Visu, all the while spinning his spike as though he were a baton twirler in a parade. Caedmon repressed a shudder; Visu looked stoney. Gíl was skipping back and forth around the room. But he did not move forward to impale Kidu’s skull.

He just continued to dance until his gaze fastened on Caedmon and Kidu, “You boys have waited a long time for this, huh?” Caedmon’s blood ran cool; the pit of his stomach dropped out.

He knew.

As soon as he uttered the words, he grabbed the back of Visu’s head and yanked it down backwards. Simultaneously, he moved his silver spike upwards, but Visu was fast. He jerks his body to bend further backwards in an arch; his momentum was forcing his legs upward and he kicked his feet into the air, back flipping over Gíl as the spike penetrated only the air.

Visu had been expecting this.

Caedmon crossed the room to help, but Dane was on him instantly. He grabbed Caedmon’s neck with one hand and threw him against the sidewall with such force that a slight crater formed behind him in the concrete. Before Caedmon could stand, Dane lodged his foot into Caedmon’s ribs, causing an echoing critch as his ribs snapped and once again he was lodged into the left sidewall. As Caedmon’s body fell to the floor, a slight crack was visible, revealing light from the adjacent room— the tree room—but the light was muted by smoke.

Dane lifted Caedmon and let out a barrage of punches into his torso and face so fast that Caedmon did not have time to experience pain from one blow before being hit again by another.

Caedmon fell once more to the ground along with a chunk of cement a foot thick. The sight in the adjoining room caught Dane’s eye and he stared at it a moment, not sure what he was seeing. Caedmon—body healing rapidly because of his recent

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consumption of the Root—seized his opportunity and kicked Dane’s body with as much force as he could muster from the ground up with both feet. The blow sent Dane twirling to the back wall, where he landed against Kidu’s shackled body.

Dane shook his head and made to move forward, but looked like he was stuck on something. Jerking his head forward as hard as he could, he did not charge Caedmon.

Instead, he took one step forward, eyes rolling into the back of his head and collapsed, revealing a small drop of blood in the back of his blonde hair. Caedmon looked up to see that in Kidu’s right hand was a bloody silver spike. “Caedmon, get over here!”

Running over to the wall, Caedmon snapped off the circlets holding Kidu to the wall with ease, leaving them open. Kidu cracked his neck to the side and rubbed his wrists, glad to be free, but before he could enjoy his first step, Gíl let out a fierce yell. And Caedmon watched as Kidu collapsed to the floor, a silver spike sticking out from his forehead. Visu was lying on the ground in the fetal position unconscious. Gíl’s arm was outstretched indicating that he had thrown the silvery spike into Kidu. “Well, I still got it!” Gíl cheered. He pulled another spike from the drawer, considered it, and began moving toward Caedmon. “I think it’s time we finished this.”

Caedmon looked at him with fear in his eyes. Was he to be a zombie for the rest of his immortal life? Breathing in, he was glad at least for one thing: he had cut off Gíl from his Root.

He glanced over at the wall he had been thrown against and was pleased to see the light of flames and the plume of smoke coming through the wall. This glance caught Gíl’s eye, and he followed it to the hole in the wall. At first he did not comprehend. He could not figure out what was wrong with what he was seeing. But after a moment, it was clear.

Gripping the silver spike in his hand, he ran for the broken wall. He pounded his fists into the cement, and it responded by flying up around him. And just as a great plume of grey smoke began to shroud Gíl, a large hand grabbed him by the back of his neck and lifted him off the ground.

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The hand belonged to Dane, who was back on his feet. And though he looked momentarily confused, the rage and hatred he wore on his face became clear, and they were clearly meant for Gíl. Gíl struggled in his grasp, hit and flailing, jabbing with his silver spike, but the Norseman held his ground and hardly had to move to dodge the old man’s blows. Carrying him with one hand to the magnetized wall, he pressed Gíl’s face into the metal and clasped the manacles around his limbs and neck.

