Fiction and Foolishness

  The Redeemer has come. The road from the harbor to the Throne of Ascension was carpeted with flowers - white orchids for the purity of the return, lilies, the flower of the Good Father, pansies, yellow and purple, for the lost children of the age, and roses, of course. The roses didn't symbolize anything in particular, but you just couldn't have this sort of event without them, at least according to the Guild of Florists. The Redeemer has come. The citizenry arrived in throngs from all over the city, from the patricians of Jeweler's Peak to the beggars and lepers of Last Leap. All but the pariahs of the Heretics' Quarter, who sat sullenly at their homes, awaiting the inevitable pogrom that was sure to come when the procession concluded. Such was the way of things. The Redeemer has come. The temples opened their doors to all who wished to give thanks to the gods. Of course, one had to possess enough in the way of gifts to qualify, but that was par for the cours...

The Master had found me awaiting my death.  After I had witnessed him squeezing the sun I fled, seeking somewhere, anywhere, to hide from the terrible truth of his power, from the awful façade that I had once believed was reality. In my flight I had delved into the heart of the earth, into ever-narrower tunnels, until I had lodged myself into the tightest fissure I could find, far below the world, where the sun could not reach me. Maddened with fear, I sought nothing more than to disappear, eschewing even base self preservation. For weeks I sat in the dark unmoving, my once powerful body transformed into a desiccated wreck by thirst and cold. Death would come for me soon, or so I hoped.  The Master had found me first. He had sauntered into my stone tomb with a nonchalance of a man on a light evening’s constitutional. He brought no light with him yet I could see him perfectly, as if it was my mind seeing him rather than my eyes. As he sat next to my fissure I tried to get away ...

When I came to the Master I found him sitting on the shore. Feet idly kicking about a tidal pool, he was watching a swarm of green turtle hatchlings crawl their way towards the sea. Seagulls and other birds circled about, screeching their frustration as the Master threw shells at them, hitting each bird which attempted to descend upon the hatchlings with unerring accuracy. He did not turn when I prostrated myself beside him. The sun hung low in the sky like an overripe orange, turning the sea to burning copper in its wake “So you’ve returned,” he said, stunning a seagull with a particularly well-aimed chonch, “I always figured you for a fool. What do you want this time?”  “Master,” I said, not removing my my forehead from the itching sand, “I have long dwelled on your last lecture, and on the meaning of terror. I now understand that despite my many deeds, I had never been brave. Tell me, what does true courage mean?” He snorted. “Even an infant knows that to be courageous is to do....

Louis John Rhead I have climbed the mountain, for the Master awaited at the top. I found him sitting below the apple tree, looking into the valleys below. Kestrels flew there, and for a moment I imagined the valley was the sea, the peak the shore, and the birds were some curious type of fish, circling about unseen streams. "You did not come here to watch the birds," said the Master, though he was looking at them himself. "Speak your mind or leave me be." I bowed, because politeness costs nothing. "I have fought in battles great and small, I have hunted beasts, and I have hunted men. I have delved into the depths, and there held a demon's gaze. I have climbed into the heavens, and stolen a dragon’s pearl. All this I did so I could know the meaning of terror. And yet, it eludes me. Tell me, Master, what is the meaning of terror?" The Master looked at me as if I was the world's biggest fool, which I admit was not outside the realm of possibility. ...