As you may have read elsewhere, Hege Inuoue (pronounced hedge in-you-way) is responsible for my involvement with this project.
I know this will sound quite odd, but I don't know what the following material is. I do know that it has something to do with the story. But not the story of Ahmenar on Atria. It has something to do with Hege, but not here on Earth either. I can’t wait for Hege to explain this. But first he is holding me to the task of telling the tale of Ahmenar.
The Majordomo looked across the heavy mesquite wood table square into my eyes and I knew then with an infallible certainty that I would be blamed for everything though I had nothing to do with any of it. Or so I thought. Odd then that at that time I wasn’t even sure of what it was that I stood accused. Simply a simple man in the right place at the wrong time. Or perhaps the wrong place at the right time? Hard to tell. Perhaps I’d have been better off having never been there to begin with, making it the wrong time and the wrong place for all the right reasons. But then, I’d never have crossed her path, or she mine, and our eyes wouldn’t have met while the planets formed intensely powerful aspects. Not that then I knew anything of the nature or power of these alignments or of other alignments that I didn’t even know existed, let alone the names of. But the Universe has a way of having its energies unfold in spite of profound human ignorance. As well, I am not one to argue with god, in any manifestation, real or imagined. Call me a pawn, if you will, but I certainly felt in control of my destiny. I still do - that I was in control then. Now, however, the decision of the majordomo was beyond my control. Or was it? The better question, though, is this: is he in control of his decision?
Holding the photograph aloft for me to see; “Do you deny?” asked the majordomo with all the humility of an insouciant preacher who has yet to learn personally that not only do the god(desse)s give, but that they take away as well. How could I answer? I thought inwardly of the famous courtroom no-win question: “so Mr. Jones, have you stopped beating your wife?” “Do I deny?” what sort of dead-end no-win question was that! If I were to deny, I would be denying the minute strand of fabric that we all came to depend on to assure ourselves that we lived proper and decent lives; and through me god would be taking something that we all needed. Yet if I did not deny, I would be condemning not only myself, but the others as well, effectively admitting complicity; and through me god would be giving - but of something that none of us wanted.
His unwavering gaze was penetrating though patient. I was afraid, actually, that his patience easily would exceed my ability to remain indecisive. At some point, I would have to answer his question, and in that moment, the universe would shift dramatically. This much power, I’m afraid, was held in one simple word, either “yes” or “no.” There would be no room for broad and expansive arguments that might paint an excuse; there would be no room for thorough reasoned arguments that might be considered an explanation; there would be no room for long-winded recaps or lurid replays of events that might distract from providing an answer. There was simply room enough for the one word. And all I had to do was begin to form the utterance in my throat and he would know. Perhaps he would know sooner, as soon as I began shaping my lips and positioning my tongue. Was he trained in the art of interpreting glossolingual morphologies? Did it matter? The Universe would know. In fact, the Universe would know as soon as my mind considered which answer I would give. I was curious: Did the Universe already know? Had profound tectonic shifts in its very fabric already begun to take place? Am I merely its pawn? Or do I have a conscious choice in this matter? Was all the pondering and thinking and worrying about which answer I would give already factored in, “discounted” as a market analyst would say, by that greatest of stock markets, the Universe? Was I merely torturing myself by thinking I carried some special burden, a modern though simple Jesus, hung not on a cross under the Sun, instead baking under the demanding consistency of the majordomo’s gaze beating on my soul which flapped naked in the winds of the world, hung on a framework of which I had long lost track.
Yes, he could wait for a very long time. As could they all. And the Universe has all the time in the world, so to speak, and so my travails in this hour couldn’t matter much to it. But in this thought, a gift from the gods who watch over my antics: an hour. There would be no need to wait longer than that. In sixty minutes, I vowed to myself, I would give my answer. It would be, I realized, a very long and strange hour. How far could I travel in that hour, I wondered; and then I departed.
The majordomo held the photograph aloft, waiting for my answer, staring into my unblinking eyes. But I was no longer there.
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