Kindly Bob is polishing a mug that has no hope of becoming cleaner. The fire is low. There’s a smell of ale, woodsmoke, and something faintly eschatological.

The tavern is otherwise empty, save for two men. They sit at the corner table, one has calloused fisherman’s hands. The other has ink-stained fingers.

Peter leaned forward. “I meant well, you know.”

“Many a metaphysical error has begun that way,” replied Aquinas.

“The light. His face! It was like looking into the sun without being burned. Moses was there. Elijah. It was fulfillment. Peter paused and then meekly, “I only suggested tents.”

“You suggested permanence where pilgrimage was required.”

“But we were finally seeing. Why go back down?”

Aquinas took a slow draw on his cigar. “Because vision was not yet consummation.”

Peter frowned. “He changed.”

“No.”

“No?”

“What changed was your perception. Not His essence.”

Aquinas set the cigar down and folded his hands.

“Christ is one divine Person with two natures. The divine nature did not increase. The human nature did not transmute into divinity. Nothing in Him shifted from potency to act. The veil thinned. That is all.”

“It felt like more.”

“It was more—to you. Being intensified in manifestation, not in substance.”

Peter sat back. “Explain this plainly. I am a fisherman, not a metaphysician.”

“In creatures,” Aquinas said evenly, “we move from potency to act. In God, there is no potency. He is Pure Act. On the mountain, you glimpsed the future glorified condition of Christ’s humanity. Chronologically, the Resurrection had not yet occurred. Ontologically, the union was already perfect. You were permitted to see the terminus before the via.”

Kindly Bob snorted as he set down two fresh mugs of ale. “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. Are you paid by the syllable?” He put his hands in his apron pockets, his oddly blue eyes bright. “Say that again where even I could understand it.”

Aquinas did not look offended. He folded his hands on the table and inclined his head slightly toward Bob. “Very well.”

“In simple terms: nothing new was added to Christ on the mountain. He did not become more divine. He did not suddenly acquire glory He lacked before. What you saw was what was always true of Him — but usually hidden.

“Think of it this way. A king sometimes walks among his people dressed as an ordinary man. He is still king. His authority does not increase when he puts on the crown. But when he appears in royal robes, what was always his becomes visible.

“On the mountain, the crown showed.

And you were allowed to see — for a moment — what His humanity would look like after passing through death. It was the end of the story shown in the middle of it. You were given the destination before you had to walk the hardest stretch of road.”

Kindly Bob nodded slowly. “So it wasn’t a costume change.”

“No,” Aquinas replied. “It was a curtain pulled back.”

Peter stared into the fire. “So the glory was always there.”

“Yes. And the Cross would not diminish it.”

Aquinas continued, “The material cause: His body, the mountain, your eyes. No illusion. Grace does not bypass matter.

“The formal cause: divine filiation manifest. The Father named it—‘My beloved Son.’ Form makes a thing intelligible. The light was intelligibility rendered visible.

“The efficient cause: the Trinity unveiling what already is.

“The final cause: you.”

Peter blinked. “Me?”

“And James. And John. And every trembling disciple who would see Him scourged and think all was lost. The final cause was fortification of hope.”

Peter gave a half-smile. “So my tents were wrong.”

“Understandable. But wrong. You mistook anticipation for arrival. The Transfiguration was not the end of the journey but a strengthening for descent. Final causes must not be prematurely seized.”

“I wanted to hold the light still.”

“Light that is held becomes possession. Light received becomes mission.”

Silence stretched.

Peter finally asked, “Why did it frighten us?”

Aquinas did not answer immediately.

“Why did it frighten you,” he muttered at last. Looking up, he took a puff from his dead cigar. “I’ve been talking too much again.” He thought carefully while relighting his cigar.

“God does not intensify. He is Pure Act. But when finite potency is suddenly exposed to a manifestation of infinite Act beyond its natural proportion, it feels the strain of its own limits until strengthened by grace.

“You were not yet elevated for full participation. The Beatific Vision does not terrify the perfected soul. But a pilgrim soul unaccustomed to that brightness, well, you fall on your face.”

Kindly Bob leaned on the table and said, “You just can’t help yourself Tommy, can you.”

He turned to Peter, “So it’s not that the light was violent,” he said. “It’s that you’d never used those eyes before.”

Peter looked up. “What?”

Bob shrugged. “Remember when Neo was freed from that capsule and he’s on that table all acupunctured and such? He asks, ‘Why do my eyes hurt?’ Morpheus says softly, ‘You’ve never used them before.’”

Aquinas allowed himself the smallest nod. “An unexpectedly sound analogy.”

Peter exhaled. “The worst part wasn’t the fear. It was going back down. The arguing. The afflicted people. Jerusalem.”

“Of course,” Aquinas said. “Mountains clarify. Valleys test.”

He paused.

“But tell me, after the Cross, after the empty tomb. Did the memory of that light matter?”

Peter’s answer came quietly. “Yes. It kept the horror from becoming final.”

“Precisely.”

Kindly Bob wiped the bar and spoke without looking at them.

“So what’s the takeaway for the rest of us?”

Aquinas did not hesitate.

“Christ’s being does not fluctuate with your perception. Glory is shown before suffering so faith may endure. And you should not build tents as if heaven has arrived.”

“And if you try?” Peter asked.

“You will avoid the Cross—and miss the Resurrection.”

A log in the fireplace broke apart with a muffled crash and a shower of sparks. Aquinas nodded in agreement.

“He told us not to speak of it until after He rose,” Peter said.

“Because glory without the Cross would be misunderstood as spectacle,” Aquinas replied. “Christianity is not spectacle. It is transfigured matter.”

“Tommy,” said Kindly Bob. “Not spectacle? Transfigured matter?”

Aquinas exhaled slowly. “Very well.”

“If you show men light without showing them love that suffers, they will think God is putting on a performance. Power. Dazzle. Something to applaud from a safe distance.

“But the same body that shone on the mountain was scourged in Jerusalem. The same flesh that gleamed like the sun was nailed to wood. And that same flesh rose.

“That is not spectacle. That is transformation. Spectacle is something you watch. Transfiguration is matter shown radiant with the glory it is ordered to receive. Christianity does not discard the body. It does not escape the world. It does not trade flesh for fog.

“It takes real, wounded, mortal flesh — and makes it radiant.”

Kindly Bob nodded slowly. “So it’s not Cirque du Soleil,” he said.

“No, it is not Circus of the Sun,” Aquinas replied. “Heh, and it’s not the Circus of the Son, either. It is the future of your bones.”

Peter lifted his mug. “You Dominicans always this direct?”

“Truth has edges.”

Outside, the wind pressed against the shutters. And somewhere beyond the tavern roofline, a mountain still stands holding the memory of Light unveiled.

It was a chill November day when a sleigh pulled up and docked out front of The Screaming Monkey’s Head. The man in the sled had a rather amorphous aspect, looking one way to some, another way to others. Most passers-by were more interested in the sleigh, wondering how the skids managed the cobblestone road as it had not snowed yet this season. And the single reindeer with its felty antlers was a novel sight.

The man disembarked and, for me, he would be wearing a heavy winter coat, red with white cuffs, heavy black boots, possessing a long white majestic beard, bushy white eyebrows, and be, well, rather portly. He laid a finger aside his nose and the front door opened as he walked toward it.

“Nick!” cried Kindly Bob from behind the bar. “It’s been a while. Come, sit, Tommy’s here.”

“Ho Ho, Saint!”
”Ho Ho, yourself you old Saint, and see how you like it.” Thomas of Aquino replied.

Santa walked to the bar and clapped Thomas on the back, sat down and Kindly Bob slipped an opaque glass of Guinness in front of him. “Ah, yes,” said Santa and had himself a healthy swallow. Holding the stout between him and Kindly Bob, he said with a wink, “It’s always darkest afore the dawn.” Wiping the creamy froth from his moustache he turned to Aquinas. “Well, now Tommy, have you been a good boy?”

Aquinas laughed and, as was his wont, became immediately serious. “I’m glad you’re here Nick. It appears you already apprehend I’m having a conversation with some folks about liturgical seasons, and sadly, they are missing the point.”

“How so?”

“They think it a mini-Lent.”

Aquinas sighed, held up his empty mug, and Kindly Bob walked over with another steaming mug of mulled wine. “Here you go, the drink of choice for the patron saint of The Hermetic Order Of The Ruminantia,” he said. “About which nothing more may be said,” replied both saints with a laugh. They sipped in silence for a moment.

“But Tommy, Canon Law explicitly defines which days and seasons are penitential. And Advent is not listed. So who are these self-proclaimed popes imposing penance on the Church?”

“It’s not really like that, as I suspect you know Nick. The motives are pure. Well maybe. I don’t understand why they simply dismiss Canon Law, hubris maybe. But the motives are at least well-intentioned. They are trying to address something they don’t understand, something that I think they have been distracted from. And it doesn’t help that they can point to various times and areas where a specifically penitential flavor was overlayed, incorrectly, on Advent. But none of those were codified universally, and all were abrogated by current Canon Law.”

“Incorrectly?”

“A category error. Not intrinsically wrong. Rather, theologically misaligned. Not saying they had no right in times and places to add a penitential flavor. Just that their intent misses the point, misses the difference between longing and penance.”

Nick turned to Thomas, “Yeah Tommy, I get it. Most people simply don’t understand anticipation and joyful expectation any more.” It was Nick’s turn to sigh. “This Amazon world,” he said and shook his head.

They each took another sip and Aquinas studied the steam rising from his mug, as if the answers may be hinted in the evanescent swirls. Santa watched Aquinas studying the steam and waited. Aquinas looked up, turned to Nick and asked, “Amazon?”

“You need something more corporeal than that steam to ponder. We need smoke for this chat,” and he turned only to find Kindly Bob already walking toward them, “Johnnie Walker Double Black seems apropos,” he said, producing two Glencairn glasses and pouring out two doubles. Winking at Nick he held out a pipe. Nick started to reach out and stopped, his heavy white brows raised and he said, “How do you have this?”

