October 10, 2008
First Date.
“Hello,” she said.
He jerked around, a little startled. “Oh. Hello. I didn’t know there were any other people here.”
She smiled a little. “Well, I am here now.” She looked him up and down, smiling.
Somewhat self-consciously, he brushed the dirt off his knees. “What?” he asked, noticing her smile.
“You are very handsome,” she said, smiling wider at his blush. “What are you doing?” The curiosity in her voice was genuine.
He jumped at the opportunity to change the subject. “I am planting a tree,” he said. “There are some of these on the other side of the garden, but none here; I thought one or two over this way might be nice.”
“I agree,” she said. “I found these seeds over that way,” she held out some new seeds he’d not seen yet, “and thought they might go well here, also.”
He touched the seeds in her hand, shyly looking at other parts of her entirely.
She caught his eye and his hand, and laughed.
He grinned back, and they forgot about the seeds for a while.
And later when things got bad and they had to leave their garden and he started blaming her for all their misfortune as if he’d had no free will of his own, Eve would remember that day, and those seeds, and wonder what could’ve grown if she’d sown them.
October 5, 2008
Solving the Problem of Evil.
Either God is a Trickster, or Man is Morally Stupid.
(Hey, no one ever said that the Tree’s Knowledge was heritable.)
April 10, 2008
Thirty Coins Richer.
The sound of coins falling kept him awake, this night. Unwittingly, his mind cast itself back to that time, when that sound was imprinted into his memory.
He hadn’t had a choice.
Not much of one, anyway. There were many ways to destroy a man, and they had found a surefire one. Their plot was simple: reveal that one of the rabbi’s followers was a demon, in a way that could not possibly be disputed, and watch the rabbi’s following collapse.
Of course, the rabbi was too smart for that. By the time Judas figured out what his master had done, it was far too late.
The rabbi had patiently antagonized them until they wanted his blood.
So Judas found himself leaving the Temple one day, thirty coins richer and spiritually bankrupt.
When he walked into the house the Twelve shared with their master, the rabbi looked up at him and smiled.
Awan.
The first time I met Awan, she was weeding one of the Academy’s many gardens. (I was later to learn from the chief gardener that she did this for free, claiming the work relaxed her.) On some whim, I asked her to share my lunch; she agreed.
There was something alluring about Awan – alluring and mysterious. Over the years, as I came to know her, she never lost that allure. I don’t know when I realized I was in love with Awan, but I was not terribly surprised.
I was surprised to find that she had fallen equally hard for me. We declared our commitment to each other by simply applying for a joint apartment at the Academy, as was the custom. Life went on, and I finally began to learn more about Awan’s family.
She had two brothers, she told me, and of them, Abel had always been the favored child. He had loved animals, apparently, in much the way she loved plants – and that was the only favorable thing Awan ever said of him. Her other brother, called Cain, had loved plants too; Awan told me that he’d taught her everything she knew.
There had been some conflict over the inheritance of the family lands. Awan’s parents were reaching the age where local custom allowed them to transfer the lands to their heir and retire, but while Cain was the oldest and should have received the inheritance, their parents favored Abel. So they decided to set up a test: the two children would bring their parents the best of their work, and the parents would then decide who was more worthy of being heir.
The test, as Awan related it, was rigged: not even the best fruits of Cain’s trees could compare to the scrawniest of Abel’s sheep, as far as her parents were concerned. So Abel took over the family lands, and the first thing he did was turn on Cain. The second thing he did was turn on everyone else. The local folk hated both brothers – Cain due to the rumors Abel had spread about him, Abel due to his cruelty – cruelty hidden behind a facade of kindness, so none of the local authorities thought anything was amiss.
It was around that time, Awan said, that she started leaving the town, venturing out as far as the Academy. She eventually gained admittance here, but continued to go back to her home from time to time.
Then Cain killed Abel.
Awan never told me precisely why, but she did not need to. Abel’s cruelty had continued to escalate, and the authorities had continued to turn a blind eye, and Cain had finally decided to deal with his brother once and for all. The specific act that motivated Cain didn’t really matter.
