The Seven Days of Wander

The Seven Days of Wander

by Christopher Dutton

All contents herein are the sole property and copyright of Christopher Thomas Dutton and are not to be copied except for individual personal use. Quotations are allowed for other written, video or audio works with written permission. No commercial use is allowed except with written permission of the author. Alteration of contents is not allowed. For further information or commercial requests contact the author. Thank you.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

"Why should we be in such a desperate haste to succeed and in such desperate enterprises? If a man does not keep with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."

Henry David Thoreau

"When there are persons to be found, who form an exception to the apparent unanimity of the world on any subject, even if the world is in the right, it is always probable that dissentients have something worth hearing to say for themselves, and that truth would lose something by their silence."

John Stuart Mill, On Liberty

Dedication

Once upon a time there was a man who had two sons. Sad to say he didn’t do really a lot for these two sons, though he did love them in his way.

For me, he did do one great thing once. When I was at a loss as to what to do over an addiction, he made a call. Friends of his sent friends of theirs. And they became my friends and I got better. I healed and changed.

That healing and change led to my life, my happiness, my love, my children, my grandchild, my searching, this book.

All because that man, my father, Thomas Desmond Dutton, now deceased, made that one phone call.

So I dedicate this book to him. Partially.

I also dedicate it to the other man who basically filled in most of the other parts of my father. My older brother, Brian.

You see, for some men, a lifetime may be summed up, perhaps, in doing one thing of good for someone.

For others, a lifetime is about doing good for others all that lifetime. That is a brother.

That is my brother.

An Apology

I would like to apologies to any women who read this book, to all women in fact.

Because the novel was set in biblical times shortly after the Death of Christ, I used discussions which were very much gender biased. Towards the patriarchal.

The writing, therefore tends to use nouns like ‘man’, and ‘men’ instead of ‘people’ or ‘human’.

It was a ‘failing’ which I struggled with since it is not what I believe in but it made the dialogue seem to be more accurate for the historical period.

Wether this was fully accurate or not, I don’t know. the extent at which women were involved in religious matters and discussions was, I believe, minimal in those times. That, of course, was society’s loss as it continues to be today.

Like racism or slavery or elitism, no Society can be Just and Humane which excludes any members of that Society from full political, economical and theological participation. It is absolutely absurd when based on gender, thus attempting to exclude 50 percent of the population.

Exclusion is not ‘God’s way’ it is ‘men’s way’. It is not human.

So I apologize again for the use of ‘men’ and ‘man’...I pray I did not offend too much...

Thanks

How many people lead us into writing a book, through a book and ending a book?There are always so many people an author knows and works with who have helped him over the months and years write his or her book. Loved ones who tolerate his whiningfor time alone. Editors and friends who give sound advice and critique. We list those that inspire us by daily or past contact whom we know intimately as friends

and loved ones.

But there are more. Many more. These are the ‘lost’ voices to the conscious mind but surfacing again!!!!! There is the misted eye of the homeless man who perhaps on that day ‘nudges’ inspiration to continue question society’s values. A young woman’s laugh with her child two tables over. The contempt of an expensive tie passing you in the street. A prisoner being beaten on a cell phone camera. A very tired face at a coffee shop somehow finding the courage to smile at your friendly joke as cash changes hands. Broken teeth near an empty factory.A newscaster making announcements of political intrigue involving leaders you will never meet. Wether their coffee cup has water or coffee in it? Wether they are indeed left handed or right handed based on the cup’s place on the desk? Wether or not the handle is turned towards them or away, signifying a culture either of ‘grassroots’ or ‘old boy’. And realizing that mattered for the moment in your mind more than the death of a thousand protestors....because caring over and over and over again exhausts the heart...which is indeed the triumph of evil. And will one more typed sentence change any of that?

That I do not know...I only know for sure that silence will not.

It does not seem right, however, to thank the Silent for their desperation and despair which I have used to inspire the inner searches of this book. It would be better that I offered my apologies and shame than my thanks.

Thanking them for being alive to touch me, touch my soul....and for forgiving me for using their blood and tears as my paint. I do not do such a thing for evil, I would wish with all my heart that I had no reason, no materials, no human tragic oils to paint with.