“Mithrandir left it here before he went West.”

Santa reached out and took the pipe reverently, “That was a being who understood smoke,” he said. “And light,” added Aquinas. “And Hope,” said Kindly Bob as he held out a Cuban Montecristo #2 for Aquinas.

They each went through the ritual of lighting their tobacco. Aquinas blew a large, fat, swirling smoke ring, and Nick blew a sharp tight ring through the center. Turning toward Santa, Aquinas said, “Ok, Nick, Amazon.”

“First, bring me up to date on the liturgical season conversation.” Aquinas puffed thoughtfully for a moment. “Spring. Summer. Winter. Autumn.” Turning to Nick, “Each in their own time, each with their own character.” Another puff. “Each its own season, its own meaning, its own end.”

Santa nodded and turned to Kindly Bob. “Remember grapes for me, will you? You’ll know when.” Bob just stared blandly, wiping out a glass. “Go on,” Santa said to Tommy.

“The Church has liturgical seasons. They have their unique characters, their own meaning, their own end.” He took a sip and then another couple of thoughtful puffs. “The Carpenter, remember when he was asked why his disciples weren’t fasting?”

“You don’t fast while the Bridegroom is present,” replied Santa.

“Yes, yes. Consider that. Now, in Advent we do not feast as in Christmas, nor do we fast as in Lent. We long.”

Santa exhaled, his beard shifting like snow drift.

“Now using the Northern Hemisphere,” continued Aquinas. “See what we have during Advent. The shortest days, the longest nights. Cold creeping in. Nature is showing the need for anticipation and holy longing and the acceptance of ‘Not yet’. Light is promised but not yet seen.”

“The wisdom of the Church’s seasons…” replied Santa.

“Yes, Nick, and what follows Advent?”

“Why Christmas, of course!”

“Yes, I note well you said, ‘Of course.’ Of course Christmas. Though still dark and bleak and cold, the days are getting longer. The beginning thaw. Joy in the Dark.”

Aquinas paused, and they both sat in silence. Santa added, “The light is promised but not yet seen during Advent.”

“A hopeful people living in the dark and cold,” replied Aquinas.

“Do go on,” said Santa.

“At Christmas, the Light appears when things are still dark, not when everything is perfect.” Another thoughtful pause and puff. “A turning point. After Epiphany, Ordinary time. Growing light, subtle warmth. Beginning of the quiet return to life. Nick, why do you suppose Lent and Easter are when they are? And I’m not talking about moon cycles and technicalities.”

It was Santa’s turn to take a sip and a few contemplative puffs on the pipe. “You subtle master,” he started. “You are talking about metaphor and meaning. Imagery. What is happening during this time?” He thought while he sipped his scotch. “The earth is preparing. Cold hard ground is breaking open, the world is preparing for new life.”

“Yes,” replied Aquinas, “complete the imagery.”

“Late winter to early spring, hard ground, discipline, thawing. Preparation.”

“Preparation!” cried Aquinas. “Preparation, not anticipation, not longing, not hope. Preparation!”

“Yes,” replied Santa with a hand on the shoulder of Aquinas.

Aquinas smiled at Santa, “And preparation is not anticipation. Note well my friend, the Carpenter’s arrival was anticipated, precisely because the time was unknown, same as is His second arrival. The time is not known. However, his sacrifice, for those with eyes to see and ears to hear, well, He was telling them all along. And that sacrifice is one and done. We no longer anticipate the sacrifice. Rather, we never anticipated the sacrifice. Even when it was right there in the First Covenant. No one saw it.”

He let that sink in.

“We Remember it. Note, there is nothing like Lent before the Carpenter’s arrival in the Jewish calendar.”

Santa sat back at this, brow furrowed, cherry glowing in his pipe. Finally, “The Jews absolutely had fasts and penitential observances.”

“Yes,” replied Aquinas. “But they were not preparation for a once and for all salvific sacrifice.”

Santa sipped on his Double Black, took his pipe out, looked at it, put it back in his mouth. “I am reminded of a quote attributed to C.S. Lewis.”

“Do tell,” said Kindly Bob, startling both saints.

Recovering, Santa replied, “A pipe gives a wise man time to think, and a fool something to stick in his mouth.”

Aquinas laughed and Kindly Bob said, “He did say that, and if memory serves, he was sitting where you are now.”

Santa opened his mouth, closed it, then took another puff and with a sideways glance at Kindly Bob, returned to the conversation.

“Yom Kippur?” he asked.

“Day of Atonement, a day mind you, not a multi-week season in preparation for a final salvific event.”

“Tisha B’Av?”

“Mourning the destruction of the Temple,” Aquinas paused, “Some might try to draw an analogy to the Carpenter saying ‘Destroy this Temple and I will restore it in Three Days,’ but the Jews would never have seen this observance as reflecting on a final salvific act.”

“Three Weeks?”

“On the surface could be argued the closest thing to a Lenten observance, in form only, not in meaning. Definitely not with the same end. Mourning the destruction of the Temple, a national catastrophe, not preparation for the salvation of the Universe.”

Santa thought some more. Kindly Bob interjected, “Those are all recurrent fasts and such, not a salvation-hinge season.” “Precisely,” replied Aquinas.

“Whence Lent?” Santa asked.

“Nick, you know.”

“The Carpenter’s 40 days in the desert, then.”

“Yes. Only found in the New Covenant with hints of 40 this and 40 that in the Old.”

Santa pulled a few more contemplative puffs and the other two let the silence stretch. Finally he said, “There is a difference in the focus, the very meaning of each season.”

“Yes, there is,” replied Aquinas, “And blending should not be necessary. The seasons have different ends, and different means to those ends. However, for some reason, people insist it is appropriate to view as having a penitential flavor.”

Kindly Bob reached under the counter and pulled out a bunch of grapes, setting them on the counter before Santa.

“Ah, yes. Let’s talk about Amazon now,” said Santa. “Tommy, these grapes, tell me about them?”

“It is not grape season.”

“Correct, and yet?”

“Here they are.”

Aquinas sat back. “I used to wait in anticipation for grape season. The season was short, and the grapes were all the more special because they came when they came, not when I wanted them.” He puffed luxuriously on his cigar for a moment, took it out and used it to point at the grapes. “The fact these are here now, out of season, well Nick, it does not bring me joy.”

“Maybe you felt no joy because you did not practice penance in anticipation of grapes?”

Aquinas snorted. “Pfft. No.”

Santa turned, adjusted his boot on the stool and regarded Aquinas for a moment. “I get you Tommy, as you know. And of course I agree with you. Amazon. Amazon provides instant gratification. Amazon is the Destroyer of Anticipation.”

“Continue,” said Aquinas.

“Kids used to ask for simple mundane things. Things they had to wait all year for. Balls and Dolls I used to say.” He took a puff. “Now, if someone wants something, if it is not delivered that day or the next, they are angry. No more waiting 6 to 8 weeks after collecting cereal box tops for several weeks and mailing off for the decoder ring or what have you. A person can literally click “Buy now” and their coveted piece of crap arrives that day or the next. There is no anticipation, just desire and frustration. Very little satisfaction when whatever cheap material thing arrives.”

Aquinas turned and adjusted to more squarely face his friend. “People have lost the ability to feel longing, that’s what you are saying?”

“Very much so.”

“And yet, they know they need to be feeling something, which they translate into the need to be doing something. Something that feels like they are attaching the importance to the season it deserves. They translate holy longing into penitence.”

Santa touched the tip of his nose, “I think that is exactly the issue. The motives are pure and sincere. But they’ve lost the ability to feel wonder, feel joy, feel the anticipation. Look at the Christmas Season. In the Secular World, Advent just is the Christmas Season. Parties, decorations, celebrations. Very little anticipation. Mostly frenetic energy, and consumption. And Christmas comes and by the following weekend everything is gone, packed away, all the music immediately reverts to secular music. If I may be crass, it reminds me of hookup culture, there is the hunt, the pursuit, the conquest, the one night stand, and then slinking away the next morning.”

Aquinas nodded. “And the spiritual, the good people striving for holiness, they know this is wrong, and they are fighting against the lure and seduction of this instant gratification.”

Santa nodded in response, “Yes, and joyful anticipation doesn’t feel holy enough. It doesn’t feel like they are doing enough, it’s not active. Hence the pivot to penance, making Advent a mini-Lent.”

“Yes,” replied Aquinas. “It is easier to do penitential things, especially when you’ve lost the ability to be receptive, lost the felt understanding of joyful anticipation. The fruit of Joy is absent because charity has been disordered. It is harder to receive grace worthily than to perform many works.”

Aquinas sipped some Scotch and intoned,

“So is the kingdom of God, as if a man should cast seed into the ground;
And should sleep, and rise night and day, and the seed should spring and grow up, he knoweth not how.”
— Mark 4:26–27 (KJV)

“Yes, the quiet and unseen power of the receptive earth,” replied Santa.

“As always happens when good friends meet and work towards Truth, you have given me an insight.”

“Let’s have it Tommy.”

“Mary’s fiat.”

Santa sat, letting that sink in. Aquinas considered his cigar and waited. Kindly Bob unobtrusively refilled their glasses.

After a moment, Kindly Bob said brightly, “Receptive.”

“Ahh, yes,” said Santa. “Tommy, you are saying there is a fundamental and critical distinction between the two seasons.” “Yes.” “And given our current world, that distinction is difficult to perceive.” “Yes.”

“Advent is passive, reflective, receptive. God is coming to us in his own time. The only requirement of us? Be open and receptive. Not perfect. Not active. Receptive.”

“Yes, Nick. And Lent?”

“Active. We repent and turn or return to God.”

