The Fall of Man

I've never really understood the significance of the fact that the forbidden fruit in the Genesis came from the tree of knowledge of good and evil.  This story is essentially my thinking out loud about this question.

Note, I did absolutely no research on early hominids before writing this.  If any of the anthropological, historical, or theological errors in this story bother you, just remember that it all takes place in an alternate universe.

The Fall of Man

Chapter 1. Alone

A physicist is the universe's way of understanding itself. Or at least of trying to understand itself. And so the computer continued to run the program he had spent months writing, tracking the path of one proton as it collided with another. It would be several more hours before it had finished its work, and yet the interaction it was tracking would take a fraction of a second to be completed in real life. It seemed that the universe didn't need any help understanding itself after all. The protons knew what they were to do without thinking. The myriad of particles spawned from their collision knew their roles as well. He thought he was smart. Smarter than a proton at any rate. A proton couldn't build a computer or write a program to simulate itself. And yet, the proton had a deeper understanding of the universe than he would ever have. He felt like an outsider looking in. He had studied so hard to learn the rules of the game, and yet all the other participants seemed to understand them effortlessly. How had man become so separated from the world?

It was not always so.

In the beginning was God. Or water. Or a field. All names are equally appropriate and inappropriate, for all were one. Then God created the universe. Or the water was divided into the waters above the firmament and the waters below the firmament. Or the symmetries of the field were spontaneously broken, causing it to separate out into the various fundamental particles. Again, all descriptions are equally appropriate and inappropriate. The separation continued -- sea from land, night from day, the living from the unliving, and at last, man from animal.

Perhaps that is a bit too simplistic. When exactly did man separate from animal? If you ask a modern anthropologist, he could tell you which species possessed what traits. Certainly there would be holes in her account, but even if we had access to the complete fossil record, she still would not be able to answer your question. It's a bit like asking what qualifies as a hot day versus a cold one. A thermometer can give you the temperature, but where to draw the line is a question that science cannot answer. We might all agree that ninety degrees is hot and zero is cold, but what about sixty-five or seventy? One might draw the line at seventy degrees and another at seventy-one, and neither would be able to prove his case against the other.

But enough of answerless questions. We shall draw a line at a particular individual and give him the name Man. During Man's life there were several hominid species. Some were more intelligent than his own, others less so. Some were bigger and stronger, and some smaller and weaker. There were some with which he could have interbred, if he had chosen, and others which had been separated by too many years of evolution to produce a successful match. The remains of some of them have been discovered in modern times -- a feat for which those species have been granted fancy Latin names. Others have been lost to us completely, but at the time of our story, there is no point in distinguishing between these groups. None of them knew their Latin names. Even if the Romans had discovered a way to extend their great empire into the distant past and teach these primitive ancestors of man their language, they would have seen little point in assigning themselves names. Intuitively they understood that they were all just aspects of the same primal cause, following the laws of its own nature. Some modern scientists would say following the laws of nature. Theologians might say they were all just thoughts of God following the divine will.

Man, however, was different. The laws governing the evolution of the species had conspired to give him a greater gift for abstraction than his brethren. He did not just participate in the dance, but he observed it. As the others did, he ate when he was hungry, drank when he was thirsty, and slept when he was tired, but he also watched the others as they did the same. You might say the difference between Man and the other hominids was that he possessed a soul that could be awed by the beauty he saw. He first noticed it in the spring as the snows began to recede.

The gentle hills had been worn almost completely bare of grass. The mammoth and bison herds would soon be moving north to their summer feeding grounds. Man's tribe of nearly fifty would follow them, but none of them thought of that now. When the time came to move, they would move. Now it was time to hunt, so they hunted. The pit had been covered and the spearmen were in place. Man and several others were following beside a mammoth herd, keeping out of sight behind the hills. When they had followed it as near to the pit as it was likely to come on its own, Man and his fellow hunters ran over the top of the hill and rushed toward them, whooping loudly and waving their spears. Startled, the herd began stampeding away from them toward the pit. The hunters continued their chase, unnoticed by their quarry. The stampede would continue for miles with or without their pursuers, but the hominids did not know this.

But then one of the mammoths stumbled. The resulting chaos was heard, but not seen, by the hunters until another of the mammoths shot back straight toward them. How many times had modern man attempted to emerge, only to be snuffed out by some freak accident? But as promised, Man would be the father of all mankind, and so he did not meet an early death here. It was through no skill of his own. They were too close to the herd, and the mammoth ran too fast for any of the hunters to move before it reached them. Whether by chance or by the divine natural laws that determine every outcome in our universe, Man was not one of the two trampled to death.

The lone mammoth continued running away, ignoring the hominids, while the rest of the herd had reorganized itself and pressed on with its stampede. Soon the triumphant shouts of the rest of the tribe could be heard, indicating that one of the mammoths had fallen into their pit. The surviving hunters ran to rejoin them. All of them, that is, except for Man. He stood staring at the two fallen bodies. If Man were a modern man, it would be reasonable to assume that he was lost in grief. Grief, however, had not yet arisen in these early times. No, Man was overwhelmed by the beauty of scene before him.

The brown earth beneath them had lost the green of life. But the herds would soon move north, and the grass would return. The northern feeding grounds would likewise fade away, but then the snows would come, and they would be revived. The grass, in its passing, gave life to the mammoths, and the mammoths, in their passing, gave life to the tribe. Each animal, each plant, and even each stone on the ground played its role perfectly according to invisible laws too complicated for any of them to understand. What if some, like the two tribesmen now at his feet, were to die young? What if there was no obvious purpose to their life -- no genes passed on to a new generation, no nutrients passed on to a starving predator? What role could they play? And yet all were connected, and so none could exist for even the briefest instant of time without profoundly affecting the universe. His fellow hunters had played their part in the universe perfectly, and the universe was beautiful.

Man was the first to wonder at this, so Man was the first to give it a name. He called it God.

God was the interaction of all things, and He was the oneness that was before all things. He was as impersonal as the laws of nature, dispassionately guiding all things, and He was as personal as each individual who was a part of Him. Yes, He was personal, and Man wanted to know Him better.

Man was still standing deep in thought after the hunt had ended and the others had come to bury the bodies. Mechanically he partook in the ceremony -- adorning the fallen with jewelry before covering them with a small mound of earth -- but his mind was always on God. He wanted to explain this sudden wonder to his tribesmen, but how could he? Man and his tribe had a language, but it was woefully inadequate for such a task. It didn't even have words to differentiate between the various species of animals they hunted. How could he begin to use it describe God?

Beyond the simple ceremony, there was nothing further to mark the passing of the hunters. It never occurred to any of them that such occasions should be a cause for sadness. Man was beginning to be able to describe what he and the others had known all their lives. They were all one, so if any lived, they all lived.

Why did he suddenly feel a need to describe such things? Man could not answer this, but he knew he had to in the same way that he knew that he had to breathe and eat. Increasingly his participation in the hunts diminished as he watched and thought. When they followed the herds north, he did not go with them. He was no longer like them. He was a new species.

So he sat, and watched, and waited. Several tribes came north, also following the herds. Man attempted to speak to each of them. With some he was successful. Some had languages that were too dissimilar from his own. Some were barely capable of speech. He began categorizing them based on both physical characteristics and mental development, and to each group he gave a name. They were all beautiful in their own way, each allowing him to see different aspects of God's character. None, however, were capable of comprehending the ideas which Man wished to share. None of them were like him.

After many days, Man grew restless and began his journey south.

Chapter 2. The Search

There was no shelter -- just the river to his left and endless hills stretching to meet the sky in all directions. Far off to his right, Man could see darkness stabbed intermittently with bursts of light. The storm would reach him before sunset, and there was no shelter.

With a gust of cold wind, the darkness enveloped him and the rain began to fall. Man stopped to look at the sky above him. Each slash of lightning illuminated the otherwise invisible clouds towering high above him. He could feel the power of those giants and it thrilled him. Their power was his power. The forces of nature that fueled them were the same forces that sustained him and controlled his every action. Eventually the concentrated energy of the storm would be dissipated throughout the atmosphere, leaving no trace of its current character. Eventually all traces of Man's current character would be lost as well, his constituent parts scattered throughout the universe. Perhaps Man would outlive the storm. Perhaps the storm would outlive Man. It made no difference, for they were both driven by the same will.

Man looked back down toward the path ahead and continued walking with the power of God beating down upon him. At times the wind turned against him, bringing him to a near stop. At others it turned into his back, driving him to run on. Always he continued his journey south.

By the time the storm had passed and the sky above had cleared, nighttime had fallen. Man lay down on the top of a hill, with nothing but a thin layer of atmosphere between himself and the rest of the universe, and there he slept. He awoke well before dawn. The stars that had been overhead when he had first gone to sleep had made their way to the horizon, and new ones had risen in the east to take their place. Man knew how many hours it was until dawn by their pattern. They were eternal markers, serving as unchanging guides to Man's people for generations past and generations to come. And yet they were not eternal. The light they spewed forth into the void came from their self-consumption. Some were larger and more powerful, burning themselves at such a furious rate that they would live only a fraction as long as their smaller brethren. Even these would continue to shine long beyond the time when Man was no longer Man, but in the eyes of eternity, all lives are short. They were fleeting condensates of gas, briefly coming together before exploding back into space.

Although he had no knowledge of what they actually were, Man looked upon the stars as God looked upon them. He knew that their lives and deaths shaped the world around them, just as those of men did. Each one had a role to play, laid out for it in the very earliest days of the universe -- laid out by the same divine will that drove the storm and that drove Man. To obey the laws of nature was their noblest aim, and it was their only aim. How could they do anything else? And so the purpose of the stars, of the storm, and of Man was the same. A single breath taken by Man was no less important than the spewing forth of the building blocks of planets by a dying star. Their glory was his glory.