So many have lived in brief and in too long, these man-made hells.

There is no good which can come out of that place, least of all...books.

I do not believe that evil is necessary to give background and shadow that we may see the good. If all the world was a transparent clear, we would not crash into each other. We see each other now and more react like mad bulls than crystalline angels.

Writing about good and evil is a circle. Always. It can be the circle of the hawk, the vulture or the dove. Or a kingfisher. Diving below the surface to recover strange looking metaphors.

Because Good men and women have difficulty describing their own evil and the Evil are always reconstructing their philosophy into seemingly Good.

So amongst all this are the Silent. Perhaps they speak a little but are difficult to hear.

They speak only with drops of blood. Their own blood. Their parent’s blood. Their children’s blood.

I thank them because anything humane about humanity; anything civil about civilization has come from their Blood; their Silence; their Suffering; their Waiting.

The Great, the Learned, the Leaders are nothing... who remembers the lead hyena from pack to pack, decade to decade?...

it is the rest of us... the common man... which is the Soil of all Human History...

We are given...and then we give back...

...that is my gratitude...for no one makes a better world than the man or woman dying beside me...dying with me...

Introduction

(written in 1992 at book’s conception)

Dear friends,

Let any who come upon this weave of words and thoughts be reluctant in their scrutiny of its construction. Keep to the distance of wide vision, not that I fear the detection of flaws (though they are as much as I am flawed) but that as in you unravel the loose thread of the tapestry...what was grand becomes ..alas.. rags.. Becoming less and less to your eyes until a voice has become a drooling mumble. Then your ears can not heed a whisper from man to man , and we, reader, are lost and separate again.

For those who begin read and a mind is puzzled but a heart cries not, leave the pages be. Do not go on. For thou hast been spared , Friend, and your heart knows not the notes of despair in tyranny. Some parts of life or hell have touched you not. Cease reading, reader, I will not open that door to you.

For those of you who study without comprehension, yet your heart has such a grievous time that such as these pages grow heavier and heavier in the dampness of your tears, cease the torment, my friend. For it is a perversion against ourselves to take upon cruelty without reason; life is already too much a whip with an unseen hand. Rather go and find thyself a caterpillar, spend the days observing its slumber. This is my book. You need no more of the dark night; that dark cocoon. Your heart of pure and natural speaks already the yearn of flight.

There are those of you, who I fear, are plagued to grieve and having the burden of understanding, I beg read on. For thy sake and mine. For this is not written to impart knowledge or wisdom,( I am no teacher) but rather my hand moved across these pages as a hand gropes in the dark. Hoping. Begging. For another human hand, other hands, that reach too in this cold terror enveloping blank. So I beg read on, heed my whimpers, grope as I grope. We will touch, I know it. I can offer that hope, little else. I believe in the necessity of thy journey, as I believe in mine. I must. For I have grievous need of another human touch of hand in these dim and dismal times.

Synopsis of Novel

The beggar boy, the main character of this book, was the adopted son of Christ but was abandoned by the disciples after the crucifixion.

As a young man, he returns for seven days to the City to take up ‘his Father’s work, in an attempt to rectify his ‘distance’ from humanity, from his own soul, his own destiny.

He uses logic, reason and an appeal for human compassion to try to bridge to the people of the City but finds over and over only failure for himself as he cannot be ‘ inside the people’ as Christ could.

Each time he sees this deeply as his own self-failure.

In Chapter Seven the young Beggar leaves the City in the company of a strange new prophet and comes upon a village carved out of hope and salvation but slipping again into despair.

Chapter one to three...Deals with concepts of creation, man, god; in that a god will have no greatness more than the man which creates it, and it, the man. Beggar boy sells mirrors to be the idols of their personal gods. Then , he must fight in court to disprove the crime of fraud against the people.

Chapter four. Beggar boy interrupts a ‘beating’ by schoolmaster of young boys. The discussion explores crime vs. punishment as a tool of ‘change’.

Chapter five. Beggar explores extremes of poverty, leadership and tyranny as he progresses from poor hovels to an execution pit to the king’s audience. He pleas for the lives of condemned slaves. Explores concepts of social order, tyranny, freedom.