“Correct. Advent and Christmas, it is God who initiates the movement. He is coming to us. Lent, however, we initiate the movement; we are called to turn, to return, to God. The difference, Nick, the difference is Divine Initiative vs human striving.”

“But Tommy, people say that Advent is a season of preparation and what better preparation than penance?” “People say all kinds of things, don’t they,” Aquinas replied with a dismissive wave of his cigar, dislodging the 3 inch ash he had been cultivating. “Well, gosh darn it to the bad place,” he said.

“Language, Tommy, language,” said Kindly Bob.

“No, you’re right Nick,” said Aquinas. ”My response? Mary and Martha Nick. Mary and Martha.”

Santa smiled broadly, and saluted Aquinas by touching his pipe stem to his cap. “Mary chose the better part.” Then, raising his brows again, “Both Marys.”

Aquinas put his cigar down in the ash tray, stood and bowed to Santa and said, “Thanks, time for evening prayer. Always a pleasure Nick.” Santa smiled and nodded and watched Aquinas leave the bar. Turning to Kindly Bob he said, “Switching back to Stout, Bobby my boy.” Kindly Bob went to get a fresh glass.

“Hang the sign”

The Sign of the Screaming Monkey’s Head molded itself into existence above the tavern door. Kindly Bob surveyed the pub, sensing the placement of everything. “Home again,” he said out loud. He laughed a bit. He said that every time he evoked the tavern. It had been his home for a very long time, no matter where he was stationed. But arrival on any planet was always a homecoming.

He walked toward the main entrance and cast the heavy wooden door wide so he could breathe honest air. Searching the sky he stood for a long 15 minutes just taking in the starlight in wave-lengths his oddly blue eyes could register. He then spent the next several minutes searching along the ethereal galactic band of starlight for any signatures that indicated he had been followed. The balances appeared to be correct.

Taking a deep breath he closed the door. He would open at 6 am for the morning breakfast. Some 3rd shift factory workers would stop in, mildly surprised, and order some grub. Tomorrow there would be more, and in a few days everyone would remember that The Screaming Monkey’s Head had always been here.

Kindly Bob returned to the bar, sat on a stool and waited.

The Screaming Monkey’s Head is a simple pub run by a simple man known to his patrons as Kindly Bob. Some of what you just read is true.

The Screaming Monkey’s Head is a nexus of a galactic import spanning centuries. Some of what you just read is true.

Welcome to The Screaming Monkey’s Head.

Pull up a stool and tell Kindly Bob what you need. Be advised as you enter the labyrinth. The way out is seldom the way in.

[1]

The Morning After

There’s No Place Like Rome

Gordon woke with a start, sounds of battle in his ears. He had a fleeting memory of a spear. He sat up disoriented and looked around and felt of his neck. Strangely apprehensive he took stock. He was lying on a straw mattress, under a coarse woven sheet. The mattress was on a low rough-hewn wooden frame. There was a small table next to the bed with an oil lamp, burning low but shedding a bit of light, a box of matches, and a small clay cup painted green.

He looked toward the door remembering Kindly Bob’s admonition to lock it. He needed to use the restroom badly, but wasn’t sure he should. Why lock the door, he wondered. He had been too unnerved to ask. Playdoe, he thought. “What is playdoe”. he said aloud. BANG BANG BANG! someone banged on the door. “It’s morning and there’s hot breakfast!” cried Kindly Bob.

“Then God has granted me another day to serve, and the enemy has granted me the courtesy of a hot meal.” He replied, and under his breath, “Christ rose in silence. I see no need for trumpet and frying pan.” He roused himself, went and slid back the rather heavy bolt on his door and peered out. Kindly Bob was walking back toward the bar. Or was tavern more correct?

Gordon crossed the hall, relieved himself and looked at himself in the mirror. He remembered thinking it was of unusual quality the night before. He smoothed his hair with damp hands, and went out into the bar area.

“Good morning, Gordo,” cried Kindly Bob. He looked exactly the same as last night, but wearing a light blue linen shirt that tied at the neck. Last night… it was not that shirt. “Hale and well met,” replied Gordon. “You look quite awake at this early hour, how long have you been up?” Kindly Bob snorted, “Years,” he replied. “Years and years aplenty.”

Gordon let that pass and he sat at the bar. “Be right back,” said Kindly Bob and he was as good as his word, returning shortly with a plate of scrambled eggs, sausage patties, something that looked like potatoes cubed and fried, and plopped them on the counter in front of Gordon. He left and came back with a steaming crockery mug and a clear glass with what looked like orange juice.

Gordon looked at the largesse with something like awe and dismay. “Some dates and a crust of bread, and perhaps some tea?” he asked hopefully. “Nope, you’re not on campaign, eat hearty. You may need the calories.” Gordon looked for a moment, shrugged and asked, “What do I owe you for bed and breakfast?” Kindly Bob chuckled and said, “Where were we?” He turned and pulled a stool to him and sat, elbows on the counter. “Eat up,” He said. “The cold angry man had just learned the bomb was Play-Doh.” Gordon picked up a fork and poked at the eggs, and tried to ask, “What’s Play-Doh?” but was cut off.

Cold angry man, no longer cold and angry, sat at his favorite cafe in Rome, sipping his Caffe Americano. It was three months after the botched train job. Senator Hogarth had successfully died in a car crash and the appropriation bill had gone through.

“Krieger,” a honeyed voice dripped over him.

Krieger looked up to see a man of middling height, solid build, and amiable face looking down at him. He set his coffee down and dropped his hand into his lap and looked around. A blacked out van, a woman at the bus stop, a man lighting a cigarette – none had been there only moments before.

“Blacked out what?” “Shhh, pay attention.”

The dark eyes of the man looked at Krieger’s hand in his lap and said, “No need for that. I am from Aeon.” Krieger’s eyes narrowed, and he kept his hand near his weapon. Aeon. He had done work for Aeon before.

“We want to talk with you about the train.” It wasn’t a request, it was a honey coated demand. Krieger did not like it, but he stood, dropped a 2 euro coin on the table, drained his coffee, and went with the man. He had no choice.

“My name is… James.” Krieger knew that was not true, but got in the back seat of a waiting Tesla. As he sat he noticed there were no inner door handles, and there was no driver. The door closed for him by unseen hands and so he said, “Once around the park James, and then home for tea.” James gave a light easy laugh and Krieger broke into a cold sweat.

“Look,” broke in Gordon, “I don’t know what a Tesla is, but how does it drive with no driver?” Kindly Bob stopped a long moment his queer blue eyes bright and eerie. Gordon continued, “What is this story?”

Kindly Bob sighed and sat up straight. “Ok, think of it as a fairy story. Just accept things like a talking horse or wickedy witches.” Now it was Gordon’s turn to just stare back at Kindly Bob. Finally, “Ok. I’ll try. Reminds me of stories I heard in China.”

Recognition flashed in Kindly Bob’s face and his eyes got even brighter. “Ah, Chinese Gordon… that’s right.” Gordon shook his head. “I don’t like that name.” He straightened and looked intently at Kindly Bob, “It is demeaning and trivializing and for the papers and the scoundrels selling them.”

Kindly Bob sat back and said, “My apologies General.” Gordon forked a mouthful of eggs into his mouth, and Kindly Bob continued.

“Hogarth was handled,” he started, “I had no idea I was working for…” “You weren’t,” interrupted James.

Krieger waited. The Tesla navigated in silence toward the Spanish Steps. The car stopped, the doors opened, and he got out. The car shushed off leaving James in the street looking at him. Neither moved. Finally Krieger broke and said, “This feels like a stand-off.” “It was,” James said, then nodding toward the Steps asked, “Have you seen the view from up there?” James started walking up the steps. Krieger didn’t move, he didn’t even turn. James stopped with one foot ahead of the other, turned and said, “Why are you standing there?”

Without turning Krieger said, “If the job was not for you, I cannot talk with you.” He had been scanning for the van, the man, and the woman, or their replacements. Nothing. He would never know if they had a sniper, and so he started walking.

“Your employer has involved me.”

Krieger stopped. Not us, me. He turned. The part of him that would rather eliminate a threat than hide from it won, and he followed the man up the steps. At the top James turned to Krieger, looked at his hand in his pocket, and dripped, “I don’t die easy.” Krieger’s hand remained in his pocket as he gazed out over Piazza di Spagna & Via dei Condotti.

“Are you familiar with the cone of silence?” “Some sort of deliberate sound manipulation.” “We are in one now.” Krieger looked around. He could hear everything going on around him. He listened harder. Something was definitely odd. Something really weird about the sound. He finally placed it.

Normally we don’t pay attention to the passing of sound. We notice the doppler effect with sirens and such, sound moving toward us pitching up, sounds moving away from us pitching down. Virtually all sources of sound are moving in relation to the hearer. Sounds leaving us are not a threat so we ignore them. The retreating doppler effect goes unnoticed. However, it is there, always. Except now.

He was in an auditory dead zone. The sounds he was hearing died there; they came in, they did not leave. They just laid there, hollowed out. He felt claustrophobic and exposed at the same moment. If he screamed, no one would hear him. He took an experimental step toward the Steps, the sound quality went up, well, became normal surround sound . He stepped back, mono. Anyone walking through the zone would not notice. He hadn’t noticed until the effect was brought to his attention. This was a public private place.

He had a thought and pulled his cell phone out. No service. He looked up to see James smiling at him. It was an easy smile, even friendly, but unconsciously superior. “Good,” he said. “We can talk.”

“About?”

“The bomb.”

Krieger again simply waited. James smiled benignly and said, “Ok. Why did you kill Smiley?” “He made the bomb, it was a fake bomb, I killed him.”

“Wrong on two counts. The bomb was not fake, and you didn’t believe it to be fake until the day after you dispatched him.” Jim smiled benignly.

Krieger took a breath, steadied himself, and choosing words carefully intoned, “The bomb did not go off, he was the bomb maker, his error, his price to pay.”