Then Man heard voices. The language was not familiar, but the speakers were definitely hominids. Man followed the sounds through the darkness until he could see the glow of firelight leaking over the next hill. Creeping to the top and looking over, he could see a half dozen of them gathered around a fire sheltered on all sides by hills. They were enjoying the spoils of a night-time hunt. It was too dark for them to see him, but in the light of their bonfire he could see them clearly, as well as what they were eating. They were cannibals.

Man had been watching them for only a moment when he heard rustling behind him. There must have been four or five of them closing in unseen in a half circle. Man was afraid, but his fear was altogether different from the fear felt by modern man. Of course, Man did not have time at this moment to dwell on his emotions. He did not have to, for he felt what he felt. But let me pause for a moment to describe the fear of the first human.

Man did not fear death because it was unknown. Certainly death was unknown to Man, but this was not why he feared it. Death was no different than life -- not in any way that mattered. Perhaps he would continue to be self-aware, and perhaps he would not. Either way, he would continue to obey the One whom he had always obeyed. His purpose would not have changed.

No, he feared death because God had commanded him to. One day death would come, but it was Man's duty to avoid it as long as it was within his power. This is what millennia of evolution had taught him to do.

And so fear caused Man's mind to generate possible actions at such a frenzied pace that he was nearly immobilized by panic. But one thought stuck -- the cannibals behind him knew that he was there, while the ones in front of him did not. So he charged down the hill toward the fire. Those behind began to run after him, while those in front jumped up and stared. They were unsure whether to run toward or away from this frantic stranger. It was not until after Man had run right through their midst and the other cannibals had reached them that they joined the chase.

Man had already reached the top of the next hill by the time they had all taken up the chase. He ran down the other side just far enough to be hidden from their view and then turned ninety degrees. After dashing twenty or so feet away from his original path, he dove into the tall grass. He had been lying there for only a moment when the cannibals came charging over the crest of the hill. When they did not see him, they assumed that he had already made it over the next hill, so they pressed on even faster straight ahead. Even after they had disappeared into the darkness and Man could no longer hear them, he waited several minutes before beginning to crawl cautiously around the top of the hill. He continued on his hands and knees until he was far enough away that they would not be able to see him if they suddenly returned along the same path on which they had left. Then he stood and began walking east toward the river.

By the time he reached the water again the sun had risen. Man continued his journey south along the river's bank. It was several hours before he had recovered enough from his adventure to stop periodically checking over his shoulder for pursuers. It was noticeably warmer than when he had started his journey. That, combined with the interruption to his sleep on the previous night, made man quite drowsy by the time the sun had reached its highest point in the sky. So he found the shaded side of a hill and lay down to rest.

It seemed that his eyes had only just closed when he was awoken by a sudden noise. The grogginess of sleep relinquished his mind instantly upon the sight of a hominid standing over him with a heavy rock lifted high above his head. One of the cannibals must have been following him, waiting for him to go to sleep before striking.

Again, let me freeze this moment to explore the feelings that Man felt instantly. Or rather, let me explore the feelings which he did not feel. If modern man were to come face to face with a fellow man who wanted to kill him, his mind would instinctively create a narrative of good versus evil. His death at the hands of an unprovoked killer would not just be a loss to himself, but an affront to the overall justice of the universe. One being asserting its will against another is so against the rules of the universe that any modern man would be angered by it.

And yet the universe allows it to happen all the time.

No, man had no sense of good or evil. He simply saw another being obeying the same God whom he obeyed. It was not his place to judge the laws of nature. How could he judge that which controlled his every thought? If the cannibal were to kill him, it would not be one individual triumphing over another. It would be one aspect of God interacting with another, and God still being God before, during, and after.

But before the rock was released, a spear struck his assailant in the chest hard enough to knock him over backward. He died instantly. Man looked up in the direction from which the spear had come. There he saw a lone female looking back at him with an understanding in her eyes that he had never seen before. Perhaps his quest for one who would understand him really was over. Perhaps it was just his admiration for one who had saved his life. Regardless, he decided to call her Woman.

Chapter 3. Paradise

There was much about this place that Man did not understand. He did not understand the language. He did not understand how so many people could live together. He did not understand why they were not following the herds north. He did not understand where their food came from if they did not hunt. And yet, his only real interest was Woman.

Since he had left his tribe, Man had been searching for one like himself -- someone who could observe and analyze the universe rather than simply be a part of it. And every day, Man became increasingly hopeful that he had found her. To be sure, any meaningful conversations were still several months away. Even though Woman was already fluent in Man's language, it was too simple to convey ideas of any depth. Woman's language offered more hope, but as of yet, Man was still faltering his way through the simplest of its phrases.

Still, although discussions of beauty and wonder were not yet possible, they at least had a language in which Woman could explain life in her village. She explained how their village did not move, but rather lived in permanent houses built from wood. This was why she had been forced to kill the cannibal. When hostile tribes came through, they could not simply stay out of their way, but had to drive them off.

As for food, they did hunt when the herds were nearby, but their nourishment came mostly from plants. Man wondered at how they could gather enough to support so many, for although his own tribe would occasionally gather roots and berries to supplement their meat, they never found enough for it to be really worth their time. Woman tried to explain the process of planting and harvesting, but again she ran into the limitations of Man's language. Why would a tribe of hunters and gatherers have any words suitable for describing agriculture? Eventually she realized that it would be easier simply to take him to the garden.

The winters were mild enough here that many plants grew year-round. So although the garden would not reach its full splendor until the heart of the summer, the greenery of early spring was enough to dazzle one who was so unfamiliar with such things. This was not the densely packed prairie grass stretching indefinitely in all directions. Nor was it the impassable tangle of vines and leaves taking shelter amongst the mighty trees of a great forest. No, the scene now before Man lacked the overwhelming sense of strength that these natural displays possessed, but it had a strength nonetheless.

Its strength came from order. Shrubs, trees, and vines were separated out into neat rows by their various kinds. Modern man might say that the power of nature had been tamed or subdued, but such thoughts did not occur to the first man. To him there was no distinction between Man and Nature, so one could not overpower the other. The plants still grew according to their nature, in the only way that they ever could. No power could change this. But these had been planted and cared for by hands that clearly understood them and the principles they obeyed, which had allowed them to grow healthier than they ever could have otherwise. If anything, cultivation had increased their strength, not subdued it. So Man was not the only one observing and analyzing. Perhaps Woman and her fellow villagers were like him, or at the very least, might become like him.

Man was eager for Woman to show him the secrets of the garden, and so she taught him how to care for it. They spent all their daylight hours working there -- preparing the soil, planting seeds, maintaining the irrigation channels from the river, and weeding. Without modern tools, their efforts were certainly no less physically taxing than those of today's farmers, but this was not work in the modern sense. There was no fear. There was no fear that the weather would turn bad and destroy their crops, because the weather was always perfect. Certainly there were times when it rained too much or too little. And likewise there were times when it was too hot or too cold, but still the weather was always perfect for it was exactly what it had to be. Neither Man nor Woman understood the subtle interplay of sunlight, air pressure, planetary rotation, and the myriad of other factors that determined the weather, but they knew that those laws existed, and that was enough. The weather was always exactly what God wanted it to be, and whether their crops thrived of failed, it was perfect.

There was no fear of their work being judged in any way inadequate by the other villagers, for like the weather, their work was always perfect. Shaped by physical laws even more subtle than those guiding the weather, both their talents and their work ethics were exactly what they should be. Every mistake they made had been set in the mind of God since before the creation of the universe. How could they ever feel shame?

There was no fear that they were wasting their lives. No fear that they were missing their true purpose or not using their talents to their fullest extent. Whatever they chose to do at that particular moment was exactly what had been foreordained for them to do from the beginning of the universe. They could not fail to fulfill their purpose. No, their work in the garden was in no way onerous -- it was a daily walk with God.

Gradually Man learned the language of the village, and he and Woman were able to discuss all these things. They rejoiced together in the beauty of the garden and the part they played in it. Man praised Woman as she developed new techniques for planting, irrigating, and harvesting, and he rejoiced in the wisdom of God. Woman praised Man as he tirelessly worked one hour after another and she rejoiced in the strength of God. For the power of each was the power of God and, therefore, the power of the other. And when the strength of Man or the wisdom of Woman should fail, still each praised the other, for the limitations of God were how he loved himself. By restricting one part of himself, he allowed another part to grow and interact with it, giving of himself to strengthen himself.

So they spoke of nothing but their work. And they spoke of nothing but each other. And they spoke of nothing but God. And they spoke of nothing but themselves. And always their conversations seemed to come back to the one tree in the center of the garden from which they never ate.

Chapter 4. Knowledge

Everyone knew that to eat of the fruit from the tree in the center of the garden would bring immediate death. How they knew, they were not sure. Perhaps someone long ago had tried it. Perhaps they had simply noticed that none of the other creatures ever ate from it. Regardless, as surely as no one fell up, no one ate from the tree in the center of the garden.

Man and Woman were content. They took no pride in the fact that they had already risen above their fellow hominids. It was not from their efforts, but from millions of years of mutations and natural selection that they had evolved into a new species. They were a species that did not merely obey the laws of the universe, but studied and worshipped them. No, they were without pride and without ambition, and yet they were curious. What was the purpose of this tree?

A modern mind might attack such a question from many different angles. The scientific angle would ask what evolutionary advantages could have produced such a tree. The religious angle would ask why an infinitely intelligent, infinitely powerful, and infinitely loving God would have created a tree that apparently provided no benefit to any living creature. Man and Woman had no understanding of either modern science or modern religion, and so they would have been unable to distinguish between these two angles. They did not seek to create some elaborate theory about the tree that would support whatever view of the universe they had. They simply wanted to know how it fit.