Dropping the spike, he yells, “You fools! Don’t you see! Don’t you understand? I am the reason the world is as it is today.

I am the reason our kind has survived!” Dane ignored him, and turning over Kidu, he pulled the spike from his skull and watched as the hole in Kidu’s face healed, leaving only a streak of dried blood behind. Caedmon ran over to Visu and picked him up fireman style, which was fitting as the room was filling up with smoke.

Dane helped Kidu to his feet and Kidu touched his forehead, proving to himself that the hole was gone. Kidu then moved in close to Gíl and removed the key card from his shirt.

He whispered something in Gíl’s ear and made his way to the door where Caedmon was waiting with Visu on his shoulder.

Dane followed, grabbing the duffle bag filled with Kidu’s stash of the Root, and Kidu opened the door leading to the lower landing of the basement.

Smoke followed them out.

Caedmon looked back and tried to think of the most clever action hero line he knew, but nothing fit. Strange how immortality had given him enough mental presence to even slow down and consider saying a catchy line. And as he looked, the shape of Gíl, masked in smoke, was not struggling. His eyes were closed. And he was calm. Caedmon shut the door behind them and turned to see Minerva waiting for them. “This will not kill him,” she said. “I want him to die. This asshole killed my family, and I have waited for 2000 years.”

Caedmon looked at her with complete understanding; he had been there when the man he knew as Merlyn murdered her family. He had been her as her family was murdered. “I

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don’t know how we die except for to exist without the Root.”

Caedmon said this thinking back to Siduri in the cave. “If you want him to die, you either have to plug his brain with a rod and leave him, like he did to your father, or you need to trap him down here until he dies.” Caedmon said this definitively and began walking up the stairs followed by the rest of the men; Minerva didn’t follow. Smoke and fire filled the whole basement with intense darkness that made it difficult for even an immortal to breathe. As they approached the bookcase, the way into the parlor opened up, and they looked up to see the rest of the house standing in wait.

Caedmon had thought this far ahead.

They heard several loud crashes beneath them, the sounds of walls being broken. “This house will not stand for long. If there is anything in it you wish to possess, I suggest you get it now and meet me in the backyard. I will tell you what has happened and you can decide what you wish to do from there.” Everyone looked at everyone else and then finally they began moving hurriedly throughout the house. His three companions also walked away to collect a few things before leaving the house forever.

Caedmon heard one final crash, followed by footsteps running up the stairs. Minerva emerged from the basement covered in soot and dirt. The two of them walked around the corner out onto the veranda and down onto the large green field in front of the hedge maze. †† Caedmon watched the back door and saw several members of the house begin to file out. He watched as Dane and Kidu exited carrying the old tablets from the library. Akinro came out with a trunk and was followed by a few others. Finally, the whole of the house stood in a circle on the back lawn. The sight reminded Caedmon of his induction ceremony that had happened only hours beforehand. And just like before, he walked into the middle. He was sure that no one wanted to hear from him, but he was also sure that he was the best person to speak.

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“My being here today, meeting you, joining you, all of it had been planned hundreds—maybe thousands of years ago. I am beginning to understand what a slippery thing time can be. You are all much, much older than I am. Some of you have witnessed entire ages of the world come and go. And that’s what has happened here tonight: an age has passed. Most of you were brought here, though you may not know it. This night has been planned since Mt. Fuji first erupted and the first story was told.

And really it is that first story that has concluded tonight.” He looked around the circle and saw that most people were not impressed by what he was saying; although, Akinro was at least half smiling and shaking her head. He supposed immortals were as resistant to change as anyone. Caedmon let out a sigh. “In the now collapsed basement of the house, Michael, or Merlyn or Gíl—whatever—is chained and will not ever leave. I have a lot of justifications for why he should stay there until his life ends, but I’m not going to tell them to all of you. Know that just because we have consumed a part of God, whatever that means, that does not mean we are no longer held to a code of solidarity.