Chapter six. Beggar interrupts argument amongst three brothers over law vs. assisted suicide for their father. The concept argued is wether conscience of ‘I’ is above conscience of communal law.

Chapter seven. Beggar leaves City with a mad poet who has started an alternative community in the mountains. Explores concepts that logic and reason alone cannot propel human development; passion of believe or blind faith is also necessary for evolution. Compares the fate of the individual vs. the ‘needs’ of society’s historical destinies.

The First Day

In the market place, they sold their gods. The God-Merchants. In a circle of stalls at the centre of the Market square.

So the crowd would continually mill round and round. Deciding. Puzzling.

Most of the time there were ten or twenty of these merchants hawking their wares, in all garb and disguise from close and far lands. Hatted, bearded, naked, robed, all heights and widths.

And the Gods too, of every image and construction.

Multi-limbed, ugly, beautiful, gold, silver, clay, slender, bent. The only consistency in the whole mirage of display seemed to be that the merchants never fit their own wares.

Tall, thin in plain robes, held aloft in a bony grasp a fat plump sleepy image that promised more docility than greed. Or some enormous spread in velvet robe, held clay moulded to humble reflect.

The barbarian, who roared in fur, offered an ebony lamb. A naked merchant offered a cast of gold. In a form to the shape of a lion’s head. The devout placed their heads in it when it was suspended by a thread high in a tree. There prayers were made for a blessing.

A small yellowish man in dark cloth offered a stone god shaped in the curl of a man. Those of wealth who would wish to make restitution carried the Stone upon their shoulders as a symbol of their love of man for a few minutes each day.

And more. Ugly men traded in beauty. The noble demean in shoddy; the whole in broken; the broken in whole; the quarters in crumbs and the crumbs sold a universe.

It was this contrast which gave all a sense of validity to the crowd. Though not openly said it was understood. As all that they sold was false, then they themselves must be true. And thereby granted to the people the illusion of faith. As merchants, they truly believed in the falsehood of their wares.

As false. Utterly. And in so doing, sold their own perfection of truth in tiny bits. Till all the falsehoods were depleted. Then more must be made and sold to convince again the crowd of the Merchants’ ultimate evaluation of Truth.

For the crowd had come to purchase faith, belief; not a god as such. The false god offered was never to be debated as true or false. For the danger being that a shred of truth might be found within the god. And thereby, by the unwritten Law of contrasts, a shred of falsehood be found in the merchant. And the totality of belief or faith would shatter.

This faith, this belief could be called The Great Mask covering The Tiny Spreading Grin. As any individual in the crowd would move towards death, they would begin a smile of escape or anticipation like someone who knows they are being released from a death bed or leper colony. An impatience, an eagerness to shed the hands. Hands, which in all shapes and grasps, have plucked at an individual since birth. Like crows at some dead thing, they have torn piece by piece, the nobility, the dignity of individual existence.In this vast place of disease, always the clutching, wrapping, prodding, pulling, pushing of hands. Hands not to heal the one but rather hands to bind all together and the Species.

The Species must not die even at the cost of the individual's death. The Species in its frenzied, grim face,· looks upon all as a total greater than the sum. And, therefore, the total is more worthy of worship; more demanding in its need.

When a man meets another man, he becomes one of men; no longer a single solitary Man complete upon himself. He must give up a portion of himself to absorb the portion of the other man offered in hand. All thoughts, all spoken words must be reworked to fit the presence of the other man.

As the crowd grows, each man sheds, drips, decays more parts away from himself, till strangely enough, the man feels as if he can't be distant of the species or he w11l unravel and his very putridness will now be exposed.

Ah, but Death, sweet, noble Death brings back to the man its lost twin, Hope. A promise of a journey unique, outside the Species, senseless to its demand of sacrifice to the collective life (at all costs imaginable).

Death promises a place outside the hands, never mind some vague concept of hereafter; that is small in its importance.

What is vast, of great consequence, is the few breaths, a word, seconds as a Man. To be totally alive and alone with the dignity of oneself. And the short time leading to this; the visitations, the faint raps at the window, these are a delightful mapping, a hint of the great Vacation to come.