They and everything they saw, felt, or imagined were nothing more than the thoughts of God -- all part of a single creation -- and here was something that seemingly stood alone. Nothing ate from it or took shelter in its trunk or branches. Neither did it seem to be affected by the seasons, weather, or any other organisms. If the universe had failed to produce such a tree, it was hard to imagine how that universe would be any different. Likewise, if the tree had been the only object created by the big bang, it seemed likely that the tree would have been exactly the same as it currently was for all eternity. Nothing else in their experience was so isolated. Even a child who died at the moment of her birth would leave an impression on her parents that would start a ripple of consequences spanning all of future time. There were many things that Man and Woman did not understand, but there was nothing that they did not understand so thoroughly. And yet they could not help but notice it every day as they worked in the garden.

And then one day there was a difference. As Man and Woman were walking together, Woman noticed a snake climbing in the branches of the tree. She pointed it out to Man, and they stopped to watch it. Slowly it coiled its way through the leaves, taking its time as if it knew it had an audience who could not turn away. It made its way out to a fruit hanging directly in front of the two humans. Its tongue flicked out to smell it tentatively before it finally took a bite. And it did not die. Man and Woman continued to watch the snake for many minutes, and still it did not die.

So it was not true that anyone eating of the fruit from the tree in the center of the garden would immediately die. The last barrier to her curiosity broken, Woman took some of the fruit and ate it. She also took some of the fruit and gave it to Man. He ate it as well.

It was the most wonderful fruit they had ever tasted.

It was so wonderful that Woman could not help but compare it to every piece of food she had ever eaten and deem it far superior. All those meals which at the time had served their purpose perfectly were now flawed. And then she noticed the sun shining on her in a way she had never done before. She had realized as she had been working earlier that it was a hot day and that she would not be able to push herself as hard as she usually did. But now, for the first time, she thought that the weather was not as pleasant as it had been the day before, when clouds and a cool breeze had tamed the sun's heat.

She thought of how the heat had affected Man and his work. He had seemed more bothered by it than she had been. He was from the north, after all, and more suited for colder climates. Perhaps she would have been better off working with one of the men who had spent his entire life at this latitude. And yet he was clearly more intelligent than any of them, and she enjoyed her conversations with him more than she did with any of the others. Did this compensate for his intolerance of the heat?

Then she noticed Man looking at her and became horrified. He was not her. They were not merely two aspects of the same creation, but individuals capable of both helping and hurting each other. And now she stood before his judging eyes, naked and exposed. How would she compare with every other person he had ever known? How could she compare favorably when judged against so many? She wanted to run. She wanted to hide. But where could she go? She had not just become separated from him, but from all of nature. Every animal, every plant, was not working together according to the same law, but each fighting for its own advancement. Some of their actions would be for her benefit, and some would not. Some would be good, and some would be evil. How could she survive in such a world?

Unable to breathe from the panic, Woman struggled to keep on her feet. Then she noticed Man stumble and caught him in her arms. The same panic that must have filled her eyes was staring back at her through his. It was horrific to see, but at the same time she understood it. Here, in a universe that had in an instant been transformed from a single, self-loving entity into myriad of combatants waging the war of good against evil, was something that she understood. It was a connection. Perhaps they could build more.

Foreword for a Physics Textbook

I've been teaching a gen. ed. physics class (i.e. physics for poets) for the past few semesters and have often thought about writing my own textbook for the class. Of course, those thoughts quickly disappear as I think about the incredible amount of work that would entail. If, however, I should one day find myself with the time to pursue such an undertaking, I do know what I'd want the foreword to say.

Foreword

If you have told friends and family that you are taking a course in college physics, you have probably heard one of the following: "That sounds hard," "Physics was the only class I ever failed," "I avoided physics when I was in college," or simply "I hated physics!" Physics has developed a daunting reputation as a subject that all but a few super-geniuses will find impossible to comprehend. It is our hope that by the end of this course you will have discovered that the subject is not only less intimidating than popularly believed, but that it can actually be quite enjoyable.


For many students the greatest obstacle to learning physics is simply the fear with which they approach the subject. Did you know that in 2009 nearly twice as many people died in automobile accidents as from solving physics problems? And yet, people still hop into their cars and drive across town without a second thought of the danger. Why? Because we cannot let fear paralyze us and keep us from living our lives. Fear is a dark agent of destruction that seeps into the consciousness of a society and strangles away its life. Fear is a demon of despair that keeps a people from achieving all that they long to achieve. Fear is a devourer of souls that robs an individual of his very essence. If you succumb to your fear of physics, then fear itself has won. The many accomplishments of human civilization, the future of mankind, and even your very soul hang in the balance. As you journey the road to knowledge, will you allow fear to ensnare you, destroying everything of worth in this life, or will you throw off the shackles of societal stereotypes and boldly plunge into the world of physics? The decision is yours.


It is often useful to skim each section before the corresponding lecture, and then reread it more carefully once you have seen the material in class. Several examples are worked out in detail in each section, which should serve as a guide to the questions at the ends of the chapters. As with any other skill, you only get better by practicing, so be sure to work out all the assigned homework problems. If you follow this simple advice, and devote adequate time to studying, we are confident that you will soon become a successful physics student!