And yes, maybe it looks slightly different, but—if anything—our perspective has increased, and we should be held more responsible than others. Tonight, Michael’s death ends the story of two brothers at war for no reason other than that they could not agree.” Some looked at Kidu, inferring who he was.

“I don’t care if you are angry with me for what I have done,” Caedmon called out. “But if nothing else, I have set you all free from the plans of others. Maybe you had no problem with what was going on in this house; if that’s you, I am sorry that your life has been altered by my choice. In the duffle bag next to Dane is all that remains of our collection of the Root. Use It as you see fit, but just keep in mind that you cannot wash your hands of the injustices that happened here. And I guess that’s all I have to say. If some of you wish to still live in community with others like you, even without the Root growing beneath your feet, well, go for it. I just want to be done with all of this.”

Caedmon stepped back into the circle and became very interested in his shoes. No one spoke.

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The crowd began to disperse, at first with individuals and then in small chunks, each person grabbing a piece of the Root from Dane as he or she left. Until finally, only Minerva, Dane, Visu, Kidu and—surprisingly—Akinro remained with Caedmon.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

“That was a good speech,” Akinro said, smiling at Caedmon with her big, toothy smile. “These bastards here never could convince me to get involved in this little scheme,” she indicated Visu and Minerva. “I just couldn’t see a reason to. Though Merlyn’s domination nonsense was never very compelling either.”

The manor behind them began groaning; Caedmon imagined that the floors had collapsed. “I suppose a story is what I should have said? It’s probably what they deserved.” Caedmon thought for a moment about what they all deserved. “I guess it doesn’t really matter. As cool as this place was, as impressive as everyone’s various collections and interests were, they were as meaningless as the hobbies and collections of normal people.

The only real difference between us and them is that most of them still look for purpose in life and all of us think we know it.”

Minerva’s silver eyes shone brightly in the moonlight. “But we do know,” she said. “You saw Her, the Being, you can connect any time you wish. If you feel you have unanswered questions, simply go ask.”

“You say that like we have some special knowledge? Its existence doesn’t mean a thing. Neither does Its power. Yeah, It made us; yeah, this Root is somehow connected to It; that

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doesn’t inspire me.” Caedmon said this exasperated and irritable.

Akinro chuckled, “You are a child. Only a child says such things with the conviction that he is the first one to have said them. But you don’t have to know your ‘purpose’ in order to fulfill your function, any more than a dog needs to know that its purpose is to be a companion to man. All the dog knows is what is in front of him, and for him it is enough.” The others seemed to be enjoying this discussion, like they were hearing a favorite song on the radio that all of them knew the words to, but loved to hear others sing anyway.

Caedmon had an image of these people, and himself, sitting around a cozy fire in wingback chairs, swirling cognac and having this discussion for the next few hundred years.

And after everything: the new life, the new surroundings, the fights, and even this night, it was this thought that finally made Caedmon collapse.

He fell semi-conscious onto the moist grass. The mental burden too much to bear. †† Caedmon awoke, stiff and uncomfortable, in the back seat of the same Mazda that had brought him to the manor to begin with. He opened his eyes to see Visu driving and Kidu in the front seat. His chair was reclined as far back as it would go, but his neck was stretched out extra long in order for his head to reach the headrest. Unwilling to let his mind venture back to the meaning behind what he had done, he instead focused on the car’s seat. Who was this chair designed for? How tall did you have to be for it not to be uncomfortable for your head to reach the headrest? Did other people find this style of seat as uncomfortable to sleep in as he did?

“I’m glad you’re awake,” Kidu said, driving without looking back. “You missed the discussion of our plans.”

Caedmon remained motionless, but thought, I couldn’t care less.