“We should have liked very much to talk with him, because you see, we are certain the bomb was fully functional when it was attached. There are things we should have liked to ask Smiley. Did he notice anything different, anything that had changed from when it was installed. But - we can’t.” Pause. “Because you killed him.” Now a mild sigh. “We had many questions.”

Krieger licked his dry lips. He managed to say “Like, why did he install a Play-Doh bomb?” James just looked at him. “We don’t think he did.” “No?” asked Krieger. “You think the bomb was fully functional?”

“The shaped charge case it was packed into is the same as originally delivered. ” Krieger raised an eyebrow but controlled it quickly. “There are C4 markers in evidence. The case did have C4 in it.”

“Regardless, the detonator did not go off. If the bomb was working, the detonator would have at least gone off. There would be splattered Play-Doh at least.”

“It was C4.” His voice was as flat as his pale gray eyes. He paused and for the first time a hint of frustration played around those eyes. Almost inaudibly, “Until it wasn’t.”

Krieger opened his mouth, shut it, started to ask one question, stopped and thought furiously. Finally, “If the detonator was non functioning, then why Play-Doh?” And then suddenly, “If this was not your job, why do you care?”

“We are studying, ah, certain um, patterns.” A pause. “We think… we think it was – a joke.” Another pause, longer. “The detonator was tested. It worked.”

“So, then the signal…” “Was fine.”

Krieger was silent. A joke!? He was frankly astonished. Who could possibly toy with Aeon?

They stood for a while and then James said, “You will tell me everything about the planning, the accumulation of materials, the selection of your men, everything. Nothing is small or trivial.”

“Yeah, like hell I will,” and he started to walk off. “You are on the clock.” Krieger stopped and turned. The man was showing him a bulging envelope in his inner coat pocket. He pulled it out and tossed it toward Krieger. Krieger examined the package. It had his sign on it. He had been hired. He turned back toward Krieger searching his face and those gray eyes. “You think there is a leak of some sort. There’s not.” He paused, “At least from my side,” he said pointedly.

The point was not lost on James. “We have resources, we keep tabs on things.” His gray eyes bored into Krieger’s deep brown eyes. “We know there was no leak.”

Krieger heaved a mental sigh, “What do you want me to do?”

“Right now, answer my questions.”

Kindly Bob sat back. Gordon picked up the clay mug and was happy to find it was hot tea, no milk, no sugar. The right way. He waited.

“You finished?” Kindly Bob asked as he reached toward Gordon’s empty plate.

“What, oh, yeah, I mean yes, thank you. Do go on.”

“I’ve got other customers, other stories to tell. Come back this evening,” and he turned and greeted a newcomer to the bar, “What’ll it be?”

Previous | Next

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Kindly Bob Invites One and All to The Screaming Monkey’s Head Poetry Night, hosted by Virj.

Virj will introduce each poem with some fascinating insight into the form and meaning. Coming Next Friday, May 30th.

On the Menu

1. Loon Haunted Hinterlands - a sonnet in blank verse

2. There Once Was A Man From Nantucket - Medieval Latin styled drinking song

3. Out Past The Knowing - A runic ballad This ballad has actually been submitted for publication, and they won’t publish if it is published here. so…

Featuring a Live Reading By Paddy Keyk of her Sonnet: Loon Haunted Hinterlands.

The Train

Looking for a place to warm his hands, and then fill them with alcohol, the man rounded a corner and was startled by the image of a screaming monkey’s head suspended over a rough hewn black door. He turned to the door but paused, hairs standing on the back of his neck while he considered the grotesque image above.

The door opened, and a couple came out laughing and tipsy. This must be the place, he thought, and went through the door into the tavern.

He paused to let his eyes adjust to the shadowy interior. Across from the door was the barkeep, wiping out a glass. “Come in, come in!” he cried. The man walked across the floor, taking in his surroundings, noting the booths like alcoves, some with curtains, some curtains closed. “What’ll it be friend?” “Whiskey, neat, water back.” “Ah, I like a man that knows where he’s going,” and the barkeep pulled a glass, poured a double, and set down another glass with an equal amount of water. “Strange weather for May, eh?” he said.

From an alcove with partially open curtains came a wavering voice, “Is it May?”

“Dunno,” replied the barkeep. “But my observation remains true.”

“I s’pose…” the voice trailed off along with its interest.

The man peered up at the barkeep, started to say something, then turned his attention to more important things. Gently he picked up the water and carefully he poured a small amount. He watched as the water entered, watched as it created tiny eddies in the whiskey, watched as it became one with the whiskey. Dipping in his forefinger he gave a quick swirl, then picked up the whiskey and took a sip. Approving, he took a good swallow, set it down, and looked up into the oddly blue eyes of the barkeep.

“You can call me Kindly Bob,” said the barkeep. “What shall I call you?”

“Oh,” he looked around, “My name is Gordon. Most call me Gord.”

“Ok Gord, let me know if you need anything.” Gordon nodded and watched him walk away. Over the next 30 minutes as he sipped deliberately at his drink, Gordon watched Kindly Bob. His movements were light and quick, and he treated everyone with the same friendly opacity. Kindly Bob looked over and caught Gordon staring. He held up his glass, and Kindly Bob came over, “Same thing?” “Yup.”

Gordon went through the same ritual, and then asked, “What’s with the monkey out front?”

“Ah,” said Kindly Bob, “took you longer than most to ask that. This is my tavern, and its moniker is The Screaming Monkey’s Head.” Gordon squinted up at him. “You’re at The Sign of the Screaming Monkey’s Head,” Kindly Bob said brightly and picked up another glass. Peering through it at Gordon, he said, “It’s an interesting place, attracts all sorts, and many tales are told here.”

“Oh?” asked Gordon.

“Oh, indeed, and you bet Gordo.” Gordon winced, and said, “I could use a story.”

“Well then,” Kindly Bob pulled up a stool, and began to weave a tale.

“There is this guy, named Jim,” he began. “He’s a graphic designer and works in New York.”

“ A graphic what? New York? Where’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway Jim was done for the day and headed to the train station…”

“The what station?”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you want to hear the story?” Gordon nodded…

Jim sat down on the train, in his usual spot, third car from the front. Putting in his earbuds, he opened his book and settled in for the ride home to Jersey.

“Earb…”

“Nope, you can’t interrupt every time you hear something you don’t understand.” Kindly Bob continued…

On the same train, second car from the front, sat Senator Hogarth and his entourage. He was heading back home to get ready for a flight to DC where he would vote “No” on an appropriations bill. Underneath him a bomb was fixed to the undercarriage.

In a room on a floor in a high rise that was under construction, three men crowded around a fourth seated at a computer. Plastic sheeting flapped over an opening that would be a window someday. Unpainted sheetrock was up over most of the framing. The building was not supposed to have power, and the men were not supposed to be there.

“The train is leaving the station,” said the guy at the computer.

“Give it 15 minutes to get up to speed,” replied the apparent leader.

They waited, watching the collection of pixels move on the screen. A readout was below, tracking speed and direction, and another window was open with a red button. Under the red button was a digital representation of a gauge showing signal strength. As the train speed increased so did the signal strength. The train was moving toward Jersey.

“Now!”

Computer boy clicked on the red button, and everyone looked out the window and off into the distance.

Jim looked up momentarily from his book. The senator ordered another scotch.

Nothing happened. Well, many things happened, were happening, would continue to happen, but nothing that mattered to the men in the building. Or so they thought.

“DETONATE!” cried one of the men. Computer boy clicked frantically, then stabbed the Enter key rapidly 10 – 15 times. Nothing.

Except of course everything that they didn’t think mattered.

“What happened?” Computer boy looked up, eyes frantic, and said, “Nothing wrong here, signal is strong, everything is functioning, so - it’s at the bomb. Something went wrong there!”

The man barking the orders had an ugly dangerous look on his face, and his clenched fist was white-knuckled. The other two instinctively distanced a foot or two, one sweating, one licking his lips nervously.

Angry man jerked his other hand from his pocket and the rest flinched as they caught sight of something hard and dark. It was a phone. Angry man started making calls, and the others stood and sat silent and scared.

The train continued on while angry man finished his call.

“Come on; not you, you stay,” and computer boy stayed with his computer and the other three men went to the station. As they traveled, after the train arrived in Jersey, the second car was taken out of service and shunted to a side rail.

They arrived at the train yard and found the car and watched it until nightfall and went to inspect the bomb. The sweaty man looked it over carefully. “It should have worked,” he finally announced. The angry man stood there, phone in hand, brow furrowed, eyes shut, knuckles white. The other two knew to stay silent and wait.

Composing himself, angry man said darkly, slowly, “It didn’t.” Sweaty man sweated some more, nervous man backed up slowly. Minutes stretched, a dog barked, and a train went by muffling two shots. Nervous man opened his eyes, surprised he could. Sweaty man, double tapped in the chest lay still, oddly staring at the bomb that did not work. “Get him in the trunk.” Nervous man did as he was told while coldly angry man made another call.

He endured two minutes of invective from the other side of the phone; when there was a pause he said, “Someone needs to come get this bomb and figure out what happened.” He hung up, walked to the car, got in and said, “Let’s go.” “Where?” asked nervous man. Cold angry man looked at him a moment, then looked toward the back of the car, then back at him. “Oh.” He drove. He knew where he was going. He just didn’t know if he was coming back.

“Wait, wait,” interrupted Gordon. “What the hell is this story?” Kindly Bob just looked at Gordon, his odd blue eyes placid. “OK, OK, go on.”

Jim walked in the door, said, “Honey, I’m home,” like something out of a 50s sitcom. Becky called out, “Yay!” and Shep barked. Jim smiled, and walked into the kitchen to find Becky working on some pastry something. He reached around from behind, hugged her and nuzzled her ear. “Stop it, why do you always do that when I’m busy?” He laughed. It was good to be home.