The Children of Jacob Part 10/10

        "How is my mother?"
        "I'm sorry to say that her condition is still getting worse, my lord."
        "And you've done everything you can?"
        "Of course, my lord, but it's beyond my power to heal her. And at the risk of sounding a bit too bold, I might add that if it's beyond me, it's beyond any of the other doctors in the kingdom as well."
        "Then we'll have to look outside the kingdom. There must be someone."
        "Healers with the necessary kind of skill are the stuff of which legends are made."
        "Which legends?"
        Although he felt it was an absurd question, his master was far too serious not to be given a serious answer. "Well, there is a story about a healer who lives on the western edge of the continent, in a village that's separated from the rest of civilization by hundreds of miles."
        "And this person could help my mother?"
        "If the stories of her skill are true and, more importantly, if she even exists at all."
        "I'll head out at once."
        "Yes my lord."
        Even if he did not agree with his decision, the doctor respected Mebunnai's authority enough not to point out his rashness. Traveling through an unexplored wilderness in search of someone who might not even exist, and if they did, might not even be able to help, was not the sort of task an important ruler should be undertaking. Still, if it was in fact possible, there were few people who stood as great a chance of success as Mebunnai.
        Directly after this consultation, Mebunnai ordered one of his servants to load his horse with provisions and then went to see his mother. She lay in bed with a severe fever, not having had the strength to walk for over a week now. Her illness prevented her from receiving proper sleep, so she spent her time in a perpetual state that was neither that of the waking world nor that of slumber. She was capable of recognizing her son's voice and usually managed to utter some sort of unintelligible response, but on this day she seemed particularly coherent. As her son explained that he was going to find someone who could save her and that she must hold on for a few more days while he undertook this journey, she looked into his eyes with an expression of deep understanding and even managed a slight nod.
        Mebunnai went straight from his mother's chamber to the stables where his servant was waiting for him with his readied steed. He rode without stopping through the night and well into the next day until his horse began to slow. Then, so as not to lose any more time than necessary, he dismounted and slung the bags of provisions that had been tied to the saddle over his back. Thus he led his horse until it had recovered sufficient strength to carry him again. The doctor had not been able to give him any better directions than to ride west, which was what he did until he had reached the ocean on the seventh day. He examined the coastline to the south all the way to where it rose up into the western edge of the great mountain range and saw no sign of any settlements. Unfortunately, he saw nothing to the north either, but if the village was on the other side of those mountains, he knew that he had no chance of reaching it in time. So he turned to the north and began riding again.
        He came upon it suddenly on the morning of the next day. It was hidden on the shore deep within a bay so that he could not see it until he had reached the top of the hill that guarded its southern edge. The thought that first struck him was what a pleasant place it would be to live. The houses were small and simple, but appeared to be more than adequate for keeping out the rain of spring and the cold of winter. They were clustered together on the stretch of ground spanning the hundred or so yards between the ocean and the edge of the forest. Somehow they seemed content. He was not quite sure how inanimate structures could convey such an impression, but they did. Perhaps it was how they sat there in the open with no effort at defense despite being pinned between the unknown terrors that dwelled within the depths of the waters and the darkness of the woods.
        As Mebunnai walked down into the village he saw several people carrying fish from a small boat that had been pulled up onto the shore. They smiled at him as if not only had they met before, but as if they had at one time been the best of friends. They did not even inquire what had brought him to their remote village that he guessed could not receive many visitors.
        "Hello," said Mebunnai as they continued with their work. "I'm looking for a healer."
        "Hello," replied one of the villagers. Then indicating one of the houses with an outstretched finger he added, "You'll want that one there."
        Mebunnai entered a large room that accounted for most of the area in the house. The only piece of proper furniture was the low, square table standing in the center. Cushions covered with plain cloth were scattered about the remainder of the wooden floor. On one of them set against the far wall sat a young woman. Mebunnai had seen many women more beautiful during his reign, but there was something compelling in her face that had been lacking in all those others. Her eyes sought no approval from his, nor did they seek to make any judgments of him. They had a look of confidence that was beyond either of these.
        "Hello," she said warmly, "so you're looking for a healer."
        "Are you a psychic as well?"
        "Hardly. There's not much reason for a stranger to enter this house other than to request my help as a healer. Well, at least I can't think of any other reasons. Strangers do not come to this village, so I suppose I don't actually have much empirical evidence to support that assertion."
        "Well then let me be the first to corroborate your theory." His tone suddenly changed as he remembered why he had come and felt a sudden rush of shame for the levity with which he had spoken. "My mother is very ill. I'll give you anything you ask for if you'd be willing to heal her."
        "Of course I'm willing. I'm a healer. My purpose in life is to heal. Now please tell me what's wrong with her."
        "She has a terrible fever that has robbed her of her mind and that keeps her from leaving her bed. She can't have long to live. In fact, she may be gone already."
        "Don't worry. I have something that can help."
        She rose and walked through a doorway that led into a back room. A few moments later she reemerged holding out a small sack toward Mebunnai.
        "Here, these herbs will cure her."
        "Thank you," said Mebunnai as he accepted the proffered bag. "But what do I do with them?"
        "Just have her eat them--break them up and mix them with some water if you have to--and she'll be cured before another day has passed."
        "And what do I owe you?"
        "It would take me five minutes to walk into the forest and replace what I have just given you. How could I charge you for something like that? Besides, as I said before, it's my duty in this life to heal. Now hurry back to your mother."
        Mebunnai turned obediently toward the door and began walking slowly away. He had to hurry, just as she said, yet there was something else lurking just below his conscious thoughts that felt very important.
        As he reached the door he turned and said, "Come with me."
        "Why?" she asked, for the first time seeming to lose some of her composure.
        "My mother is very important to me and I don't want to take any risks. I'll pay you for your time, just come with me."
        "But I'm needed here."
        "It would only be for a few days. They can survive that long without you, can't they? It could be the difference in whether or not my mother survives."
        He waited anxiously as she stared at the ground contemplating this request. Her decision would probably have little effect on his mother's health, but that now seemed to be only a secondary issue to him.
        "All right," she said carefully, not lifting her eyes. "I'll go with you. You're right--it'd be better if I was there."
        They set off riding side by side at a more relaxed pace than what Mebunnai had taken on his journey out. This was not because the healer's horse was in any way inferior to his own, but because he no longer felt the same sense of desperation he had before. With the remedy in his possession and the master healer at his side, he had no doubts about his mother's recovery.
        For the first several hours neither of them spoke until the healer finally said quietly, "You're one of the great warriors who faced the dragon."
        "How'd you know?"
        "How could anyone not recognize that sword? It was you and your companions who freed us from the curse of living in constant terror. I'm sure everyone must recognize you."
        "What reason do they have to remember us? The dragon is gone so our work is done. They gave us our kingdoms, but even now I doubt many could recall why. Once this generation passes away there will be none who remember our deeds."
        "I don't believe that. What you did will be spoken of in reverence even thousands of years from now."
        "Perhaps, but I think you take too charitable a view toward human nature. Skill is only respected as long as it is needed. No one cares about that battle any more."
        "That I know for a fact is not true."
        They spoke infrequently for the rest of the journey. He was too in awe of this woman who had the ability to do what none in his kingdom had been able to do. What glory had she sought for her unequaled powers? Nothing but to live in a small village that possessed no wealth with which to reward her and was so far removed from the rest of civilization that most thought her to be only a legend. How childish he now felt at his bitterness over the way his own accomplishments had been remembered. She must think him to be entirely vain and self-centered. He rode along feeling utterly unworthy of speaking to her, the whole time not knowing that she felt equally humbled to be in the presence of this great king who had at one time helped to save the continent.
        As soon as they arrived at the palace, the healer set about her work, and within only a few hours Mebunnai's mother seemed to have recovered nearly all her strength. Seeing that she was no longer needed and anxious to return to her village, the healer began preparing to leave straight away. Mebunnai attempted to convince her to postpone her departure at least until the following morning, but soon realized that he would be unsuccessful and changed his request to allowing him to escort her back. After insisting that this gesture was unnecessary, she was eventually forced to acquiesce in the interest of not delaying herself any longer with useless arguments. Late in the afternoon of the same day on which they had arrived, they departed once again.
        "Thank you again for your help," said Mebunnai once they had left the city. "If ever there's any way we can repay you, all you have to do is let us know."
        "You're welcome. It's not for payment that I help others, but it's nice to know that should I ever need help myself that I'll have the aid of someone so capable."
        "We could use someone of your talents closer by."
        "Thanks, but I couldn't leave my village."
        "Why not? Don't get me wrong, it seemed like a very charming place, but I think there are plenty of other places in this world where you could be very happy."
        "It's not about happiness. That's simply where I belong."
        "You belong where you'll be happy."
        "I belong where my talents are most needed."
        "Aren't you more needed where there are more people to help?"
        "In your city there are many healers, but in my village, there is just me. If I were to leave, there would be no one to help them, so I can't."
        "Why? Anyone else in your village would be free to leave and set up a new life wherever he saw fit. Should you be punished just because you possess a gift?"
        "What about you? Don't you feel any obligation to use your skills to help others? What if you hadn't chosen to stand up to the dragon? Then the whole land would still be suffering from its attacks."
        "There were already six others, and if my absence would have really turned victory into defeat, then so be it. If the world couldn't have raised up another warrior to take my place, then it would have deserved the consequences. A man should never be pressed to risk his life for anything but his own betterment. I did what I did for the exhilaration of battle and to test my skills, not because I felt that I was under some sort of obligation."
        "I wish I could view life as you do--as something to be enjoyed rather than as a continuous debt that can never be repaid."
        "How ironic! From the moment I first spoke with you I knew that I could never be happy again apart from your company, but I wasn't quite sure what it was that had drawn me so strongly to you. Now I think it is the very thing that will never allow us to be together--your confidence in the purpose for your life. If we are fated never to see each other again once we reach your home, then could you please answer me at least this one question: Forgetting about any sense of duty, would you rather spend the rest of your life in your village or with me?"
        She did not answer immediately but let several seconds pass before whispering, "With you."
        The sun had only just set, but already the healer felt tired and was making preparations to go to bed. It had been one week since she had returned to the village and last seen Mebunnai. She had been expecting him to make one final plea for her to remain with him when they had parted, but he had not. Had he done so, she was not sure whether she would have been able to refuse him again. Still, it was for the best that she was back amongst her people taking care of their injuries and illnesses, even though the work was much more difficult than she had remembered. Before her journey she had been in the habit of staying up late into the night talking with friends, but now all she wanted to do was sleep. What had changed to make her work so much more wearying?