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Visu smiled and turned to face Caedmon. “Fine, you don’t care, whatever. Forgetting the fact that you are a selfish waste for a moment, and that you were chosen for this life, I feel you deserve to know what’s going on anyway. Seth is missing. You stay brainwashed for a few thousand years, and who knows how having that tie break will leave you. His spike was removed long ago, I checked, but he was so fearful of Gíl that it didn’t matter. Most of us are looking for more of the Root. Minerva and Dane went to the East. They’ll spend their time on that part of the world trying to find a new Root. Akinro will do the same in Africa; she has many contacts there. Kidu and I will venture to South America. We figure the whole El Dorado myth is probably somehow connected to the Root, and if It’s still intact there, we’ll set up shop.”

“Why?” Caedmon said this in the most detached tone possible. He wanted to make his disdain for this decision very plainly known.

“Why do anything Caedmon?” Visu replied. Caedmon sat up, opening his eyes. “You know me, so you know what it’s like to sit by and watch the ones you love be destroyed by forces you cannot control. But you also know what it’s like to feel as though you could have at least helped, had you been there.

Some of us, but not all, have reached the point where we feel love for all of humanity; when you’ve been around for longer, you start to see them as a whole. As a friend.”

“Death, time, natural occurrences,” Visu continued, “these are all forces that we cannot control. But with enough research into the Root, we can help. Death will always come and time will always move—at least for normal humans. These are things we cannot and would not attempt to stop. But sickness, frailty, and ignorance are all things we can change. Kidu has been working out how for the better part of four thousand years. But we need an intact Root to make it happen.”

The car stopped. “Yeah, I’m sure.” Caedmon all but snorted, “It has nothing to do with your own desire to be beyond human. You may be trying to be ‘generous’ with the Root, but, Kidu, I know it was your original tampering with these forces

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that led to the death of the people of Uruk. I know that that’s where this whole feud between you and Gíl began. But let me guess how you justified it: ‘well, the loss of some life was necessary to bring about a better humanity,’ or, ‘I have grieved every day for those people,’ or, ‘I have never forgotten.’ Whatever it is you say, you aren’t treating humanity as your friends, you’re treating them like lab mice. Granted, they are lab mice you care about, but so what?”

Kidu’s response was slow, as though he’d known this question would come. “I’ve said all of these things on sleepless nights, Caedmon. And to a certain extent all of them are true.

That I have killed thousands in my quest to help humanity is true. What is worse, all of those people, every single one of them was my friend. I knew them all by name. I had dined with them all. I have also told myself that they all agreed to take part in my experiment, knowing the risks. And I can tell you that none of those things have helped me sleep. I continue my work because I cannot allow the death of my friends to count for nothing.”

The car was idling; the air conditioning was blowing cool air, despite the warm Boston weather outside. No one spoke for a long time. Caedmon looked out of the window and finally realized where he was: home. He was outside of his basement apartment of Renee’s house.

Kidu continued, “To be honest, the reason I keep on is outside of traditional logic, because it is outside of the realm of human experience. Caedmon, you are a storyteller, right? You have heard the voice of God, you have felt Its presence and Its reverberations. You can imitate those reverberations to help others see. That is not my gift. I have never been in the presence of the Creator before. My gift is the same as Gíl’s. My gift is to see beyond the living. I can see and speak to those who have gone before me. Friends, strangers, I see them all after death. I cannot see Heaven or Hell or any place in between. But when I use the Voice of God and consume the Root, they are with me. All except Siduri; the spike she was buried with blocks her from me. But the dead, they have no new knowledge since their

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last thought, which is always: ‘I have died.’ The way I justify my search is that every single soul or specter or whatever you want to call it has told me I should continue. They have all, even those I killed, told me that I must persist. It is my purpose Caedmon.”

Visu now chimed in, “You have to find your own purpose Caedmon, but we know what the point of all of this is. You have said that we are not as special as we think, which may be true, but there is one thing that we have that humanity does not: contentment in the meaning of life.”