These being the Tiny Spreading Grin, which the Species abhors. Since its collectivity and perpetuality is nailed to each individual's cling to life.

So the Great Mask is worn. To masquerade belief in Death as a journey of all mankind. A progression of the Species upward, upward. Not a Death as a division, a parting, a subtracting away as each man finally tastes ultimate aloneness and therefore freedom from tyranny of submission.

If none wore masks, the oozing open wounds of the very bowels and hearts of a Man would lie in full view. All would see the wounds of all. All would see the tiny spreading grin of all. What man would hold another to stay his own Great path of Healing? What man would not help another as he would wish the other to help him?

And like grinning children holding hands all skip to the Abyss and take a laughing leap to Joy to Hope to Death.

This, the bitch Species cannot allow. Hence the suckled instinct in belief, in faith beyond just an individual Man. It was meant only to bring faith in the pack but the sap was too sweet the mob too bitter.The pack howled for more, broke free, went awry, and came hungry to at a closed door to grovel for a master.

So the man sits. So all sit, wearing the Mask of faith in a door to open.It never does. It is only until the last dark night that the spell can be thrown off the dog, the Mask ripped away and a wolf resurrected. A Man reborn to die. To run wild through the unknown forests, his teeth flashing a mad release of glee in the naked moonlight.

So the Merchants and gods and hasty built stalls and a milling crowd. Each one in the crowd moving from stall to stall in an ever decreasing spiral. For when they would stop to peer at the wares at each stall, both merchants on either side would pitch their sales, in a unique way.

Unique to the selling of gods. They would roar and shout condemnations and every demonic or superstitious label upon the one buyer standing before their neighbour's stall; accuse the looker, the buyer of all sins and vices because he dared to even look upon their neighbour's god.

In this way, the crowd was shamed to shuffle on and on. As soon as a man moved from one stall where, as he stood, those merchants on the right and left had destroyed his entire reputation, he would be greeted by silence from the merchant who had just declared him loathsome. For now that merchant was busy declaring the vileness of some new occupant at his neighbour's stall. That occupant furtively looking to purchase, but actually more attempting to escape each fresh spew of abuse.

As more people pressed from the outside, the inside was pushed tighter and closer to the stall, till someone would be shoved hard against a table and thereby, by chance , inherit the purchase of his god.

Two such men, their freshly bought gods in hand had just elbowed their way back out of the crowd. One a tall man, with a lean nose, was dressed in a long striped robe. He carried a tiny idol shaped like a turtle. Another man, shorter, fatter, kinder looking than the other; he carried a one foot long golden grasshopper. This man was dressed in a loosely wrapped white robe and wore a small white cap.

As they walked to the exit of the Market square, they fumbled and turned these purchases. Their faces had an unsure look as if undecided that these gods were agreeable to their wants or lives.

As if now wondering if they were indeed too large for the mantelpiece waiting undusted at home. Each had a hesitant finger probing the hollowness, scratching at the gold fleck or ringing its head for trueness.

Yet neither would put words of doubt to those furtive checks; would not speak to his neighbour the unholy vowels of disbelief. Each within himself acknowledged his uniqueness in simply wearing a mask for the sake of others who needed the falseness of this strength in the Ir lives. Each believed himself too kind to strike down another’s altar and thereby cause another anguish in his emptiness. Each knew that they had strength of integrity to go alone but they also had much compassion of heart and therefore allowed themselves this pretense. A small lie for the other, the other who likely could not bear the jar of contemplation spread thickly on his daily bread.

So in exactly the same spirit that civilizations are born, each man dusted the frown of himself from the brow of his god, placed his neighbourly duty upon his own face, tucked virtue under his arm and strode lighter stepped in soul.

Side by side they walked and talked of the latest grape harvest and how that may affect the people in their choice of mayor. As they came to the exit, there was, leaning against the gate, an odd look of a young fellow.

He was obviously poor, dressed in rags. Except for a red coloured turban, which with his cocky hint of airs, gave him the appearance of a sultan’s prince. A small thin beard too, and deep dark brown eyes, almost mystic, suggested a learned man or at least, very clever.