        As she lay herself down in her bed she thought back to the people who had come to her that day. There were the cuts and scrapes of children that had hardly been worth treating, the broken arm of the man who had been too careless while repairing his roof, the feelings of faintness that could have easily been prevented by simply drinking more fluids, and various other ailments that were all just as trivial to cure or to have prevented. Thinking back over her many years there she realized that the majority of her patients had always been of this nature--it had just never bothered her before. The possibility of leaving had never occurred to her back then, so there had been no point in judging either the value of her work or the satisfaction she derived from it. She now realized that the thought of leaving had kindled a resentment for the people with whom she lived. Her whole life she had been sacrificing her happiness to serve them, and all the while none of them had ever fully appreciated this for, like her, they had never considered that she could do anything else.
        Suddenly her anger melted away as she realized that, although it was unfair for them to hold her captive for her skill, it was she who had set herself up as their willing prisoner. Why had she done it? Did she avoid happiness out of some sort of sense of guilt? Was it the reassurance that as long as she was not making decisions for her own pleasure that she must be making them for the right reasons? She had tried to achieve a virtue beyond her own desires, but the moment she recognized it for what it was it evaporated. Her morbid goal of putting everything ahead of her joy was not the noble sacrifice she had thought it to be, but only a means of imbuing herself with a sense of moral superiority. To continue denying herself would only be to further perpetuate this act of pride.
        A week later Mebunnai was lifted out of his depression when the woman he thought he would never see again arrived at his palace. They were soon married and she spent the rest of her days in blissful delight there, never returning to the village that had once been her home. If she had tried to find that little paradise again, she most likely would have been unsuccessful anyway. Within months of her departure a merciless fever had swept through and wiped out its entire population. Several years later all that remained was the odd bit of debris poking through the sand.
#
        "Thank you," said Mebunnai. "It hasn't been a good year for the farmers in my kingdom, and I'm certain that none of them will pay their taxes on time. This grain you're selling me will be sure to keep food on my table."
        "And on the tables of the farmers, I trust," replied Ithai.
        "They'll take care of themselves--there's no need to be concerned about that. They always eat their fill first, even if that means cheating me of my portion. And what can I do about it? Once it's reached their stomachs, I certainly don't want to take it from them."
        "Well anyway, we had an abundant harvest this year, and your payment is more than generous so we're happy to help you out."
        "Normally I'm a much tougher negotiator, but given the state of your house, I felt that you needed the money more than I did. You know I had to ask someone where it was, it looks so much like one of the commoners'. Maybe you can use this to build yourself a proper palace."
        "Perhaps one day I will, but for now this place is adequate and there are plenty of other buildings in my kingdom in more urgent need of repairs."
        "I suppose it all depends on one's priorities. Goodbye, then, and best wishes for you and your kingdom."
        "Thank you. Have a safe journey."
        After his visitor had left, Ithai went out to the small garden that grew behind his one room house. The back wall of his home was covered with vines bearing berries that were just beginning to turn that deep shade of purple that indicated their sweetness had reached perfection. Beyond that were several rows of vegetables--cabbages, carrots, and potatoes. Despite its size, the garden always produced a prolific yield due mostly to the almost magical skills of the gardener. She was currently clipping off leaves from some of the herbs growing around the edges. As Ithai approached she looked up from her work and smiled.
        "Hello," she said.
        "Hello."
        Seeing his wife's face he was reminded, as he always was when he saw her, of how feeble the powers of his imagination were. For all the years he had known her, the image he carried in his head still bore only the dimmest reflection of her true beauty. What a blessing the inadequacy of his mind was, he thought, to allow him to be surprised anew by her splendor every day.
        "So how did your meeting with Mebunnai go? It must have been good to see him after so many years."
        "Yes it was, but he's changed. Or, rather, maybe I've changed. I guess it doesn't matter which one of us it was--we see the world very differently now."
        "I suppose he wasn't very impressed with your grand manor."
        "You could say that. I should have introduced him to you. Then he would have seen what a greedy man I really am."
        She laughed. "What a magnificent queen I would have seemed, covered with sweat and mud from working out here all morning. I'm sure I would have made quite an impression."
        "Well it wouldn't have been fair to let you clean up before seeing him. It would have driven him mad with jealousy. Can I help you with anything here?"
        "No, I'm just about finished. You can go inside and fix lunch, though."
        Their meal consisted of the same thin soup and hard bread that it did every day. Whatever vegetables they grew were reserved for occasions when they had visitors, or else given away to those who came to their door seeking help. Despite the significant amount of time it consumed, Ithai had never considered his duties as king to be proper work, and as such he felt guilty receiving a regular salary for it. Thus he had his allotted portion of the kingdom's revenue set aside to be redistributed to the poor. This seemed to him the only way to repay the world for the tremendous talents with which he had been blessed.
        They had finished eating and been idly chatting for nearly half an hour when they heard a knock at their door.
        "Come in," said Ithai. They never locked it, even when they slept at night, for they had almost nothing worth stealing.
        The man who walked in was reasonably well dressed and groomed, but was so panic-stricken that he still managed to appear disheveled.
        "My lord," he said, "a civil war has broken out on Quarantine Island. A small faction has had some weapons sneaked over to them and has taken over the ferry. It was only by good fortune that my brother was able to send a message across to me before they seized complete control."
        "Was he able to get any details to you, like how many of them there are or what type of weapons they have?" asked Ithai.
        "No my lord. As I said, he was lucky to get even what little information he did out."
        "Thank you for bringing this news to me. Now go and get some rest. I'll take care of it."
        "Thank you, thank you," said the man with a deep bow. "My family and I will be in your debt."
        "Think nothing of it. This is my kingdom and it's my duty to ensure that order is maintained."
        After bowing several more times the man left. As soon as he had gone, Ithai's confident, upright posture slipped away and he slouched down deep into his chair. The only people sent to Quarantine Island were those who had been infected with a certain peculiar skin disease. It caused the victim's body to become covered by a bright red rash that would remain with him for the rest of his life. While it was not known to be fatal, the victim was left to suffer from an unrelenting burning sensation. For most sufferers, however, this was not the disease's cruelest infliction. It was also highly contagious, which meant that unless someone wished to curse his loved ones with the same ailment, he was forced to live in exile. A large island in the middle of the great river that ran through the kingdom had been set aside for this purpose and had a population that fluctuated from about fifty to nearly a hundred as new people became infected and old inhabitants passed away.
        The only contact they had with the outside world was through a ferry that ran between the island and the river's bank. It consisted of a large wooden platform attached to a rope that was stretched across the water. The rope ran in a single loop around pulleys on either end so that it could be guided across without a human pilot and thus avoid any unnecessary risk of spreading the disease. Several times a week it carried over supplies as well as letters from friends and family. By having taken control of the ferry, the insurgents had taken control of the entire island.
        "So what are you going to do?"
        Ithai was not sure how long he had been sitting in silent contemplation when he heard his wife's voice asking him this question.
        "Why do you even ask? You know there's only one thing I can do."
        "But if you go you'll never be able to return."
        "Someone has to go, and I'm the only one in the kingdom capable of subduing those rebels by himself. Without me it would take at least half a dozen men--should I ruin more lives when the same thing could be accomplished by only ruining one?"
        "And do you really believe you would only be ruining one life? What about me? What about everyone else in your kingdom? We all need you too."
        "What have I done for the people that someone else couldn't have done better? I was given this title for my part in repelling the dragon, as if being skilled with the sword somehow made me qualified to rule. I consult you before making any decisions anyway, and your advice nearly always carries more wisdom than my own thoughts. No, the people will not miss me as long as you remain behind to rule them."
        "You only answered half of my objection."
        "The pain I know I'll suffer from being separated from you is the only thing I fear about journeying to that island. Not for what it will do to me--for I realize now that even what few years we've spent together have been a greater joy than any man deserves to experience in this life--but for what it might do to you. The idea of my causing you any pain tears me apart, and if you forbid me to go, then I won't. Then again, I know you'll send me on, won't you?"
        "You're right," she said, forcing a smile that failed to mask her growing sorrow. "It's just...sometimes I wonder why we must hold ourselves to such high standards. Who is it for? No one would fault you if you didn't go. The inhabitants of Quarantine Island are used to suffering--what's another burden to them? Why should those who are doomed anyway infringe on those of us who still have a chance at happiness?"
        "It probably isn't the logical thing to do, but I've always valued compassion above all else. And if all I ever did was simply obey logic, then I suppose that couldn't really be called compassion, could it?"
        That was the last they ever spoke of the matter. For the rest of the day they went about their regular duties, never leaving each other's sides as they did so. There was no need to break from their normal routine any more than that. Nothing else could be added that would further magnify the wonder of any moment beyond their simply being together. After the sun had set they stayed up talking, with the topic of conversation ranging from the deeply philosophical to the utterly frivolous. The eastern horizon was already beginning to redden when at last Ithai's wife succumbed to fatigue and fell asleep. Ithai took a final look at her and then set out for the river.
        When he arrived at the bank he found a small rowboat, bought it from its owner, and pushed off into the water. With his back to his destination, he began pulling at the oars with long, powerful strokes. He was just about halfway there when he heard some frantic shouts coming from the island. The rebels must have set up some men to keep watch over the ferry. Perhaps he should have rowed around and approached from the other side where they were less likely to have stationed lookouts. What did it matter? This quest had already cost him his life. A few minutes later arrows began flying through the air, splashing into the water on either side of him. He did not bother to turn his head, but kept his eyes locked on the shore from which he had come. Had she awoken yet? Did she know he had left? Would she be all right without him? Would he be able to survive without her?
        He began rowing harder, and five swift strokes later his boat shot up onto the shore with such force that the archers were scarcely able to leap out of the way in time. Ithai jumped to his feet, turning his body to face his attackers and cutting down the three nearest ones with his sword as he did so. Two more had fallen before they were able to regain enough composure to begin fighting back, leaving only fifteen still standing. They would be gone before his anger had exhausted itself, thought Ithai with remorse. How had men with such little strength been able to cause so much pain to his beloved? Was he really so weak himself to have allowed them to put her in this situation? He lashed out even more violently against them. Now some of them were trying to run away. He lunged toward them, but pulled up short before striking them down. Regardless of how deeply they had hurt him, he must not forget mercy. If they had given up fighting, there was no point in pursuing them. The island was too small to allow them to hide away and replenish their membership. As long as he remained, and he now had no choice in that matter, they would be harmless.
        It was not a particularly beautiful island. The shocks of brown grass sticking up intermittently out of the rocky ground looked as if they would all be gone within a week, and the few trees that grew there appeared to be in not much better health. On the mainland the trees were just beginning to fill the forests with the deep golds and scarlets of autumn. Here the branches were already bare, save for the occasional brown and shriveled leaf that was still somehow managing to keep clinging on. This was what he had given his life for. This was what they had given their lives for. What could possibly inspire men to rise up in arms to conquer such a place? Was their torment from their illness really so great that the only relief they could find was to further increase the misery of those who were already suffering with them?
