First, yesterday you [Amorella] asked how much of the series is fiction, and I said, “All of it.” This was a rash statement because I know better. Some of the ‘facts’ in the story are thought to be true because I looked them up for ‘plausibility’. The stories are as dreams, that is all. One cannot go through them analyzing what is true and what isn’t and coming up with 7 percent is true and thus 93 percent is false. Using “all” is another absolute word and it fairly well ticked me off when turning over in bed I realized the error. Second, what is time worth? I have no idea because it depends on the context in which the word is used. The question is too general. I should have known better than to even write it down.
I asked the question.
Well, what is the purpose of asking such a general question?
I was asking you what time is worth to you. – Amorella
It is not worth wearing a watch.
I didn’t use the negative construction.
It is worth another day of life until it isn’t.
Fair enough. Post. – Amorella.
The clock is working on noon of a very warm day.
I said it was going to be warm once.
Indeed, you did. With my blessing, boy. – Amorella.
I had a nap and am feeling more alert. Ready to audio revise chapter seven. Amazingly, at this moment I cannot remember what it was about.
That is the honest response worth a posting. – Amorella.
That others may see humor in my momentary deficiencies? Man, I still cannot remember what that chapter is about. Somewhat disturbing, if minor interruption. Where does my mind go? These events happen, and have, since I was four or five. It is a constant wonder – as my memory is not here, where does it go?
Chapter Seven
Scene 1
Early morning, the ninth day. Mario sits comfortably in one of the two chairs in his chamber awaiting the arrival of Thales. ‘What can we do,’ he thinks, ‘once we bring the Dead together?’ Do we march? Where to? From where? We need a stage on which to center our demonstration. Where is a place that will hold all of the Dead? How do we control the demonstration? How are we organized? Suddenly the words “The Dead United” flashed his mind, quickly this modified to: “We Dead United” and then to “We United Dead”.
Thales quietly pulled open the slightly cracked door, saw Mario sitting in rapt contemplation, and grinning said, “Counting chickens before they are hatched?”
Mario oiled in Thales’ humor stoically commented, “Come in. Sit down.” A pause, then with a sarcastic air, “We are already dead ducks.”
Once adjusted, Thales added, “We’re flocked in our Greek quackery. Being dead is the positive part.”
“How do we make our stage? And where?”
“A good question, Mario, for Takis our Shaman. I wonder on the multitudes.”
“It is a question of space as well as organization, we need civil containment.”
“I agree,” said Thales. “A representative body will do for a focused stage.”
“Twelve cultures. Twelve men.”
“Twelve works for the shamans, but they are but means to an end.”
“And, I agree,” comment Mario. Space and containment, thought Mario, who then said, “Across a stage twelve patricians, each filled with a man.”
Plebeian, thought Thales, would be a better word. He said, “And a speaker for all,” and smiled not so much as he would have liked to.
And, Mario quickly added, “The plebeian multitudes set as a flag for humanity, a giant curtain raised behind the . . ..”
Thales interrupted, “Each individual, with a pointed finger across the stage at the Supervisor to see and sharply feel.”
Passionate excitement suddenly and plainly raised the other’s toward a twinned vision of a spontaneously upraised demonstration of the otherwise reasoning Dead, a demonstration of a really unforeseen power in numbers not heart-felt since days in life.
**
Each felt himself floating majestically a hand or two above the chair. The rebellious wonder of it all, a conceptual Demonstration was in the works of two enlivened minds. No one observed the actual floatation but Merlyn who was a few paces near and to the right above Mario and Thales. This will be a demonstration like no other, thought the magician. He shifted his eyes to the floor of Mario’s private abode and to the board and pieces appearing as flickers beneath the semblance of earth beneath their feet. He pondered a rendezvous, a new assembling of pieces and squares:
Move 19 W. Knight to Knight 5 Black Pawn to Knight 3
Move 20 W. Pawn to Queen Knight 4 B. Bishop to King Bishop 3
Move 21 W. Queen to Queen 2 B. Pawn to Queen Rook 3
***
Scene 2
Sophia lay awake though distracted in bed with her left arm straight out and pulling her right arm back as if she were about to loose an arrow. With a steadied blink she commandeered herself and brought her arms down, scratching her nose with the left hand then laying it down at her side.
Why would I do that? she thought. I am home. I don’t remember coming back from Salamon’s. Why the warrior stance? Such a deep sleep even in death. I was in a different world, a different chapter of my life.
As Sophia lay delinquent in an exhausting memory she heard a short rap on the door. She glanced into the roofless daylight and thinks, I wonder if I am here?