After dinner, Jim got up and went into the living room and stopped in front of the chest they used as an end table. Moving the latest issue of New Jersey Monthly, a coffee cup and the remote off the chest and onto the couch, he opened the chest and reached inside, pulling out a can of Play-doh. “I thought I had lost you,” he said to no one in particular, and put it back.

Senator Hogarth met some lobbyists for dinner, took a limo from the train to the airport, got on a private plane without event and arrived in Washington an hour or so later. Checking into his hotel, he poured himself another scotch, briefly considered calling his usual diversion, decided he needed rest and settled in for the evening.

Coldly angry man, his need for violence assuaged by the dispatching of sweaty man, helped nervous man wrap the body in black plastic, weight it with some pig iron, and toss it into the quarry.

He was almost conversational on the way back to the empty building. They stopped for some Chinese and he even asked what computer boy liked. “Orange beef, I think.”

The next day he got the report on the bomb. The packet of C4 – was Play-doh. He was glad he killed sweaty man.

“Ok, last call everyone, closing in 30 minutes,” Kindly Bob bellowed to the mostly empty tavern.

“Wait, what? Aren’t you going to finish the story?”

“Not tonight.” Kindly Bob leaned in and whispered, “But, if you need a place to stay, we have rooms in the back.” Gordon nodded. “Down that hall, first door on the right. The bathroom’s on the left. Use it before you go to bed.” Gordon turned back to ask why, but Kindly Bob said, “And lock the door, won’t you?”

Next: The Morning After

For more of the same or similar: Tales

From THOOTR™ Archives

Here is the grocer’s list—a mundane transmission intercepted by an AdS service vessel two hours before a scheduled jump window. No alert was issued. No urgency detected. Just a list.

It saved the ship.
No one knows.

RECEIVED COMMUNIQUÉ

Origin: Unverified Routing Node 𝜅-13
Timestamp: T-2:13:42 pre-jump
Subject: Weekly Supplies – Vendor Hold #7 (Translation Logged)
Classification: Routine | Priority: Null

• 2 loaves, rye (unleavened, if wind is high)

• 4 bulbs, not garlic

• 1 packet silence, unopened

• 3 eggs (unbroken, unchosen)

• 1 jug white (for spill, not for taste)

• 5 seconds, chilled

• Bone (small, not named)

• List (incomplete)

• Folded inside

• Do not unfold

End of Message
Auto-classified: Archival Nonsense
No Response Necessary

Internal THOOTR Note (Level 5 Access Required)

Target: Beauregard Smith

Message:

A Seventh-Fold Refraction Alert, encoded. Target: The Brunellian.
Confirmed field instability. Weak metric seam. Recursive horizon tension.
Coordinates embedded in temporal residue. Deliver by standard means to the jump.
“Burn” this after reading. But not completely. Let the ash remain.

— Frater Bovious, to Beauregard Smith

Captain’s Private Journal

Entry: Dated 17 years post-Brunellian Jump Window Incident

I remember the list. Of course I remember it.
We all laughed; "3 eggs, unbroken and unchosen.” Ortega said it sounded like a monk ordering breakfast in a riddle. I shrugged. Forwarded it to Systems just in case.
No flags. No pings. No violations. 3 minutes later, just as the bloom started, it stopped. Stayed inert for 12 minutes. Everyone said, “recalibrate and let’s go.” But I felt it in my back molars, like a splinter in time. “Do not unfold.”

Years passed. The incident barely made the quarterly. “Preemptive delay, systems nominal.”

Then last week, at a port in what used to be Kepler-Four, an old steward, quiet sort, with a name that read more like a footnote, asked if I remembered “the rye, the jug, the silence.”
He handed me a copy. Same list. Same formatting. “THOOTR grocery special,” he said, half-smiling, half not.

And when I looked at it, really looked at it… I realized what wasn’t on the list was the most important part. They stopped something-- Me. My name. My death. It wasn’t there.

I don’t know what THOOTR is. I don’t care. But I leave a jug of water in my galley now. Unopened. On a white cloth. Just in case they’re still watching.

— C.

Agendum statim: Identify “old steward” on Janus 9 née Kepler-Four - probable Kybalion Operative

The scene: Jenny Hollingsworth, having survived an attempt on her life with only stitches and broken ribs has returned home to find a burglar in her house. Apparently a circus midget acrobat magician burglar. Officer Shane has come by the house to get a statement, and the burglar escapes out a small bathroom window, Shane gave chase, but…

Officer Shane came back in muttering softly to himself. To Jenny he said, “He must’ve gone left when I went right.”

“If you will hold on, I will make some coffee. But first, I need to get something from my gun safe.” Shane studied her – she seemed completely at ease, which he found odd and a little scary. He nodded, said, “I’m going to call this in, don’t touch anything,” and turned to talk into the radio mic mounted on his shoulder.

Jenny bent down, grimacing from her broken rib, and opened her safe and pulled out her Sig and a belly band. Lifting her T-shirt, she pulled the velcro loose on the compression band supporting her ribs and replaced it with the belly band. She put a magazine in her Sig, holstered it in the band, pulled a spare magazine from the safe, tucked it into the belly band, and dropped her T-shirt. It was not invisible to anyone that knew what they were looking for, but it was unobtrusive. Shane came in as she finished. Reaching back into her safe she pulled out a folding knife which she stashed in the front pocket of her jeans. Walking to her closet, she chose an over-sized button shirt and slipped it on, leaving it unbuttoned. The belly band was all but invisible now.

“Well, OK then,” said Shane with raised eyebrows. “I’m assuming those are all legal and registered.” Jenny said, “Come on, I need coffee.” Shane pursed his lips and followed her out of the bedroom.

In the kitchen Jenny started making coffee in an automatic drip machine. “Hunh,” grunted Shane. “I figured you for one of those pod coffee rigs.” Jenny snorted. “A), pod coffee tastes like crap, B), it’s overly expensive for the supposed convenience, and C), if you need to make more than one cup at a time, they are decidedly not more convenient.” She paused and looked at Shane, “And, I never make one cup at a time.” Turning to Shane and leaning against the counter she said, “Why do we prize convenience over everything, including enjoyment?”

Shane studied her a minute. “What do you mean?”

“How do you take your coffee?”, she replied.

“Got any Coffee-mate?”

“Yep.” She pulled two generous mugs out of the cupboard, an over-sized canister of Coffee-mate, and in response to Shane’s raised eyebrows said, “Costco.”

“So, what did you mean a minute ago?”

Jenny paused, “Oh, convenience – look, coffee’s almost done, I guarantee faster than two pod coffees. Did you ever see that movie where people are replaced by pod-people?” She motioned Shane over to the back door, opened it, and stepped onto her patio. There were two chairs and an end table, she dropped into one, grunted, and sighed through a grimace, “How do I keep forgetting about my ribs?” Shane just stood there looking at her.

“Sit down, Officer Shane. Take a moment. Enjoy my ritual, my inconvenient, satisfying, deeply satisfying ritual.”

“Some guy was in your house. He broke out your window and escaped. Someone tried to kill you less than a week ago. You have stitches and at least one broken rib. Does this sort of thing happen to you all the time?”

“Ritual,” she replied. “We are creatures of ritual. Some big and grandiose, some as simple as enjoying a cup of coffee. When is the last time you enjoyed a cup of coffee?” Shane stood there with a blank yet slightly flustered expression. “Rituals literally make the world go round.” She looked and motioned, “Officer, please sit.”

“Back up will be along shortly, I’m not gonna be found relaxing in your backyard over a cup of coffee.”

Jenny looked at him, a strangely sad expression on her face. “Sit. Please.”

Shane gave a sigh and sat. They sat there quietly for a moment, and he sipped his coffee. “Whoah! This is really good.”

“Yep, you simply can’t get that from a pod.”

Shane took another sip, letting it linger before swallowing.

“Pod people aren’t real,” Jenny continued. “They are facsimiles intended to fool real people. Ditto for pod coffee.”

Shane waited.

“Coffee is an occasion for socializing – building relationships. Or for reflecting, slowly, deliberately, deeply. Making the coffee is part of it. The smell, the sound. Pod coffee implies that you are in a hurry. That having coffee should be a perfunctory utilitarian task.” She paused, “After all, you’ve got more important things to do, right?” She gave an ironic chuckle. Looking at Shane, she asked, “You ever socialize over one of those pod machines?” When he didn’t answer, she said, “Yeah. Pod coffee is for rushing, pretending. Did you know there is this animal, called a civet? They like to eat the coffee cherries. People follow them around collecting the seeds after they have been, ahh, roasted, so to speak. Apparently, it’s worth the wait.” She sat and sipped thoughtfully, “So, why have we sacrificed enjoyment on the altar of convenience?” Staring into the distance, she mused, “What puny gods we worship.”

Preamble Some have inquired whether The Hermetic Order Of The Ruminantia™ (THOOTR™) is connected with Hermes Trismegistus or the popular occult tract known as The Kybalion. Let it be stated plainly: no. To assume such a kinship is akin to mistaking a cowbell for a cathedral bell; both may ring, but only one calls the faithful to something worth attending.

On the Question of Hermes Trismegistus The authors of The Kybalion claim to channel the so-called Hermetic Philosophy of Hermes Trismegistus, a mythical composite of the Egyptian Thoth and the Greek Hermes. This figure, while historically interesting, is the spiritual equivalent of an online avatar, conveniently shaped to say whatever the user requires. His alleged teachings come to us not as robust metaphysical systems, but as vague allegories and aphorisms stuffed into New Thought clothing.

By contrast, THOOTR draws not from synthesized Greco-Egyptian speculation but from deliberate contemplation and bovine patience. Where Trismegistus offers axioms like "The All is Mind," THOOTR replies: Sicut Cudum Sic Mentem. Deep truths require digestion, not merely assertion.