        The village was not difficult to find. It would not have taken a half hour to explore the entire island if he had possessed any desire to do so. The twenty or so huts huddled together in the clearing looked almost alive in that an object must first possess life before it can be in the process of dying. Their inhabitants wandered back and forth between them, their eyes never rising from the ground immediately in front of their feet. Ithai watched their aimless meandering for over a quarter hour before one of them finally noticed him and cried out in surprise. It was unlikely that the man had recognized him as their king; for Ithai never wore any sort of adornment that would indicate that he was of any higher rank than a modest farmer. The source of his surprise was in the whiteness of Ithai's skin. No one ever set foot on this island unless his flesh was already taking on a definite pinkish hue. Soon the entire village was gathered around him, none of them daring to speak, but only staring at him with amazed curiosity. Ithai glanced around uncomfortably, unable to look any of them in the eyes for more than an instant. He felt an overwhelming desire to say or do something to relieve the pressure of their gaze, but the longer he endured it, the more difficulty he had trying to keep his mind clear enough to think.
        "You're Ithai, aren't you?"
        His mind rejoiced in the sound of that voice that shattered the unnerving silence, but still he could think of nothing more to say in response than, "Yes."
        "What are you doing here?"
        "I heard about the rebels who had taken control of the ferry."
        "You mean you're going to free the dock?"
        "I already have."
        The silence returned for a moment before someone else started, "But doesn't that mean...how will you be able to..."
        "I won't."
        Within a couple of days Ithai had made up his mind to make the best of his life on the island. She would want him to be happy so he would do everything in his power not to disappoint her. He started by constructing a house for himself. He built it of stone so that it was much sturdier and far more pleasing to the eye than any of the other dwellings there. Once he had completed that task he set about planting a garden for himself, all the while helping anyone who was inspired by his example to build up their own homes. As his skin inevitably became inflamed with the disease that made prisoners of them all, he began working even harder to distract himself from the pain. It was not so bad, as long as he kept himself busy. He even began to imagine that one day he might be able to be happy again. Then it began to rain.
        Sometimes it pummeled the ground with heavy drops, and at other times it eased up to a mild drizzle, but it never let up completely. On the fourth day Ithai began making frequent trips to the shore, nervously marking the progress of the water as it edged its way up onto the land. He thought of trying to throw up some sort of wall to hold back the river, but the island simply lacked the materials for it. Another four days, he estimated, was how much longer they had if the rain kept up at the same rate. Unfortunately for them, it did not. On the sixth day the storm roused itself to a level of fury that they had not yet seen. It beat the saturated ground with such a deafening roar and filled the air so thickly that it rendered both eyes and ears useless. Then, in a sudden surge, a powerful wave swept across the island, ripping all the trees from the soft ground as it charged downstream. Thus it was not only with water that the river attacked the feeble walls of the villagers' huts, but with tree trunks and whatever other heavy debris it had been able to pick up along the way.
        As his house exploded around him and he was swept away by the river, Ithai's first thought was to find whichever of his neighbors he could and see if they were all right. However, the strength of the current coupled with the incessant barrage of flotsam and jetsam forced him to devote all of his considerable strength to the task of simply keeping himself alive. He tried swimming across to the shore, but found himself being continuously pulled back in toward midstream. A new strategy soon forced itself upon him in the form of a particularly stout, uprooted tree charging rapidly toward him. As the trunk slammed into his stomach, Ithai reached out his arms as far around it as he could and grasped it tightly. Once he had recovered from the initial impact, he was able to pull himself over to the upstream side of the tree where he held on and let it carry him relatively safely through the surging waters.
        He must have traveled close to two miles by the time he reached waters that were calm enough that he felt safe in letting go and swimming to shore. After he had crawled up onto the bank, he rolled over onto his back and fell asleep. It was not until the next morning that he finally awoke, his clothes torn and his body aching. The combination of the rash and the trauma he had suffered had left his skin cracked and bleeding. He started to get up but immediately let himself fall back to the ground as he realized that he did not know where he was going. There was little doubt that all those who had been exiled with him--his sole source of human companionship--were now dead. He now faced an exile far more severe than the one he had experienced on that island. Then, striking far deeper than the realization of his utter loneliness, came the thought that whatever good had been gained by the sacrifice of his life had just been washed away by those flood waters.
        If only he could have known of this end before he had cut himself off from the life he had loved so much, then he could have avoided this awful fate. For hours he continued to lie there speculating about what might have been if he had not chosen to give his life for those who were doomed to die anyway. How many years of happiness could he have spent with his wife? How much good could he have done for the people he had served? But even knowing what he knew now, if he had to do it over again, would he choose a different path? No. His mind cleared and he stood up to set out on his new life.
#
        That sound, it must be her. How could he tell? The sound of chopping wood was the sound of chopping wood--it could be anyone. Jacob tried to tell himself that when he came around the corner of the hut he would see someone else standing there, but still his steps quickened in anticipation. Why did every sensation he experienced evoke images of her in his mind? Who was she to hold his every thought captive like this? At last turning the corner, he was scarcely able to keep himself from crying out in surprise when he saw exactly whom he had been expecting. It was Dinah.
        "Hello there," she said looking up from her work.
        Despite the droplets of sweat beading up on her cheeks and brow, her smile was so infused with the thrill of life that it was impossible to imagine that she had ever known the pain of physical labor.
        "I'm glad to see you. I was just about to take a break for lunch," she continued after Jacob failed to reply.
        "You been chopping that wood all by yourself?"
        "I kind of enjoy it, although I'm a bit slow. It'll probably take me the rest of the afternoon to finish. Anyway, I've been working all morning and figured I deserved a break now. Would you like to join me?"
        Jacob suddenly became conscious of the fact that he had been looking into her eyes the entire time they had been speaking and turned his gaze sharply away. His eyes fell on the piles of uncut lumber that promised to consume the rest of her afternoon.
        "Well?"
        "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think that I'll be able to join you."
        "OK. Maybe some other time. See you later," she said as she turned to walk away.
        "Goodbye. Enjoy your lunch."
        When she had left he looked once more at the stacks of wood. Her axe lay beside them, having been carelessly tossed into the grass. It seemed to him to be a bit heavy for someone of her size--it was little wonder that her progress was so slow. He picked it up and weighed it in his hands to confirm his assessment. The feel of the wooden shaft in his palms brought back a rush of memories from his former life. His muscles yearned to repeat those exercises with which they were so familiar.
        The axe blade cut cleanly through the first log, but the wave of pain that shot through his left shoulder caused him to lose his grip on the handle. Fortunately the axe lodged itself harmless into the ground just a few feet in front of him. The wound must have been deeper than he had thought not to have healed by now. No matter--now that he was expecting it he could compensate for it. He retrieved the axe and resumed his work. His shoulder throbbed with each swing, but he was soon through the first pile. As he started on the next one he experimented briefly with doing it right-handed, but after sending the first log flying into the air with a clumsy stroke and nearly getting hit in the head by it, he gave up on that idea. He would simply have to work with the pain.
        It was not just the subconscious instinct to avoid that which hurt that he had to suppress, but also the very conscious knowledge that he was doing further damage to his shoulder. He could feel something deep inside it tearing as he pressed on with his labor. This only caused him to increase his pace, for he reasoned that the harder he pushed it, the sooner he would be able to let it rest. Finally, as he cleaved the final log in two, he allowed his arm to go limp and the axe to slip to the ground, falling to his knees immediately after it. He waited a moment for the pain to ease a bit before rising to walk back to his hut with his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.
#
        As Igal opened the large set of double doors that led into the throne room, he saw Asahel sitting there waiting for him. He seemed a completely different man from the one who had risked his life to stand up with him against the dragon so many years ago. Then he had been driven only by his love for others, without any regard for his personal wellbeing. Now Igal saw a mocking face staring back at him that looked to be incapable of experiencing such feelings any more. What was it that had caused this transformation? Had the taste of the pleasures made possible by wealth and fame been too appealing, usurping control of his life? Igal certainly knew that temptation, but had not allowed himself to lose his compassion despite his vast riches. Why then had they chosen such different paths? Given the same opportunities, Igal had grown into a benevolent king while this man before him was little more than a common thief.
        "Hello Igal. It's certainly a surprise to see you after so many years."
        "Surprise? So all those soldiers of yours who met me at the front gate just happened to be there?"
        "Well you never know when an unexpected guest will stop by. I wouldn't want to seem inhospitable. It wouldn't be fitting for someone of my position."
        "I hadn't realized that cowardice was a form of hospitality."
        "Come, such petty battles are beneath warriors such as us. You have an entire army at your command. Why not use it? It's not as if I ever stole from you--just raided a few meaningless towns along the border. Is it really worth risking your life for them?"
        "Risking my life? I wouldn't know anything about that."
        The self-assured smile that had occupied Asahel's face throughout the conversation suddenly disappeared. As Igal had spoken these last words he had shifted his body in such a way that filled Asahel with dred. It would have been impossible to explain, and only an expert warrior could have noticed it, but something about his opponent caused Asahel to become very aware of the power within Igal that was yearning to be unleashed. Asahel suddenly felt overwhelmed by the other's presence, as if he might suffocate before a fight could even begin. Then he noticed something else that took him by surprise. The sheath that hung at Igal's side was not the same one that he had received from Haftus along with the other six warriors. It was simple and old--nearly worn through. Certainly it was not capable of holding one of the seven mighty swords. Had Igal really come against him with an ordinary blade? Even if he had multiplied his skill ten-fold, such a move would have been suicidal.
        "Your sword..." was all he managed to express of these thoughts.
        "Ah, so you noticed the sheath. Don't worry, the sword is the same. I just decided to give it a new home."
        "But how..."
        "How does it hold it? Yes, it's still drawn toward its old sheath. I've just learned how to control it." Igal drew his sword and twirled it easily in one hand as he continued, "That is why you cannot beat me. You are misusing your weapon so greatly that you might as well hold it by the blade and strike with the hilt, for all the good it will do you. You speak to me as if we were equals. You seem to think that I'm taking some grave risk by being here. I can tell you that it's been many years since I've felt fear. Perhaps I was hoping you might help me remember that sensation, but I can see that you're going to disappoint me."
         "You arrogant little..." started Asahel, whatever fear he had now engulfed in a flood of rage. "You're not the only one who's grown more powerful."
        With that he drew his sword and flew toward Igal. The latter continued coolly twirling his sword until his opponent had drawn near enough to begin his swing. Only then did Igal bring up his own blade and catch Asahel in the shoulder before he could finish his stroke. A second later Igal had sheathed his sword and begun walking out of the chamber, his foe lying slain behind him.