Another rap.
She floated from the bed to stand upright.
What was that? She said, “Who is it?”
“Kassandra.”
“Come in.”
“It is not like you to be up so late,” said Kassandra. “I had a strange dream while in a full stone sleep.”
“Come in and sit. Would you like something to drink?”
She smiled warmly, “A few sips of my favorite wine.”
“My glass, your wine.” In a moment, Sophia sat on the bed across from Kassandra. Each had a glass. “What was your dream that keeps you pale?”
“A rebellion on Olympus.”
Concern on her friend’s face told Sophia not to slight. “Who rebelled?” She thought, it is Zeus and Hades. This Supervisor is none other than one or the other.
“I don’t know,” replied Kassandra, “but there was turmoil. War is afoot.”
“Among the gods?”
“My fear is that it is with us they will do battle.”
“Why?” asked Sophia. “What have we done?”
“I do not know. Some terrible thing. We are out of balance.”
“It may be that the gods are out of balance. What we desire is within reason. We want to go home.”
“But we are home, Sophia. The Living look forward to coming to Elysium, to coming home.” The gods need us, flashed into Sophia’s mind. We have something they do not have, something they want. “We can use this,” whispered Sophia. “We can use this to our advantage.”
“What do you mean?”
She glanced up to see of the sky had ears, then focused on Kassandra and said, “If you are right we can make demands. The gods will bargain with us and we will use their leverage to bring the Dead together more rapidly than we could otherwise.”
“I do not know if this makes me even more fearful.”
“Why. Perhaps it was just a bad dream. How was your night otherwise?”
Kassandra giggled. “I was with Thales early on, then I went to sleep.”
Sophia smiled knowingly, “Thales refreshed you.”
Kassandra smiled sheepishly and said, “We talked too.” After a pause, Kassandra returned to the subject of her dream saying, “I wonder on the gods. I think Hera is in on this rebellion, she is our protector.”
With a return to seriousness Sophia noted, “We need to see Mother on this dream of yours. We need to see her today.”
Scene 3
Early enough and Mario found himself in Mother’s chambers once again. This time he felt it was more important. Mother, appearing not a day over thirty wore a long casual green Doric peplos, a folded material with its length her height with a white shawl, giving it a more formal look. “Please sit,” she said in a grandmotherly tone.
This tone rattled. She had not said his name. Suddenly he felt as if he were ten years old and was about to receive a reprimand for breaking a favorite clay pot. The voice seemed a memory of his grandmother not Mother. Unconsciously, he sat as told and assumed the body language of the ten-year old boy he had once been. His knees were bent straight forward military-like and his hands were clasped, coupled like one might find cars coupled in a railroad train. He sat surprised at the ridged cold racing through his fingers.
A short distance away Mother officially seated herself on an ancient aristocratically designed Greek chair. Physical-like distance can matter in communication even among the Dead. A mother’s eye contact cannot readily be misunderstood by any child whose mind realizes it has just been Mother read. She asked, “Why are you alone?”
“I want to ask you some questions about strategy. Thales and I thought we might represent the Dead using the partially built bridge over the Styx as the negotiation’s platform. Takis could set it up. Twelve cultures, twelve representatives. The multitudes of each culture might cast his representative’s shadow where none now exists. Surely, the shamans could perform such a dramatic event.”
“Each cultural representative is to shine as a sun?”
“Yes,” he replied excitedly, “Twelve suns where now we have none. We shall cast our own light to march forth and enrich the Living.”
“What does Takis think of this unusual enterprise?”
Feeling more confident, Mario replied, “I thought to ask you first, Mother.”
She responded with a condescending, “How kind.”
“Mother, I have a better idea. Why not you as our leader in negotiations? We twelve then would stand immediately behind you.”
We twelve, thought Mother. She said, “Under such an arrangement Sophia would be standing for Elysium, not you Mario.”
“Of course, the we was not in reference to myself Mother.” He stood. “I shall confer with Takis. Perhaps he will have better recommendations.” He felt a strange creeping warmth of surreptitious self-embarrassment and rushed to leave her home before he found himself in self-induced vanishment.
Saying nothing more, Mother eyed Mario as he left the grounds. I wonder, she thought, how this will be, me, the mother of all these now dead children, to confront Zeus or whoever sheorhe might be. No matter, there is a hollowness to all these gods and goddesses. Someone needs to watch over us Dead and these grounds though, a caretaker, that’s how I think of herorhim. We have nothing to fear from a caretaker no matter if sheorhe remains forever nameless.
***
A storm coming your way. Time for bed. Post. - Amorella.
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