On the So-Called Seven Principles The Kybalion organizes its teachings around seven alleged universal laws:

1. Mentalism

2. Correspondence

3. Vibration

4. Polarity

5. Rhythm

6. Cause and Effect

7. Gender

Each of these principles is presented with the solemnity of a commandment but the clarity of a fogged-up mirror. Consider “Mentalism”: "The All is Mind; the Universe is Mental." What does this mean? Is it a metaphysical claim? A psychological one? A vague koan to impress one's tarot reader? It is not clear. And what is not clear is not helpful.

THOOTR maintains: obscurity should be employed only when concealing the obvious. This is Hermetics in its truest adjectival form, as Frater Bovious defines it: the deliberate use of exceedingly obscure, convoluted, or esoteric literary or graphical symbolism and imagery to seal from the outside world things not worth knowing anyway. Hence why Frater Bovious, 9th Level Adept, is known as The Master of the Obvious.

The Kybalion, by contrast, uses mystical language not to hide the banal, but to give it a mask of profundity. Its teachings are not so much secret as they are vague, and like mist on the field, they vanish under scrutiny or sunlight.

On Authority and Lineage The so-called "Three Initiates" who authored The Kybalion, allegedly channeling ancient wisdom, are likely a marketing ploy by William Walker Atkinson, a prolific New Thought writer and peddler of mind-power pseudoscience. Unlike the secretive but meticulous scribes of THOOTR, who labor in silence, cigar smoke, and absurdity, the Initiates of The Kybalion hide their names to inflate their mystery rather than to uphold solemnity.

True hermeticism, ruminant hermeticism, does not require secret identities. It requires sacred digestion. The Four-Chambered Path to Enlightenment (Ingest, Ruminate, Digest, Disseminate), demands time, repetition, and the humility to recognize that some truths must be chewed many times before they are worth sharing.

Conclusion To read The Kybalion is to sip lukewarm tea brewed from recycled fortune cookies. It may amuse, and it may momentarily flatter the reader with a sense of insider knowledge. But it does not nourish. It does not sustain. It is not Ruminantia.

THOOTR stands apart, not as keeper of hidden truths, but as the Order willing to profess most hidden truths are not worth knowing. That is the true mystery.

Rumina et Illumina.

If you are new, seek Episode 1

What has gone before

Fred, awakens from a dream, shedding the Fred overlay, leaving a determined man in his place. Sylk knows by some means that the man has awoken and is no longer Fred. With Kindly Bob they go to meet him and determine he is under at least one form of compulsion if not two. They put him back to sleep in hopes the concoction and mental tinkering they have done will finish the job and return the man to his true state. Sylk and Kindly Bob discuss options and the need to move “Fred” from the bar. While discussing options, six men enter the bar looking for “Fred.” Sylk is no where to be found and the men focus on Kindly Bob. They have a form of drawing or representation that Kindly Bob clearly finds out of place. The men decide to get rough but are easily handled with four of them seeming to have taken each other out. Kindly Bob calls the local constabulary, and closes the bar.

Kindly Bob watched Sylk head back to where “Fred” lay. Shaking his head, he went back behind the bar, pressed a switch under the counter and watched a panel slide left revealing a screen. He touched the screen and it came alive. After a few seconds of tapping he was watching a video of the fight with the 6 men. He was deeply curious if the video would show him what he did not see while it was happening.

As he pulled Blondie over the counter the video showed a flicker of darkness, almost a null spot moving on the screen. The four men clearly never saw Sylk. Kindly Bob slowed the replay. Sylk blurred in from the alcove next to the front door, bringing a stool with him. Kindly Bob blinked and stopped the replay and backed it up. He had to watch twice before he knew what was happening. The stool was placed as one man was taking a step such that he stepped in between the seat and a foot rung. As he fell, his attempt to balance was re-directed into a punch to the face of the man next to him. It was like a dance, with an inky willow-the-wisp weaving in and out. Kindly Bob watched in mild shock as all four men tangled up with each other and fell to the ground. How can anyone that big move like that? Kindly Bob had never felt that he might be unequal to another in hand-to-hand combat. He was shaken as he realized that he was no match for this giant enigma.

Sylk came back with “Fred” in his arms like a rag doll. Kindly Bob looked up. “You’re almost invisible even on video.” “I’m not invisible.” For the first time showing mild irritation Kindly Bob said, “You might as well be. What wizardry is this?”

Sylk laid “Fred” on the bar. “It’s a combination of knowing where they are looking and not being there, and what amounts to extremely short term hypnosis.”

Kindly Bob whistled through his teeth and said, “Well, it even works on video. I had to watch twice to follow you.” He looked at the screen again. “In slow motion,” he added.

“I have contacted an associate,” Sylk said. “She will be here shortly, and we will leave immediately upon her arrival.” Kindly Bob nodded. Sylk continued, “I dislike leaving you. But you seem confident in your ability to defend the bar and yourself.”

Kindly Bob nodded. “I doubt anything will happen until long after nightfall. I will be ready.” “And the bar?” asked Sylk. Motioning, Kindly Bob opened a cabinet. Sylk gave a long slow whistle and asked, “Anti-de Sitter drive?”

Kindly Bob closed the cabinet. Sylk regarded him for a long moment. An anti-de Sitter drive! “You’ll be fine then,” was all he said. Turning toward the tavern door, he said, “Steropé draws nigh.” Kindly Bob regarded Sylk for a moment and then walked to the door and opened it. No one was there. He turned back to Sylk with a question on his lips. Sylk shrugged. Turning back he closed the door, and when he turned back to Sylk he was hugging a tall slender black woman wearing black tanned skins of some unknown animal and carrying some kind of staff.

Walking back to the bar he said, “So, same skill set?” Steropé turned and said, “Hardly. I’m a heard of tonkas by comparison. But, I try.” Kindly Bob turned to Sylk to ask a question but the soft look of joy and sadness on Sylk’s face silenced him. “Thank you,” Sylk said to Steropé. “How not?” she replied. Looking over Sylk’s shoulder she asked, “Is that Barney?” “Not yet.”

Turning to Kindly Bob she said, “Pleased to meet you.” As Kindly Bob looked at her his face became bland , idiotic, and impassive. “You did not come in the front door,” he finally said.

Steropé turned to Sylk, “What did you do to him?” “He caught me exercising on video.” “Oh,” she said. Turning back to Kindly Bob, she said, “Sylk left your secret door open for me. I came in that way.” Kindly Bob looked at Sylk his face almost registering an emotion beyond blandness, then he laughed loud and long.

Barney sat up suddenly. “Steropé?” Kindly Bob and Sylk started in surprise. Barney was looking at Steropé. “How do you know me?” she asked.

“It worked. It worked,” said Barney. Turning, “You must be Sylk.” Sylk just stood monolithically still, but had an aura of expectancy. “It worked,” he said again. “He had a recording of your voice,” he said, addressing Steropé. “His fail-safe. He knew Sylk would contact you. Your voice was the key.” Turning to Sylk he said, “We have to go now.” “And where do you want to go?” asked Sylk.

Barney looked from Sylk to Steropé. “Off planet. To find Moa’qi.” A sharp intake of breath from Steropé, and Sylk was at Barney’s side. “Moa’qi is dead.” “Except he’s not,” replied Barney.

A tension that Kindly Bob had not noticed flowed out of Sylk and he turned to Steropé. “Did you know?” She shook her head, eyes bright and liquid. “No,” she finally managed. “How?” Sylk pursed his lips and turned back to Barney. “His story to tell,” said Barney. “We need to go. Now.”

Barney stepped toward Kindly Bob and said, “They will be here soon.” He held out his hand. Kindly Bob reached in his apron and pulled out the parchment. “You know what this is?”

Barney tucked it away without opening it. “Yes.” “Do you know me?” “Only your eyes.”

Kindly Bob turned to Sylk. He was impassive, gazing at the floor. Kindly Bob’s demeanor changed abruptly. “Go, I will prepare.” Without waiting for an answer he strode to the door, and grabbing recessed rings in the floor, pulled. Once it started, the panel moved up and flush into the header with a soft clang followed by clicks. Simultaneously, similar metallic panels rose from the base of each window and clicked into place.

Turning, he said, “Why are you still here? It’s time to go!” They went.

Kindly Bob went behind the bar, opened the cabinet to the anti-de Sitter drive and entered a code on the touchscreen. He was now prepared to invoke AdS space if necessary.

He turned to go to his secret entrance and secure it. When he got there he noticed an object near the door, partially hidden. Picking it up, he realized he had the stone with the carvings on it, the other half of the process they had started with the Fred/Barney duality. Why did Sylk leave this here? He looked around a bit more clearly and saw the caution symbol Sylk had left in the dust. He replayed in his mind everything from the time Barney woke up. Sylk… Sylk was worried. Something was wrong. He secured the door and went back to the main tavern, sealing the false wall behind him. Sitting at the bar he pulled up the view screen with views of all his entrances. Reaching behind him, he pulled without looking the green evanescence, poured a glass and set it down.

It was there as a reward if he survived the next few hours.

Next Episode, Sylk, Steropé, and Barney seek a scram jet, and Kindly Bob defends the Screaming Monkey’s Head.

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From time to time I am asked about The Hermetic Order Of The Ruminantia. While I personally am not at liberty to divulge anything and must disavow any knowledge of same, ChatGPT is not so encumbered. And so, I asked:
4o

You said:

tell me about The Hermetic Order Of The Ruminantia

ChatGPT said:

ChatGPT

The Hermetic Order of the Ruminantia sounds like an intriguing concept! However, it doesn’t appear to refer to any widely recognized group or concept based on historical, mystical, or pop culture references. If this is a creative or fictional concept, it could involve:

• Hermetic: Derived from Hermeticism, an ancient philosophical and esoteric tradition tied to Hermes Trismegistus, emphasizing wisdom, spiritual development, and universal truths.

• Order: Suggesting a structured or secretive organization, often focused on particular ideals or practices.