        As he walked down the main hallway leading out of the palace, he regarded the bodies of the soldiers who had attempted to stop him. He had tried, when possible, only to maim rather than kill and thought he could see a few of them beginning to stir; although they all became rigidly stiff when they sensed him passing by. His mind had already begun wandering off to the tasks that awaited him on his return home when he heard a voice cry out behind him.
        "Stop there you murderer!"
        Igal turned around slowly and saw a young man who could be no more than eighteen standing there shaking with anger.
        "Are you speaking to me?" he asked.
        "You come in here and kill my master and think you can just walk out again as if nothing happened? I won't let you run away."
        The man drew his sword and began walking toward him. For a warrior with such highly trained skills as Igal's, it was an easy matter to judge the abilities of an opponent simply by the way he held his weapon and balanced himself as he moved. This man was no warrior.
        "It took me less than a second to defeat your master," warned Igal. "Are you really so much greater than he that you think you can defeat me? Save your life and walk away now."
        "I'm not afraid to lose my life," the man replied and breaking into a run, continued on toward Igal.
        Igal was so surprised by this display that he did not attempt to strike down his attacker as he charged. Rather he parried the furious barrage of blows being brought upon him wondering at the strength of the emotions that could power such an onslaught. Distracted by these thoughts, he allowed one of the swings to come within an inch of his body. Even though he was such an outclassed opponent, it was dangerous to let him persist any longer than necessary. Igal slashed a deep cut into the man's arm, causing him to drop his sword.
        "You have done more than enough to prove your courage," said Igal. "Now please let me go."
        He had turned and taken three steps when he heard the sound of footsteps once more charging toward him. Spinning around, Igal hacked at the man's right thigh and sent him to the ground curled up in pain.
        "Now please stop following me."
        This time as he walked away he could hear the man make an attempt to bring himself to his feet only to crash back down to the ground. His heart suddenly swelled with pity for him. No, not pity but envy. Misplaced as his feelings were, that man knew what he loved and was able to act on it. Who could question his devotion to his fallen master? Igal, however, could only believe that he loved his subjects without ever being able to put those feelings into action. Certainly he could carry out many charitable deeds for them, but if they cost him nothing, could that really be called love? It took no moral strength to do something kind at no expense to oneself. Would he be willing to risk his life for them? His mind struggled to think of a situation where this might be required but was unable to do so. Terms such as bravery, sacrifice, and devotion had long since lost meaning to him, for his skill had become too great to allow him to experience such things. A sick, empty feeling filled him as he realized that the time in his life during which he was able to show love had passed.
#
        The scraps of cloth matched each other only in that they were all worn and faded. Still, they were new to her and she was eager to see how they would look on her doll. First she tried the orange one as a dress and the purple as a shirt, wrapping the green one around its head as a hat, but she quickly decided that it would be better to swap the purple and the orange. After making this adjustment she held the doll out at arm's length to see how it looked. Satisfied with the result, she then walked it back and forth across the floor in front of her, since she was well aware that clothes could look very different when one was posing versus when one was going about her everyday activities. Occasionally she adjusted one of the pieces slightly, but overall she was quite pleased with the new outfit. Just as she was beginning to think that she had everything arranged just right, the doll was snatched from her hands.
        "Give that back!"
        "No!" shouted her sister as she ran away to a safe distance. "You've been playing with it all morning. Now it's my turn."
        "But I wasn't finished. You can have it when I'm done."
        "You're never done! We're supposed to share!"
        "Girls, why are you shouting?" asked Jorim as he walked into the room. "We could hear you all the way upstairs."
        "She won't share the doll!"
        "I was playing with it, and then she just took it from me."
        "Look here," said Jorim as patiently as he could. "You need to learn to ask first before taking something. And you need to be more willing to share. That doll belongs to both of you. Can't you play with it together?"
        "Yes papa," said the two girls in unison, neither of them able to look him in the eyes as she did so.
        Jorim watched them for a while as they began taking turns dressing the doll in the scraps of cloth. Soon they were giggling with delight at each other's suggestions without any trace of their earlier bitterness. Seeing this, Jorim quietly left the room and made his way back up the stairs.
        "So what was the problem?" asked Kathryn, who had been waiting for him since he left.
        "They were fighting over that doll again. They're playing together well now, but I think I'm going to buy them a second one. It's not as if we can't afford it."
        "You're going to spoil them! I had to make due with just one doll."
        "And I'm sure your brothers were always trying to play with it too. How much older than you were they again?"
        "Well I just missed out on the opportunity to learn how to share properly--now look at what a selfish person I've grown up to be. It'll be good for them."
        "I'm more worried about my nerves than their character."
        "Well, maybe it'll be good for you too."
#
        After finishing his breakfast the farmer kissed his wife and headed out to the fields to inspect his fences. The sun was already well above the horizon before he set out, for in those ancient days it was not the custom of farmers to begin their labor in the early pre-dawn hours as became the practice in later times. He arose late each morning, and never did a bit of work until he had satisfied himself with a large breakfast of eggs, sausages, and biscuits. This strenuous routine showed itself in his plump form, where the little muscle mass he possessed was well cushioned by a generous layer of fat. His wife did not mind this as she shared a similar physique, as did most everyone else that they knew. These were the days before the dragon came.
        As he walked out toward his pastures, he noticed the stalks of corn in his vast fields had already reached shoulder height. To him their size was simply a measure of the passage of time and not a source of pride. It was certainly not through any diligence of his that his crops were thriving so well. The land was so fertile that it would have taken greater agricultural genius to keep the crops from growing than to produce such bountiful harvests. His journey out to the fences was delayed by several breaks to admire the wildflowers that were growing along the path, but eventually he reached them. The weather that day was so pleasant that he felt no rush to finish his work. Perhaps he might even stay out until the sun set, he thought to himself.
        It was two hours into the job, after having covered only one mile, that he first noticed something was awry. Three of his cows were grazing lazily amongst his cabbages. Just a little ways beyond them he could see the breech they had made in the fence to escape the pasture. He wondered briefly whether any more had escaped, but that thought quickly faded. Even if half of them were gone, there would be more than enough to keep his family supplied with milk. He inspected the hole, and after determining what supplies would be needed to repair it, began the slow journey back to his house to retrieve them. Although another two hours had passed by the time he returned, the three cows were still there waiting for him when he did.
        "Come on girl, back through the fence you go," he said as he gently nudged one of them in the proper direction. "Some escape that was. You go to all that trouble of putting a hole in my fence and then don't go more than a hundred feet."
        Fortunately the cows were all in docile moods and he soon had them corralled back through the hole so that he could begin mending it. As he worked, his mind wandered away from the simple task and returned to the question of whether more might have escaped. There were no fences to separate his property from his neighbor's, so once free of their pasture, his cattle could have easily wandered off his land. What would his neighbor have done if he had found them? Would he have been able to guess from where they had come? If he had, would he have gone to the trouble of returning them? This speculation was purely a matter of curiosity and bore no moral judgment, for it never occurred to him that this might be a moral issue. Both he and his neighbor had enough cattle that the loss or addition of even a significant fraction of them was completely irrelevant to their wellbeing. As it had no effect on either party, the decision of whether or not to return the prodigal livestock seemed to be an arbitrary one. Theft and generosity were two concepts that held no meaning for him. If his neighbor had found and returned a stray cow, he would have felt no gratitude toward him but would have accepted it merely as another meaningless happening.
        It was still several hours before sunset when he finished his task, but he was feeling tired, so he decided to quit working for the day and return to his house. There he found his wife sitting idly on the porch watching the clouds drift by overhead. He joined her, and as they gazed upward together they talked about the events of their days. As he listened to her familiar, comforting voice, a sudden pang of desire overcame him. He wished he could do something for her. He was not sure what or even exactly why--just something that would make her happy. She paused in her speech, realizing that he was no longer listening.
        "What is it dear?" she asked.
        He thought for a moment longer, but the idea that had started to take root in his head failed to grow any further and slipped away. "Sorry, it was nothing. Just day dreaming, I guess. Now what were you saying?"
#
        He had to slow down, Horace told himself as his foot once more slipped on the smooth stone steps. If the walls of the passage had not been so tight upon him, he would have already broken his neck three times over. No, he could not slow down--they would find this place soon. He did not know how they had done it, but somehow they had already tracked his master all the way from the jungle to the capital. He could not count on this uncanny sense failing them now. Adding to the peril of his race down the stairs were the shadows obscuring the steps immediately before him. Fortunately he had paused long enough to grab a torch before beginning his descent, but his hand was shaking so much that it did little good. The pool of light cast by the flame danced around so sporadically that it never seemed to fall on the spot where he most needed it.
        He knew that it was not just fear of the invaders closing in behind him that was causing him to tremble so. The last two decades of his life had been spent serving his master, longing for the day of his resurrection, but never before had he thought about what it might actually be like. Although his very voice had a power in it that felt as if it could tear the listener apart, in his dormant state he had still seemed safe. Horace had always been able to reassure himself with the thought that if he had truly wanted to, he could have walked away at any time. Now he was about to awaken a beast more terrible than anything anyone alive had ever witnessed. Once he had hatched from his egg there would be no returning him to it.
        It was too late for such thoughts now. He had already chosen his path.
        Wait, that was not the light from his torch. Someone else was running up the stairs toward him, and it sounded as if he was in an even greater hurry than he himself was. Horace stopped where he was to avoid a collision. The staircase spiraled so tightly that the man was only a couple feet away by the time Horace was able to see who he was.
        "Doctor!" cried Horace in surprise.
        "Hurry, we must get out of here!"
        Horace had never seen the egg's caretaker leave the room where he worked. Neither had he ever seen any evidence that he possessed emotions. Now he found himself confronted by a man who was hysterical with a wild mixture of excitement and terror reaching a level that he would not have thought possible in anyone.
        "But the children of Jacob are here. We must revive him!"
        "He knows. It has already begun. Now hurry!"
        The doctor forced his way passed him and continued running upward. Horace suddenly realized that the reason he had been having so much trouble keeping his torch steady was not because of his own trembling, but because the entire tunnel around him was shaking. He turned and began running after the doctor faster than he had ever moved in his life.
#
        "Master, we have seen him just as you said."
        The robed man stood a respectful distance from the hole that led deep into the hill on which he was standing. One time long ago he had gathered the courage to look over its edge, and although he had been unable to see anything in it but darkness, the experience had filled him with such horror that he had never dared to draw that close to it again.
        "Are you sure it was him?" replied a voice from deep within the ground.
        "Yes. He was just as you described him. There was no mistaking such power."
        "Good. We must allow him no rest. As long as he dwells with them, you shall continue attacking the villagers."
        "Yes, master, it shall be as you command. But may I offer an observation? The man is broken. His body lives on, and is indeed quite strong, but the spirit that drives it is gone. He would be satisfied to let the few embers that remain of his life quietly burn themselves out. If he is really as dangerous as you say, might it not be just as well to let him do so? Why risk stoking the flame?"