Cain had become a fugitive, and had never been seen again. Awan finished her story and lapsed into silence. I held her close, but she was tense in my arms, and we both lay awake all night, staring out into the darkness.
A few weeks later, Awan vanished. I was heartbroken, and took to sitting for hours in the Academy’s less frequented gardens, which seemed to miss Awan as much as I did. Eventually, as is the way of things, the pain of her departure grew less sharp, though no less present, and I returned to my routine.
Then, one night I returned late to my apartment, and found a man inside. His resemblance to Awan was startling: the same slender build, the same red hair, the same height. He turned, and I saw he had Awan’s black eyes, too, and I knew his name. Both his names.
“Awan.”
The man flinched, and his form blurred slightly before taking on a clearly female form. “I had hoped you wouldn’t guess.”
I could not seem to find anything to say.
An unsettling gleam shone in Awan’s eyes. “They were coming for me. I had to leave. Not that it did much good – they caught up with me before I reached the Roarer,” she said, naming the major eastern river. She held out her hands; her palms were criss-crossed with deep, raw wounds. I flinched, reaching for her, but Awan moved back.
“They’re finished with me now, but I still can’t stay. Too much is lost, too much is broken – I have to go.” Even as Awan spoke those last words, she’d slipped out the window, climbing quickly but awkwardly down the trellis, ignoring how her hands broke open and bled. She vanished into the night before I could even blink.
It would not be until years later, when I found the enlightenment that spans worlds, that I realized the enormity of what “they” had done to her. At a fundamental level, we are the same person across all the worlds; we just express ourselves differently. Whether or not we ever realize it, that connection between our selves is fundamental to our being – and the vengeful magi who’d hunted Awan down for the murder of her brother had shattered that connection – and shattered every one of her selves.
I remind myself of a fundamental tenet of magic: that anything a magi can do can be undone. I tell myself that I will find a way to heal my wife, eventually, for I am as much a magi as those who hurt her.
I only hope I am not lying.
February 23, 2008
Beginnings.
In the beginning, there was nothing. The nothing began to know itself, and it became something. It called its new self “I am”, for it was, and it saw that it was good…
January 10, 2008
Poison and Cure: A Modern Parable.
Two men came into the hospital, both with the same symptoms. The doctors looked at the men, and determined that they had both been poisoned.
Now, this poison was rare, and the hospital had only enough antidote for one man, with no means of getting more. So the doctors now faced a tough decision – who should be saved?
“Save this man,” said the first doctor, pointing to the man on the left. “He is a good man, a pillar of his community. That other man is a thief and a gang member; I recognize him from police broadcasts.”
“Save this man,” said the second doctor, also pointing to the man on the left. “He attends my church; he is a devout believer who has always followed the laws of our Lord. This other man is not a Christian; in fact, I have seen him vandalize church buildings and have heard him curse good believers.”
“Save this man,” said the third doctor, also pointing to the man on the left. “He has a good wife, and children that he has raised to be upright and moral. This other man has no family; he uses and abuses women at his whim. He is violent and immoral; why should we waste our only dose of antidote on him?”
Then Jesus walked forward. “Give me the antidote,” he said.
The doctors gave him the antidote, confident that he would make the right decision.
And Jesus went over to the man on the right and gave him the antidote, turning to watch with sad eyes as the man on the left died.
“Why did you do that?” asked the doctors. “He is not a Christian. He is evil, immoral – a violent criminal. The other man was a good man. Why did you not save him?”
And Jesus answered, “You are right. The man who died was all you said, and the man who lives is also as you said. But the man who died is now in heaven; his place was guaranteed by his belief in me.
“This man, on the other hand, is still in need of saving. I gave him the antidote so that he would live longer, and hopefully, someone will help him live into eternity.
“The Father wants none of his children to die; so, why do you save those who have no need of it? Instead, save those who need it most.”