• Ruminantia: The scientific name for the suborder of mammals that includes ruminants, such as cows, sheep, and deer, which chew cud. This could imply a symbolic or literal connection to ruminant animals, potentially representing contemplation (like "rumination") or a pastoral focus.

If this is a fictional creation or an inside reference, let me know how I can help explore or develop its meaning further!

4o

You said:

It is the secret society begun by Frater Bovious in the mists of time.

ChatGPT said:

ChatGPT

Ah, the Hermetic Order of the Ruminantia, founded by the enigmatic Frater Bovious! This sounds like a fascinating blend of mysticism, satire, and pastoral symbolism. Let’s unpack the elements for fun and exploration:

Frater Bovious

The name "Bovious" likely stems from Bos, the Latin word for "cow" or "ox." This suggests a founder who may be symbolically aligned with bovine qualities: patience, strength, sustenance, or even a humorous nod to the contemplative nature of ruminants.

The Order’s Philosophy

Given the name, the Hermetic Order of the Ruminantia might revolve around themes such as:

1. Rumination: Both the physical act of chewing cud and the metaphorical act of deep contemplation. Members might emphasize meditative practices, slow digestion of knowledge, or profound introspection.

2. Pastoral Wisdom: Drawing wisdom from nature, particularly the lives of ruminants. Think of allegories tied to simplicity, community, and working with the cycles of life.

3. Hermeticism: If inspired by Hermetic traditions, the Order could integrate esoteric teachings about unity, spiritual transformation, and the pursuit of hidden truths.

Possible Practices

• Sacred Chewing Rituals: Symbolizing thoughtful consideration and digestion of ideas.

• Bovine Symbolism: Incorporating cows, oxen, and deer as sacred totems representing sustenance, fertility, and contemplation.

• Pastoral Gatherings: Meeting in rural, idyllic settings to connect with nature and its rhythms.

Core Tenets

• Patience is Wisdom: "Chew over" ideas carefully before acting.

• Strength in Community: Like a herd, the Order emphasizes mutual support and collective growth.

• Harmony with Nature: Following the natural order to align with universal truths.

Is This a Real or Fictional Concept?

If this is part of a fictional world or a playful creative idea, it could be a brilliant satire of secret societies, blending humor with mysticism. If it's something more historical or a cultural reference I’ve missed, let me know so I can explore further!

Would you like help developing rituals, symbols, or a manifesto for the Order? 🐄

4o

As interesting as engaging ChatGPT’s help to develop ritual may be, for the sake of all that is Holy, I declined.

A chill November wind blew out of the North, driving leaves, bits of garbage, and a greyish, unkempt man before it. The tall buildings focused the wind at street level, and it howled past shuttered windows and doors. Shivering before the wind’s onslaught, a tattered mackinaw gathered tightly about him, he sought shelter.

As noted, this is the beginning of this story. There are other beginnings.

Some of the other stories are related, some not so much, and some not yet. But we will continue from this beginning of this story for now.

What, you ask is the Screaming Monkey’s Head?

The Screaming Monkey’s Head is a simple pub run by a simple man known to his patrons as Kindly Bob. Some of what you just read is true.

The Screaming Monkey’s Head is a nexus of a galactic import spanning centuries. Some of what you just read is true.

Welcome to The Screaming Monkey’s Head.

Pull up a stool, order a stout, light a cigar or pipe. And welcome to this tale spanning centuries and megaparsecs. You may start your explorations here.

Share The Global Exclaimer

Kindly Bob and Sylk need answers. Fred is recounting two dreams that are unrelated. They need to know why. They induce a sleep state with a combination of a black steaming concoction and skillful mental manipulation, splitting the brain function to open up pathways and possibilities. They hide Fred in a room, and return to the main tavern. A bit is revealed about each, and they talk of their concerns for the coming days. They prepare the tavern for the morning breakfast, and Sylk departs as the first waitress arrives. Meanwhile, Fred is dreaming…

Barney and the others stood at the edge of the jungle on a small beach on a river. They had been readying canoes. A large bird of prey flew into Barney's field of vision, moving fast, and straight as an arrow toward a hazy structure in the distance. Barney watched in amazement as the bird shrank and shrank and finally vanished long before nearing the complex. He realized the structure was even more massive than he suspected, and that they were still a long ways off. He assumed the complex was their destination. He turned and saw their guide watching in the direction of the bird for several more minutes, irritation and maybe disgust on his face. He looked at the others, and said in that softly accented English, “Come. We are seen.”

Now on the river, the natives and other members of the expedition plied their paddles with increased urgency, making amazing progress down the river. Barney realized they were flowing with the river, and the river itself seemed to be picking up speed. For the first time, their diminutive guide seemed concerned, if not exactly worried, and he exhorted them to even more speed.

Abruptly, he whistled a staccato melody, and the three canoes veered sharply toward the left bank just as a cove came into view. They hurtled to shore without slowing, and drove well up onto the beach. The shock of hitting land knocked Barney headlong into shallow water, striking his head on unforgiving sand. Momentarily dazed, he struggled to his feet, shaking his head and checking for injuries. All sense that he was having a directed dream drizzled away from his consciousness.

Barking orders in that odd pseudo-English he used with the natives, their guide had them hastily flood the canoes, and sink them in the cove. They had to be ballasted with some stone to overcome their natural buoyancy; the guide's strident tone evinced his dismay at the delay. Finally, some standing reeds were subtly intertwined, indicating in some way, Barney supposed, where they could be found.

It was then that Barney heard another incongruous sound, and realized their guide must have heard it long before. They melted into the dense verdant jungle as some remaining natives covered their tracks, returning the cove to the pristine state they had just violated.

Once inside the screen of the jungle, they halted and grew silent. The noise was louder now, and Barney recognized, but could not name, the sound. One of the Europeans gasped as two inflatable attack boats burst into view and roared past them. All the Europeans were wide eyed. The boats carried five men apiece, one of whom manned a mounted something that just oozed danger. As they disappeared down the river, the guide snorted and turned to Barney. In his faintly accented English he said, "We probably could have stayed on the shore and waved at them, as observant as they are. We, however, will continue to take precautions."

Barney just looked at him, or rather, just over him, trying to remember what they were doing there, and wondering why those boats seemed familiar. And that noise! He thought about asking, but the guide had already turned away, and was preparing for jungle travel.

“No machetes,” he said. “The sign can be seen from the air.” “From the air?” thought Barney. “By what, birds?” The guide spoke again in that other language, and the natives began loading up. “What’s going to see us from the air?” Then he remembered those boats, and how they used no paddles, and the noise. And the bird flying fast and straight. Shouldering his pack, he joined the group as they began their overland trip, feeling a sense of déjà vu.

All that day they traversed the jungle, stopping once for water, once for a quick lunch of hard biscuits and some sort of pulpy, almost tasteless fruit, and once again in the afternoon for water. Barney could not tell how far they had traveled. The jungle gave up no secrets, and he had no frame of reference. They were traveling in a muted green world, lit from without by the unseen sun, filtered and scattered so completely they barely cast a shadow. At times on their path the foliage thinned and their guide took long detours around those areas. Twice they heard the sounds of the boats, once coming back toward them, the motors gunning and forcing the boats upstream. Then later, very slowly, now near, now far. Barney imagined they were crisscrossing the river, drifting with the current. He was certain he knew who they were searching for, and the other Europeans were tense, hunched over as they made their way, as if expecting attack.

The little guide however, had merely walked along, not paying any attention. Barney realized that they were following the river downstream. He watched the guide for awhile, wondering how he could find his way, and keep so close to the river. There did not seem to be any visual or auditory clues other than the boats which he hadn’t heard in a while. As he watched the relaxed gait of the guide, he followed suit, and let the tension flow from his shoulders, consequently, he was not nearly as tense and irritable as the Europeans when they finally halted.

Barney thought it odd they had stopped so early. It seemed that they had hours of daylight remaining, and he wondered why they did not press on. No one asked his opinion however, and everyone sprang into action, setting up little hammocks, and camouflaging them with some kind of netting. Barney was led to a hammock by one of the other natives and was handed some kind of vegetable. It had a hard purple rind that nevertheless peeled easily, once started. He realized that it was dinner, so he sat in his hammock eating dutifully and considering the netting. It was a material he did not know. Fiber and maybe some metalized plastic? As he looked it over, he saw that it was joined to the ground with a copper stake. Just as the natives finished setting up camp, if it could really be called ‘camp’, night fell like a hammer. Barney then realized why they had stopped when they did, and he felt his way into a prone position in his hammock. The camouflage acted as a barrier to insects as well, for which he was grateful. He tried peering through the netting, looking for any glimpse of stars or moon. Nothing. The canopy overhead seemed impenetrable, and Barney wondered why the insistence on what he assumed to be camouflage. He could not even see his hand in front of his face. He nibbled on the remainder of his foodstuff, and then the day’s exertions took over and he fell asleep without realizing.

Barney woke with a start. He listened intently to the nocturnal noises emitted by the various night living denizens, and then became aware that the little guide was standing next to his hammock. He could just discern his outline, and two faint glows where his eyes would be. Evidently, the pupils were wide open, and they reflected what little gathered light they could.

“Come,” he said in that pleasant soft English. “You need to see this. Quietly though.” Barney rolled out of his hammock and trod closely behind his guide, trying to match his noiseless passage. When they had walked for about 10 minutes, the guide stopped and addressed Barney in a normal tone of voice, unconcerned that it would be heard, “I presume you have come for this, though I know not your intent. Look!” He parted some bushes. With a sharp intake of breath, Barney stumbled and almost fell.

They were on a rise overlooking a valley. Standing in stark relief against the night sky was a fantastic pyramidal structure. Emanating from its apex was a blinding beam of light, blazing skyward. “Yes!” Barney exclaimed, his memory returning.

The guide hit him over the head, and hoisted his inert body over his shoulder.