        "You have your orders. Now go."
        The voice emanating from the pit had not increased in volume, but its growing anger was evident nonetheless. The man backed away slowly, not turning around until he cleared the stone pillars that encircled the hilltop. From there he walked down into the jungle as quickly as he could without breaking into an undignified run. The darkness he had left behind him was so deep and terrible that if he could have somehow known the feelings that were running through it, he would not have been able to believe what he found there. Buried within that cold blackness, beneath the ravenous desire for power, was fear. A small portion of it, perhaps, was directed toward Jacob, but the beast was driven on toward this new adversary by a much greater terror stemming from an ancient memory.
#
        The boy ran behind his dad, his short legs making it difficult for him to keep pace with his father's long strides. Nobi looked back at his son and smiled at the enthusiasm with which he marched along, brandishing his small staff proudly. This was the day that his son would begin his training as a warrior. He was suddenly reminded of the day he had begun his own training and reached his hand up to feel the medallion that hung beneath his shirt.
        When they had arrived at the clearing where the training was to take place, Nobi began by showing his son the proper way to grip his weapon. He then moved onto footwork, demonstrating how to always keep one's feet under himself so as to be able to generate power for striking. His son clumsily tried to emulate his actions as best as he could, but on several occasions managed to take out his own feet with his staff and knock himself to the ground. He was young--much younger than Nobi had been when he had started. Nobi did not doubt that his son would soon surpass him in skill. He only hoped that he remembered enough of Jacob's teachings so that he would be able to pass them on when the boy was ready.
        "Here's one last exercise that I want to show you so that you can work on it on your own. I'm not very good at it myself, but I can show you the general idea."
        Nobi gathered a handful of small stones and then drew a circle in the dust around him with the end of his staff.
        "You might want to back up a little, just in case I manage to hit any of these."
        After his son had removed himself to a safe distance, Nobi closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. How many times had he done this and not been able to hit a single stone? How could his son ever learn from such a poor example? He just had to relax and let his muscles do what they had been trained to do. Taking in another deep breath he tossed the stones into the air and let his eyes and hands react to them. Five of the stones went flying out of the circle, while the other six fell straight to the ground untouched.
        "Well, you get the idea," said Nobi, smiling with relief at not having completely embarrassed himself. "Now you try...wait, I want to give you something first."
        As his son came toward him, Nobi knelt down and removed the medallion from around his neck.
        Holding it up so that his son could see the pine tree etched on its face, Nobi said to him, "This was given to me by a very special man named Jacob. He always pushed himself to grow stronger and stronger, and was never satisfied even though he was the most powerful warrior in the world. Because of that he was able to save your mother and our entire village from a very terrible monster. You would have never been born if it weren't for him. I want you to wear this and always remember to be brave and train hard so that you can be like him. Then when you've grown up into a strong warrior and have children of your own, you can give it to them so that they'll remember Jacob as well. Then our village will always be safe."
#
        The soldiers guarding the eastern border had not been able to withstand the savages as they charged down from the mountains into the capital. Realizing the risk of leaving their rear unguarded but fearing a swift defeat if they held their positions, the soldiers stationed on the western side rushed over to their aid. With their combined strength, they were able to drive back the invaders, who immediately began preparing for a second charge. Even as the army of the Republic was bracing itself for this fresh assault, its members were distracted by shouts from behind. They were coming from people fleeing their houses as the streets were flooded by a second invasion. Just as they had feared, the savages who had been waiting in the western mountains had now joined the battle. All order was lost among the Republican army as the men raced back into the heart of the city to try to repel this new threat. Pockets of soldiers set themselves up here and there at whatever locations seemed in the most danger. The chaos neutralized their numerical advantage and each of those isolated groups was soon forced to withdraw until the soldiers found themselves reunited at the capitol building. Unable to resist the onslaught of the savages, they were gradually being forced into an ever tighter circle. Then the ground began to tremble.
        As the tremors increased in strength, the savages stopped pressing forward. Not questioning how long-lived this tacit truce would last, the soldiers fled into their ranks and away from the capitol, which seemed to be the center of the shaking. Before long a perimeter about fifty feet wide had been cleared around the building, and the former combatants all stood together watching. Its walls were now visibly shaking, looking as if they might fly apart at any moment. Then something shot out of the roof, sending large shards of splintered wood showering into the air. A giant serpent was hovering a few hundred feet above the ground, supporting itself by flapping its powerful wings at a rate that seemed far too slow to generate the necessary lift. For several minutes, at least, the people stood there, silently staring at this physical impossibility as it stared back at them.
        "I get the first go at him."
        A single man stepped into the circle that had been vacated by the soldiers. He was one of the savages. Those soldiers standing close enough to see were struck by the fact that he was wearing a medallion around his neck that bore the seal of the old Empire. Whether the creature's eyes were keen enough also to see the emblem from the height it was at was uncertain, but something about the man's appearance must have enraged it, for it let out a fearsome roar and started diving toward him. The circle of people quickly deformed itself to create a larger gap about the targeted man as he stood there watching the massive beast plummet from the sky. It crashed hard into the ground where he was standing, causing the rock to shatter beneath it and sending all manner of dust and debris flying into the air.
        The crowd did not have to wait until visibility had been restored to discover whether the blow had found its target, for they could hear the man saying, "I thought you'd be faster than that."
        Coiled on the ground, the dragon glared at him as he calmly stood some fifty paces away. Then the monster hissed, "Do you think even this entire army assembled here can kill me?"
        Without waiting for a reply, it shot itself once more toward the brave savage. Again he simply stood there gazing at his attacker, not moving until the beast was almost upon him. Keeping perfectly still save for his right arm, he struck the beast across its jaw with his staff. The blow that caused the dragon to fly through the air and then slam violently into the ground did not induce the man to take even the slightest step back. It was as if the laws of momentum had suddenly turned a blind eye to this fearless warrior.
        "You are right in saying that we cannot kill you," he said. "For you have already been killed. You thought you could bring yourself back to life, but it's obvious that even after all this time you still feel the wound that our father dealt you."
        Now the man took up the offensive and began charging toward the dragon. His entire life had been spent preparing for this moment. More than that--the last five generations of his village had spent their lives preparing for this moment. It was almost a disappointment now that the fight was finally here to find that it had already been decided a hundred years earlier.
        As he reached the dragon it made one last desperate swipe of its claws at him, but it was no use. One final blow and it was over. There would be no more resurrections.
#
        Far beneath the swirling snows and cutting chill of the mountain peaks, the myriad of interweaving tunnels always remained at a sweltering temperature. The lone traveler making his way through these passages did not seem to be any more bothered by the heat than he had been by the cold above. Neither did he seem to be hindered by the complete absence of light, but walked along without stumbling or hesitation. Dressed only in a simple tunic and with no equipment save for the giant sword strapped to his back, he appeared to be under-prepared for a journey through such inhospitable climates. Nevertheless, he continued marching deeper into the caverns, oblivious to any danger.
        For the past several weeks he had been exploring the tunnels beneath the mountains, hunting down the dragons that had fled from him after the battle on the surface. Now only one remained. This one was different from the others in that it far exceeded them in size, strength, ferocity, and pride. After the rest had all sought safety in the caverns, it alone had remained to confront the warrior who had invaded their domain. Savagely it had fought against him, continuing to lash out even after its body had been pierced through many times by that great sword. Rapidly its strength had drained away until it could scarcely open its massive jaws to attack. Certainly it would have been slain then and there if a sudden blast of wind had not thrown up a blinding sheet of snow, allowing it to disappear into the ground.
        Many miles into the mountain the warrior was at last reaching the very deepest of its hidden chambers. Great, heaving gasps of labored breathing could be heard, telling him that his search was nearly over.
        "At last I have found you," he said as he entered the cavern where the dragon lay.
        The creature opened its eyes and jerked its head from the ground, only to have it fall immediately back down.
        "You spent what little strength you had left fleeing down here," continued the man. "You would have been better off saving it."
        The dragon tried opening its mouth to respond, but again found that it lacked the strength to carry through with even this simple intention.
        "It was fear that drove you to run away, but you need not fear for your life yet. I still have use for you."
#
        "You'd better be careful," warned Nobi as Jacob slid his pebble from one square to another on the checkered parchment.
        "Don't worry about me. I know what I'm doing."
        "You may be one of the greatest fighters ever in real battles, but I think you're a little weak in these pretend ones," said Nobi, capturing Jacob's pebble with one of his buttons. "See, you left that one totally open."
        "Yes, but that button was the only piece protecting your king." Jacob moved a small twig across the board. "You can't escape. That's the game."
        Nobi studied the board for a few minutes and then replied, "Very clever. Still it's too bad for that pebble. Why should he be any less valuable than my ring?"
        "Each piece has its purpose. Some are meant for attacking, some are meant for protecting, and some of them aren't really good for anything but sacrificing themselves so that the others can do their jobs."
#
        The warm rain continued falling gently to the ground as the man walked back along the path from the church to his farm. Looking at the thick, green grass it was a wonder to him how short the memory of nature was. All its wounds from the fighting of earlier years had been completely healed. If not for the annual remembrance services, he imagined that the tumult of the preceding centuries would soon be lost from human memory as well. It was as if all the despair of those days had been wiped from existence and the world had been allowed to return to the peaceful times before the dragon had first forced it to feel the misery of destruction. How glad he was to be living during the age when peace had been restored, and what a waste of life it was for those who had been born too soon to see it.
        Still, there was a sense in which he envied those people. For them the abstract concepts of bravery, honor, and love had been made concrete. They had not been left to wonder at the strength of their character, for their character had been tested to its fullest. Their suffering had given them a chance to live in a way that those who had come before had no way of even imagining. Now he saw that he himself, late comer that he was, had been allowed to benefit from their experience. He had been taught the meaning of wondrous virtues that his own experience might never have been able to show him. They had returned to where they had begun, but they had returned as a stronger people.
        These thoughts made him begin to think of his mother and a habit of hers that had always bothered him. Whenever she read a book, she always began with the last paragraph, claiming that it helped her see where the author was going and better appreciate the story. He had always responded by saying that if the author had wanted his audience to know where he was going ahead of time, then he would have told them on the first page. The story was a world of his creation, and to see it in any way other than the one he intended robbed the reader of the chance to share his vision. Perhaps, he mused, if he ever found himself with sufficient leisure time to write a novel, he would have it end where it began. Then those who felt the need to start on the last page would be forced to see the world through his eyes.