Sitting in the back seat, staring at the embodiment of his old life, he realized he was not content. He never had been. “So, what is the meaning?” with trepidation, Caedmon asked this, fearing that he was about to be cast back into his old hole of an apartment. And for the first time understanding that he did not want to be there.

“You already know it. The meaning of life is simply to find purpose. Some people arrive at their purpose; many people do not. But the difference between them and us is that we are content with the search itself. We see that when we were created, it was with the understanding that we would be beings of questions. The reason many are unhappy, the reason you were unhappy before, is that you—along with all of humanity—think that your purpose is something specific or tangible, and that if you could figure out what it is, then you would be happy. Our purpose is to seek meaning. Some humans cannot live in this paradox. But we can. Don’t misunderstand Caedmon; I do not know what my life’s purpose is beyond this search. Kidu is truly special in the sense that he has something—guidance—beyond the search; not everyone does.”

“You met Seth, in the map room,” Visu continued, “Did you notice something odd about him?”

“He seemed pretty dead set on finding an intact Root.”

“He had been manipulated by Merlyn for thousands of years with one of those metal rods in his head. He was brainwashed into thinking that finding the Root was his purpose. Now, we have brought you back to this house because it is your starting

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point. From the second time you consumed the Root on you have been different, whether you have known it or not. We are dropping you off here because you have to decide what you will do next. I was enslaved by the future, by the future you gave me in fact. Now I get to decide where I will go, and you have to do the same. You know how to find us if you choose. But you have some loose ends to tie up here.”

With that, Visu stretched out his arm from the front seat and clutched Caedmon’s arm. Kidu got out of the car and removed a bag of clothes and a handful of twigs from the trunk.

Caedmon got out and picked up his things. Kidu did not embrace him, but instead said, “What you have done has upset many; it has even set back some of my own plans. But it was the right thing to do. Reach out to me if you need anything.”

And after a final embarce between Caedmon and Visu, they drove away.

Caedmon picked up his things and entered his basement apartment.

He sat his bag down on his bed and opened it to see what Brad had given him. He found two outfits from his wardrobe in the manor, shoes and all. In the bag, there was also a debit card, a record of Tchaikovsky’s work featuring Capriccio Italien, a worn and marked up paperback copy of The Master and Margarita, and a tablet of chiseled stone.

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, he thumbed and fingered the stone. Every groove and image told a story that he knew. There were two friends who fought the gods, raised a city from the dirt, and contended with mortality. When he finished reading, he began to cry. It was the saddest ending to a story he had ever encountered. Sad because he was reading the lie and had experienced the truth.

It was the first real cry he had had since his parents died.

And with every tear he released a bit of his old self. His cynicism, his anger, his apathy: drip, drip, drip. Then something rather unattractive happened; he began moaning. And as he moaned he worried over what he had been. He was embarrassed by the man he used to be: false, uncaring, guarded

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against everyone and everything, including his own true feelings and passions.

Thick saliva came from his mouth as his eyes closed, and he gasped for air. He began to hiccup and sniffle as snot dribbled down his face. A piercing, breathy screech came from him then.

It was the kind of rasp that lasts and continues to come out no matter how much you will it to stop.

But the tone of that squeak grew louder. It grew stronger and more consistent, until Caedmon was humming this highpitched tone so loudly that the crystal circle on top of his mother’s old table lamp cracked.

He was struck then by a strong memory. He remembered the night of Renee’s party. His crying stopped, not slowly and steadily, but all at once. He went into his restroom, looked at his puffy-red face, covered in drool and snot, and rinsed in the sink.

He was decided on what he would do next. So he changed clothes, throwing away the charred outfit he had been wearing, pulled a small shred of leaf off of his take of the Root, and sat on his couch.