The two men would have passed by with a nod except the young scruff spoke out: Good day, my noble gentlemen. A fine season for buying your gods, is it not?

Now it is the normal custom to not speak of the purchase of a god once it has been done. An accepted thing since continual talk of buying lends a tainted stain to the belief, a reminder of the day and its less than genteel or dignified impressions.

Tradition decreed that all pretend to the assumption that a man had retained the same god all his life. This tradition was held till the next annual pilgrimage to the Market square. After purchase and the few necessary rituals, the Tradition was again religiously adhered to. So retaining the steady trickle of belief with no scores of mark on the Great Mask.. Though the two men had not yet left the Square, the young man was showing remarkable bad taste in alluding to their purchases.In fact, had they been outside the Square, he would likely have been arrested and flogged.

As such, to avoid anymore unpleasant interlopes,the two men ignored the query and began to pass through the gate. But the beggar stepped in front of them, held his hands to stop and laughingly spoke:

Please, please, kind sirs.I beg halt. I am a stranger somewhat these parts.I only heard tell of the Square and this day vaguely. I would be humbled much in your grace if you would cast a few minutes to my need. Only a question, that is all, in truth, honourable sirs, in truth.

First, your name, insolent pup, and your place of birth or at least whelping. jeered the tallest man.

The young man laughed at this quip. "Good, sir, good. A sweet jab more delicately done the droner the bee. My name, my title, my image, my destiny can be all said in the same three words: ‘Beggar's young son.’ That is who, what, why I am. As to where, I come from a place having not its own horizons; yet many horizons.The sun always shimmering at its ripple of border and to complete the puzzle is to answer: when. Well, I do not know when but do know I am not ageless. Therefore the when of then lies between beginning and end; for my shadow, at least, proves my existence right now.

Pompous ass, sputtered the taller man of the two.

No, sir. Forgive me, the young man smiled, With my beatings about the winds of time, my true name has been blown out your ears. I am much less useful than a beast born to do the will of men for I am the Beggar's young son only.

The tall man stood with a rather angry yet puzzled expression, not sure if he had been insulted or not. While he dug through this dilemma, his shorter more glib friend took up the mark.

And who is this Beggar that gave back to the world a less fair exchange for the coins that rattled his cup?

A slight sadness came into his voice as the young man answered, He was a beggar who sought to fulfill need.

The man chuckled, Oh, you are indeed wise behind your ears, or is it beyond your years? For what beggar does not wish to fulfill his own need? Your description has not yet narrowed our choice of the countless bags of rags that flop on street corners in every town.

The young man replied, You misunderstood sir if I can assume the capacity to do otherwise. As I now dumb I can by your sudden angry look. Forgive, I mean no insult. Sadness can turn a heart a sensitive rebuke. The fault is mine. What I should have said was, He was a beggar who sought to fulfill others’ needs.

Oh, I see, replied the man, rubbing his chin in a mock of gravity. And how exactly is this miracle performed? Empty pockets bring forth coinage to feed the poor, pay the taxes, amuse the rich? I do not mock you, young man yet I am something of a teacher in the science of mathematics, and yet never heard of a formula where nothing added to something increased something.

And the wind is nothing. Cannot be gathered or sowed. Leashed or herded. Counted or held. Yet is known to be as fierce as a mad bull and topple buildings.This we would call something. Have I not added nothing upon nothing till something is created? explained the young man."

But the wind is not a true physical presence. You speak in the realm of the spiritual oblique. Anything can be deemed true there as it cannot be proven false. You cannot make the same point in this world. said the man.

What if you took all the coinage of copper in this Marketplace and added its sum? Then melted it down. Had the glob weighed to its metal value. Would the sums be equal? I think not. answered the young man.

The short man answered I grant this is true but you have not stayed in the world of mathematics, you have not added or taken away. This is not reason but as a blacksmith in the act of transformation.

You would grant that in this world a transformation can add or take away from the value and therefore the sum of something?asked the young man.

Yes, it is a simple enough thing. A pile of blocks verses a building is an immense change in value. the man agreed.

Yes, but back to the coins and copper. Why was the value so different after the transformation? asked the young man.

I would say, of course, that society deems a certain worth to each coin in its market barter value. Here copper itself cannot counterfeit this, as all could just go to the hills and extract their wealth. Payment is instead due in the exact configuration of the coin. the man replied.

So society deems the coinage of much higher value than the lump of copper.Can the individual do the reverse? asked the young man.

He can do as he likes but he would be mad.

The young beggar asked What if the lump of copper was reshaped, moulded, carved into the exact likeness of his deceased wife, whom he adored for thirty years? Would it not have the greatest value now and would you still paint him insane?

For him alone it would have the greatest value and few would call him mad. But are you not again stepping into the world of spirituality;of love?

Young man: Except in its results, few would argue a difference between love of money and love of a person. Has not the man simply exchanged Society's values for his own?

The man: Granted. He has done so.

Young man: Is he wrong or unlawful or immoral to do so?

The man: If it is his own money, he may do with it as he pleases.In his own home, he may maintain a value as he sees fit assuming it is unharmful to those in the same dwelling.

Young man: These values; may a man have different than society within society or only within his home?

The man: By the normal natural decree of civilization,a man must subjugate his values if they contrast with his society's if he wishes to remain a member of Society, except in his own household.

Young man: "Thereby assuming as a general principal all men are unequal , yet Society is equal, or at least uniform, then most men exchange cloaks of values as they pass in and out of the threshold of their homes. That if society's values be deemed a fence, then by nature's randomness half the men will have values strong on one side and half the men on the other. We can say a fence as seems Society takes upon herself the role of judicial to keep half the men from the throats of the other half.

From our examples of the coinage, the copper, the statue, there exists men who love money in their homes and men who love love. Both to the obsession of denying anything slip out of their grasp. And this can be allowed in their homes. But society demands a lesser value from both; demands a smaller love of money and some token of love from the coin hoarder ; demands a smaller love of love and some token of money from the statue hoarder.

And where, kind sirs, is this exchange to be done? What has society placed at the gate which gives breaks of communion in the fence? Who guards there? The palace army? Police? The Law? No. None of these.Charity. In its purer, open path, the Beggars. Those who have nothing. None of love or money. These are the channels, funnels open to the flow.

The rich man comes uneasy in his lesser clutch of Civilized garb, not used to anything but a clear pierce of want and avarice. But Society demands less. And behold! Before him, the Beggar wants! A coin jiggles and all needs are met. The rich man has his proof. Society's fence intact, unrubbed. The Beggar, his token of love.

The man of love comes; his cloth rent, torn in the convulses of despair. Like a hand in a grave site, he clutches coinage he has reaped, going homeward to his melting pot. Society, however, commands less than this totality of grief.

A glance at some disgust of unloved, brown coloured sheen of poverty defiled at the gate; a rag tent of some near-human beast ;its cup empty; its eyes unfilled.

The man almost weeps in comprehending that he, at least, hassomething to love and will not be as this discarded wretch before him. With that, he flings a coin as he passes by. A token given to the cost this beggar must stay behind and pay.

So you see, kind Sirs, though this beggar has no effect on the value of each man within his home, he has much effect when each man journeys into Society. As each man decreases his own values through the beggar towards society's values, then his value is transformed to a greater sum in Society's counting house.

Though only a coin is subtracted, nothing greatly increases

to something."

Aw! What a waste! A full coin of attention given to a half a cup of wit! squawked the tall man. Time wasted while some squatter's whelp proves people think it's nice if the rich give to the poor. Philosophy for wine stools! That's what I call it. Out of the way, street rat, we've had enough of your crumbs!

The short man rebuked him. "Wait. His argument was well done and speaks little of money. It is a debate of heart and mind; and perhaps, to balance, a soul. I would dwell on all this later.

Now, I feel it would be fair bargain to hear the question he first mentioned. So, Beggar's young man, speak your query but I caution against impudence." He nodded towards his rather red faced friend.