He fixed in his mind the night of Renee’s party and stuck the shredded leaf in his mouth. As he chewed, he was aware of his surroundings being consumed by black. †† Caedmon sees himself from behind, arms folded, legs crossed, giving every body signal that he is not impressed. Looking through his own eyes he sees the room full of very important people, all trying to change the world. He sees himself stand and walk into the kitchen, swigging down the vodka in the freezer. He sees himself walk down to his basement hole.

Caedmon’s disembodied mind reaches out and touches the shoulder of his old self.

A small cough and Caedmon slowly walks his body over to where his Root had come through the floor. He breaks off a small stick, shoves it in his pocket, and lies down on his bed.

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Caedmon then releases himself. Allowing for this old version of him to experience the next week. Allowing or perhaps causing the deaths, destruction, and tears that are to come. Allowing for the old Caedmon to be molded and shaped into a man of fiery purpose.

He allows himself to be the catalyst that ends the story of two brothers.

EPILOGUE

“The thing about God is that He/She/It is outside of time.

Which makes it hard for humans to have the close relationship with Him/Her/It that seemingly everyone (on some level) wants. Some think it moves in waves, sometimes close, sometimes far, but always moving.”

“To a certain extent, this is true.” As Caedmon had experienced first hand, “When the Being wills for something to happen, it is as though a wave of pure change bursts from Him/ Her/It, leaving nothing unaltered in the wake. And it is precisely because of the magnitude of this change that God remains outside. Could you imagine the forcefulness of even a single word uttered in one time alone?”

Caedmon looked at the twenty or so faces sitting in front of him. “Try imagining a train. And that you, my limited friends, are standing right next to the tracks looking forward. You can see only one car of the train at a time. You can consider what has passed, you can have a general idea of what train car will come next, but all you can truly focus on is the car right in front of you: the present day. The car that has just passed is yesterday, the car to come is tomorrow.” His audience was fixed on him, comprehension dawning on their faces, a few eagerly nodding along.

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“But God is further off. God stands on a hill so far back that It can see the whole train at once. Whether or not It laid the tracks is a distraction that only fools focus on. What matters is that he knows—and can see—all of time at one time.”

Caedmon smiled—now for the hook. “As I said before, if God wishes to change something, the effects are so powerful that nothing is left unchanged. If It were to reach out and adjust one car, one moment in time, even an inch, the whole train would run off the rails and crash, forcing everyone on board to die. And yet, we pray. And when we pray, often times we ask for Him/Her/It to change something.” A few chuckles were heard from the crowd.

“Absurd isn’t it?” Don’t rush this part. “So instead, God moves us. God asks for us to change things. I am proud to say that I am a prime mover. I am one of the Hand of God. And you have been brought here, because I think you may be part of us.

Questions?”

A young man with red hair and a look in his eye that seemed to imply that he liked to start arguments stood. Caedmon nodded to him, gesturing that he should speak, although, in the back of his mind he was thinking: Ass, you couldn’t wait for my applause.

“Urrghhem,” the young man cleared his throat, “Yeah, that’s all good—thanks for the lecture, but what exactly would we be doing?” His voice carried a tone of debate that Caedmon still found annoying even after working with him for a few years now.

“Yes! Thank you for the question.” Caedmon paused, feigning consideration. “Well, let me tell you a true story.” Unknown to the crowd, Caedmon began making a subtle humming noise as he spoke, forming mental images in their minds as the words came from his mouth. “A village in Africa desperately needed medical supplies, so they asked for the local missionaries to pray for it to come. The next day a large load of the exact medicine they need is dropped from a helicopter into their town square, shipped from the United States. Quite the miracle I’d say! But let’s try and understand that miracle a bit if we can.

Comprehension should make it no less miraculous.” A few

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people in the crowd fidgeted. They weren’t comfortable with a person talking as though he or she knew God existed. They were in college after all, where nothing can be called “sure” in public.

“You see, the truly miraculous part of this whole thing is that it takes four months for anything to be shipped to this African town from the US. And sure enough, when they looked at the shipping label, the posted date was for four months prior.

‘Well, there you have it,’ the skeptic says, ‘God wasn’t involved, for the package had been sent before the prayer had even been uttered!’ But our skeptic is forgetting our earlier point. God is outside of time, seeing the whole train at once. So if “train car” for today prays for medicine, this a-temporal being uses his hand to reach out and ship the needed medicine. The medicine is shipped at the exact same time the prayer is prayed, but that time happens to be four months earlier.” Caedmon knew this was the clincher. The people who understood this line of reasoning had a real shot at helping. A few people stood and left the basement meeting room under the bookstore they were all currently in.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the Hand of God shipped that package, which saved the African village. We were told to do so, and so we did. This was done in the exact same way the hand of your own body would move if the brain told it to move.” One final glance and Caedmon opened his briefcase and removed a stack of packets and set them on the table. “I know many of you are thinking, this sounds like a cult, or that I am some whackjob claiming to know the will of God. If that is you, then fine, I wish you joy in your life of disbelief and skepticism. But if this kind of thing sounds interesting to you, or if you know that this is your next step in life, then please fill out this paperwork and mail it to the address on the front page. We’ll be in touch.”

And with that, Caedmon grabbed his backpack and left. †† It had been many years since Caedmon’s basement transformation. He was still in contact with Visu and Kidu, who had

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indeed found an intact Root in South America, although they had to join a hidden Mayan village in order to be allowed access to It. Minerva, Dane and Akinro were still traveling about.

Not laying down roots anywhere presently. During his time; however, Caedmon had not searched for any more of the Root.

He had begun a small movement which attempted to make the world a better place.

Leaving Renee had not been hard; she was still a little scared of him and was happy to let him out of his lease. And now he travelled with James, another man who had experienced the Root and had been told to find Caedmon in a vision. James was only working for the Hand of God because he had been told to work closely with Caedmon. He had no genuine interest in bettering the world. Caedmon knew this, but he also wasn’t going to turn down a volunteer, especially not his first one.

What did he have to lose? He had a network of maybe five hundred people who he could call to do a task, and the task would get done. Like the package of medicine in Africa: he had a vision, called a contact at a pharmaceutical plant in Maine and—boom—medicine is shipped. He had enough Root to last him for a long time at the rate he used It. “Not a bad hall tonight,” James said with a tone that implied that he could not have cared less about the “hall.” Sitting in the back of their 2003 Honda Accord, James indicated to the driver that they could go. “So what’s the word from the Big Man? Somewhere warm I hope?” Caedmon didn’t respond right away, but watched as they got on highway 80 in Ohio.

“Gary is next. There is a man there in need of help.”

James ran his hand through his hair and scratched quickly at his scalp, breathing heavily. “Gary, the city in Indiana? As in The Music Man, Gary, Indiana?” James moved around in his seat uncomfortably. “We couldn’t get a bigger car for the trip?”

It was late.

Caedmon closed his eyes and coughed twice.

It was then that Caedmon felt the presence of someone else within his mind.

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“Caedmon, I know you can hear me, but please do not move so as to indicate anything is happening.” It was a thickly African voice.

“Hello, Akinro,” Caedmon thought, breathing consistently, hoping his cough had been imperceptible.

“You need to get out of the car Caedmon. It is not safe. Get out of the car and make your way to Bangkok. Do not tell James where you are going. I will meet you there in one week’s time.” And with another slight hitch in his breath, Caedmon was alone in his mind.

Caedmon inched his hand to the lock above the handle, and slowly lifted it into the “unlock” position. “I’m going to stretch out for a quick nap,” he said, unbuckling his seatbelt and moving his backpack next to his head.

A second later the door was open and Caedmon was rolling and toppling end over end across I-80.

The car did an abrupt J-turn moving into oncoming traffic back to where Caedmon had left, but by the time the car made it back to where Caedmon had dislodged himself, he had disappeared into the woods.

Caedmon was headed for Bangkok.