Young man: "I beg, sirs, not to keep you much longer in this glare of a spot, and ask this question not in mock, or to be boorish, or unduly of pry but as a wanderer unfamiliar to ways such as I have seen this day. I am no philosopher or teacher. How can I be thus? A broken lamb outcast from the sheep, who would hear my bleats? But in my daily imprison beyond the fence and into the hills, I watch. Even to long or pine, tis true at times, to join those forgiven and sanctified amongst all these good shepherds.

All day, I store the feed of my eyes, that I may curl behind some damp stone and cud upon the memories; memories of the ways and doings of my brethren below. Much is the difference between the eye of the beholder and the eye of the belonger, I have found. The eye of the belonger seems to hunger at ‘How long?’ Whereas the beholder gazes and wonders ‘Why for so long.’ So I beg mercy for this ignorant: part his wool and speak to his eyes to lower this fever of the burning ‘Why for so long?’

The tall man interjected,Damn it, we might if you'd ask the question! God in dust! He must have a deal with a god to build minutes in the hereafter by words down here!

I shall, Sir, I shall laughed the young man. My quest is this: If a man has more value in what he takes home than what he has in the street, and you Sirs (as it appeared by your growling complexions when you left the stalls) have little value in the Virtues tucked under your arms, will they become transformed to immense value in your homes? or, pardon an addition relevant to the first, is it, the coinage exchanged?; in that you must g1ve a 11ttle coin to those cast beggars of copper or gold because you have immense coinage of value at home?

THIS IS TOO MUCH! roared the tall man as he grabbed the young man by his collar. "Call a palace guard! To the Law's ears with him. Let him jerk his tongue to the beat of a whip! Then out of the city with the rag. Let him remember that here we tolerate an open cup to the passerby but tolerate no insolent tripping of the pious and noble bearing.

The young man made no squirm or interfered no rebuttal to this shaking and ranting.His eyes merely contained, not impish amusement, but rather an earnest wait. He kept them fixed upon the short man's face, knowing that if any could leap the bounds of tradition, this old fox knew a way.

It was not so much that the young man wanted to know; he dared to know. Most men feared the burden of answers and rightly so. All were born to the fertile ground of doubts; of questions. A few seeds sown, sprout, die untended. Some answers, however, nourished and fed, grow till they would appear as if split through a man's skull. Stretch higher and higher. A great burdensome tree of knowledge rooted on a man's head; it’s very bulk and might so grand it would bend his neck downward till a man could see nothing of his fellow man, his world, only himself.

This was answers; this was knowledge; a ponderous growth. Only a constant trimming, weeding, clipping, burning at knowledge would keep all a delicate wreath. To cultivate all through a pure heart and remove the dead, the false, the duplicate.

This was wisdom. With Doubt the constant trimmer. Doubt of Something, or of the All, or of Conclusion, or of One’s Reflex of Ego . Doubt, not as the Mocker, but rather as the better cousin, the Prober.

Few men knew how to control knowledge and nurture wisdom. So most kept a barren plot. Safer.

Something in this young beggar’s eyes showed a small flourish of wisdom.

The short man saw this. A good man, though caged in a society of compromise, he could not deny its faint rustle; could not deny his answer wings and go lighten upon this beckon of branch.

He spoke: Wait a moment, friend. Though, by chance or no chance, he is discourteous, he is not necessarily unlawful. For the Law allows discussion of gods inside the Market Square, though I admit rarely is it accomplished with the din and den of God’s thieves rasping from their perch. I admit manners and custom shun it but shunning is not the same as forbidding. That is for the arm of the Law. Manners and custom can rule by expression only; their arms are limp. So I suggest you drop yours away for ‘tis only you who breach the law.

The tall man did so but grumbled, Manners and custom can lead, however, to a change in the Law. Hopefully tomorrow the Law will flex her hand and gesture the Market Square unlawful for discussion of gods as well. Then this imp will dance, should he folly his mouth again.

Short man: "Good point, my excellent friend. You have described the Beauty in the Law. She is the Perfect Woman. Both handmaiden and wanton at the same time. Virtue unbendable and open-limbed Compromise. What no man can touch can easily be bought and sold.

For you are too right, my friend. Tomorrow, she may skirt a different door. But beware, she may lust beggars! Ruling no gods in the Square at all or perhaps no tall men. Then the whip curls the other way! So than there is a mighty virtue of New Law and Her Orders. To rule beggars over gods.

Yet the Merchants roar ‘What of us, what of sales, what of coinage, oh Bitch?’

So those who make coinage from rule and those who rule coinage gather with the Law. Her favours easily bought innegotiations clinking loudly with good will but muffled behind great doors. Oh! Then behold! Miracle of New Wind, the Law is swayed, the Square given back to the gods, beggars scorned and She lies a richer bed. Her true danger is her wavering, shimmer-like Beauty. She is a Moon Goddess constantly changing, waxing, waning; yet everywhere there are dim and lost men who yearn her cold touch of guidance when darkness closes over their hearts."

Tall man: I gather the drift of your reason, yet wonder it’s need for such length. If I did not know you to be a better man, I’d vouch you had been hanging with beggars too long. Which is my point , Answer the upstarts' stumble. I'll wait. I am curious about the result, and then let us be gone, my friend. I have a desire to wash beggarly dust from my hands as soon as possible.

Short man: "I shall do this now. Give answer to the whys of the gods and where's the values. To which sides and when the coin flips in a trembling man's hand.

For you see, young man, that the gods are nothing in all this. Men make gods merely to and fro as the whims and aspirations of their hopes or deviations. Thus a personal god is never what a man is but rather what he wishes to be. But all created gods have a commonality since that is really the purpose of their creation. Immortality. All men crave immortality... through soul.

No god creates a man’s soul. Men create their own soul. Man creates soul out of dread.

Men feel to have a soul. For this discussion of gods it is enough just to say that men feel a place beyond the physical. A sensation ,if you will, like a sceptre following them on a dark night. Not necessary an evil or a good feeling but rather, at least, the possibilities of ‘more than’. That is to say men have a strange sensation and call that sensation: soul.

The Tall man exclaimed: What sense of senselessness is this!?

The short man answered The sense of soul is that not founded also in senselessness? We have a word here...sense and also the other word, sense. One is of a man’s ability to interpret ‘feelings’; feelings which may be vague but nonetheless present in such a manner as to itch for attention. The other sense is for the way the logic or awareness of a man progresses from fact to proof; from means to end; from cause to effect. So a man can feel sense and he, also, must make sense of that sense. A man feels a soul, he must find cause.

The young beggar asked A man feels something, but what is this something? why call this something, soul?

The tall man Yes, I think we give hats to dogs here. Why do we assume the rabble know of souls and gods more than they know of gas and bad wine?

The short man answered both There is a knowledge man has which is not just the knowledge of death but there is a constant vague awareness, daily, even minute by minute, of his own ending. The conscious of a man is ‘unfortunately’ elevated above mere animal by a self-awareness of time and death. it is this sensation that men call soul. A soul borne out of a falsehood for immortality, against Death, against Dread of his own death. His mind rebels against this. Against the wishes of his own body. For the body wishes Death.

the tall man what!? though the body cannot prevent its end I give you true but it always moves away from that end. Why move away from the fire, why fear the high cliff, why carry a sword into the wilderness? Are those not the tells of a body seeking always life not Death?

The short man answered Which knows more fear...the body or the mind? Or, rather, should one ask..which creates more fear, the body or the mind? Especially if one asks which creates more fear in itself, the body or the mind?

The beggar’s son I suppose one must define fear first. Since the body will flinch fast at the moment’s danger but the dread of the mind, that is, in the mind, is sadly a thing almost forever known.

Indeed replied the short man fear is known...bold in face like a drunkard’s rage, but dread...here is the shadow born behind the candle of dim or darker reasoning.

The tall man We are far here from our soul source, however, my friend. I fear you will makes us follow a beggar’s weave through the narrower alleys of your mind.

The short man smiled and nodded "What I mean to say is that the source of soul in a man is the sense of his own death and that intimate dread which many do not acknowledge.

Soul is man’s awakened consciousness of the death of that very same consciousness. And that mind, that soul is

disturbed. Disturbed for two reasons."

The short man continued: " A man sees death amongst men and is puzzled. Death of each living being gives life to other living beings, ‘cept man’s, or so at least, it would appear to men.

Why does a man