Fred came instantly awake and preternaturally alert. Gone was his hesitation and trepidation. Released from compulsion, he shed the Fred overlay, and rose silently…

Next episode, Sylk and Kindly Bob contend with not-Fred. And some visitors.

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Fred is awakened from a dream, shown a rock or something with etching on it and a rolled up parchment with words and an equation. They seem familiar, but on the razor edge of his consciousness. He is given some dark steaming concoction to drink, and enters into a dream state and orally relates it to Kindly Bob and Sylk. He wakes and when asked to continue relating the dream, he describes a different scene. Kindly Bob and Sylk need answers and tell him to drink more - he passes out and …

Strange would be the sight if someone entered the Sign of The Screaming Monkey's Head at this moment. They would be presented with the image of a greyish unkempt man slumped on a bar stool, two incongruent characters at his side.

On his left, an expanse of darkness, leaning softly over and whispering in his ear. On his right, a flickering brightness in an apron, murmuring rhythmically into his other ear. Before him, a bit of stone, and some sort of cloth or paper.

"You are nearing a decision point," Sylk breathed into the right ear, affecting the left hemisphere of Fred's brain.

Sing song from Kindly Bob directly to the right hemisphere:

"Many are the answers,

many are the questions,

what not to know?

what not to know?"

They worked in harmony, splitting the brain function, separating Fred's personality, opening up potentialities. Their need was great. What had happened?

Kindly Bob, still chanting, raised one of Fred's eyelids. The eye darted to and fro, up and down. “He's in," he told Sylk.

Gently they lifted him, still whispering and chanting, and carried him to the back room. Laying him on the bed, they left, closing the door behind them. Kindly Bob paused outside the door, manipulating something on the wall. A faint hum, and the doorway slid to the side and disappeared into the corner. He and Sylk rearranged some boxes against the wall, and surveyed what was now a simple storage cubby off the main hall. Nodding at each other, they returned to the main room. Sylk asked "How long?"

Fred looked at his watch-less wrist, and considered the question. Looking back up at Sylk, he pressed his lips tightly, then replied, "30 hours, according to the Formulary. But, he went under too fast. I don't know what that means."

"Too fast?" asked Sylk.

"Well, faster by about a third than what I was told. It should be within the margin." He stopped, looking back toward the hidden storage room. "I think.” Then, “Shorter or longer though? Shorter would be better." Shaking his head slowly and looking up at Sylk with a small grimace, he added, "It's hard to say. Why two dreams?"

Sylk just nodded and sat at the bar with furrowed brow, and took up the stone and vanished it into his cloak. Kindly Bob folded and put away the parchment. They exchanged knowing looks, and Kindly Bob drew Sylk another Stout.

"Hard days are coming," said Sylk, regarding himself in the mirror behind the bar. "Indeed. And harder nights," was the grim reply.

Kindly Bob prepared himself a green liquid, and Sylk raised an eyebrow.

"Ahh yes, the Greene Faery," said Kindly Bob, hoisting his glass. "'Tis a slight indulgence."

With an easy movement, Sylk gained possession of the glass, but found himself with a stout in one hand, the illegal drink in another, and a knife at his throat. Raising his eyes slowly from the knife to lock gazes with Kindly Bob, he said, "You will look funny with that knife sticking out your ass." It was an observation, not a threat.

Kindly Bob considered this a long moment. Slowly he retracted the knife, and then it was gone, as quickly as it appeared. "I forget myself," was his only apology.

Sylk poured the green evanescence out onto the floor, where it was absorbed by the thirsty wood planks. Handing the glass back to Kindly Bob, he said, “You are an addict.”

"My kind cannot get addicted. Not in the usual sense. Sometimes we crave--release. But, you should know that. It's in my bio."

"No," said Sylk. "It's not."

Kindly Bob cocked an eyebrow. "That's interesting," he said. "I wonder what else we might want to know about each other that was left out?"

"And was it deliberate?"

"They do nothing accidentally," said Kindly Bob.

Sylk added, “I was told you were an addict.” “My kind cannot get addicted,” Kindly Bob repeated. “And we are notoriously quick.”

“That was in your bio.”

“How did you get the glass from my hand?” Sylk stared through Kindly Bob a moment and then replied, “I was told of your predilection. It seemed right that you should attempt to imbibe.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Sylk took another drink.

Kindly Bob blurred, and the knife was in his hand then gone.

Sylk raised his glass, made a toasting gesture and said, “Yes, you are very fast.”

Kindly Bob continued, "You should not have been able to get the glass out of my hand.”

“And yet…”

“How?”

“I reached out and took it.”

If Kindly Bob was frustrated by Sylk’s taciturn replies, he did not show it. He changed tack. “You seem to know more about me than I do about you.”

Sylk took another drink. Kindly Bob stood impassively, and waited. Sylk drained the glass, and set it in front of Kindly Bob, and said, “There is not much to know about me. I was born on Cielo Sin Sol and had training from my youth from one of those rare entities - an actual master.”

Refilling Sylk’s glass, Kindly Bob said, “You telegraph nothing. Nothing I could see…” He paused, attempting to relive the event in his mind. “It felt like time stopped."

“Time does not stop,” said Sylk.

"You on the other hand are not particularly quick, not that I had noticed anyway. Yet, you had the glass before I realized it." Incredulously, "That has never happened."

Sylk took another drink, then said, "We have some time to compare notes. There seem to be - gaps.”

Kindly Bob poured himself an acceptable drink, and they began exchanging information in low tones over the bar.

After about 90 minutes of low earnest discussion, Sylk rose and stretched. Hoisting himself up onto the bar, he straightened up his spine. Sitting tall and still, legs crossed, hands on his knees, he closed his eyes.

He took a long deep breath, held it for 8 powerful heartbeats, and let it out slow and controlled through his nostrils, another 8 count. Small furrows in his brow relaxed and disappeared. One more slow deliberate breath and he opened alert sparkling eyes, turned to Kindly Bob and said, "Let's prepare for what may come."

"I wish I could do that," Kindly Bob said, a wistful look on his face.

Sylk was mildly surprised. "Your kind doesn’t need sleep."

"There's a difference between needing, and wanting," was the flat response.

The night passed. The grimy windows, once the darkest feature along the far side of the tavern, were now ghostly panels of grey, betraying the coming dawn.

"We've just got time for a sweep and a mop," Kindly Bob said to Sylk, pointing to a closet on the opposite wall. "I'll get these dishes and glasses, and fire up the stove." They busied themselves, preparing for the breakfast trade.

At 6 a.m. there was a tap at the tavern door. Sylk vanished from the room, and Kindly Bob, looking fresh and relaxed, went to unbar the door. As he let in the morning waitress, he whispered to himself, “Why two dreams?”

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At The Sign of the Screaming Monkey’s Head, Fred was offered a place to sleep. Unnerved, wondering what was happening, he fell asleep in mid-wonderment and dreamt. Meanwhile, Kindly Bob and Sylk discussed Fred briefly while waiting for the night to end. After the tavern closed Sylk requested Fred be awakened if he was dreaming, left to return to sleep if he recalled no dream. Kindly Bob wakes Fred mid dream.

A chain saw? His companions were dismayed. First the violent aerial explosion and now this. None present had ever heard such a sound. But, Barney had. He remembered that day in East Texas...

It was the first weekend in December. Firewood was needed to ward off the chill night air. There was to be much merry making, as well as roast pig. Some of the men were out sourcing wood. Others dug the six foot by eight foot pit for the epic fire. Others prepared a haydite block oven for the pig.

There was plenty of fallen wood to use for the fire, but most was pine, an unworthy pansy wood. Oak was needed for a proper fire. It's hard to get magnesium to ignite with the low temperature of burning pine. But Oak, or even better Mesquite...

Everyone knew not to cut standing timber. Everyone but Sparky…

"Fred, wake up Fred!" Kindly Bob was patting his hand softly on the thin pillow next to Fred’s ear. Fred sat up with a start, and looked about wildly. "The tree..." he started. He stopped and squinted at Kindly Bob, silhouetted in the light from the door.

"Dreaming?" asked Kindly Bob.

"Yeah."

"Come on. Someone needs to talk to you."

Fred was led back to the tavern proper, but hesitated when he saw Sylk.

"It's OK Fred. He won't hurt you." Kindly Bob said vacantly. "Not at the moment anyway."

If he intended to soothe Fred, he failed. Fred came forward warily and sat a couple of barstools down from Sylk.

Sylk stood and came toward Fred. Reaching inside his cloak, he brought out a flat oblate object and laid it on the bar in front of Fred. "Look at it" he commanded. Fred flinched, but looked at it. He could not tell what it was made of, but he thought possibly some stone of some sort. Then he noticed the etching.

"I can't really see it," he said.

"LUMENS!" cried Sylk. Kindly Bob brought a lamp from under the bar and switched it on. Fred squinted and let his eyes adjust, then looked intently at the object's etching.

It had some sort of shape, pointed on the left, and appearing to be between two lines. There was some sort of lettering as if it were a diagram. Fred felt a distant hint of familiarity.

"What isssss it?" hissed Sylk.

Fred shrugged his shoulders. "How should I know?"

"You've seen this before." It was a statement. ‘Have I?’ thought Fred. A gauzy impression floating just beyond his subconscious filtered in then out. He shuddered.

“Have I?,” he waited. No response. “Maybe - I don't know, and I don't know what it is."

Kindly Bob came forward with some coffee. "Here, drink this." Fred took the heavy mug and stared at the black brew steaming in the mug. “What is it?” “It will warm and waken you.” Fred took a sip, then another. The hot dark concoction went down easy bringing a warmth that was more than temperature. Kindly Bob set down a piece of parchment and bade Fred, "Open it."

Fred sat still. 'What the hell is going on... I walked in here, from somewhere - he realized he did not know where or when. I don't remember what I was doing before I got here, this giant next to me is scary, and this barkeep is acting like we are part of some secret ...'

Fred looked at Kindly Bob for a long moment. Graying hair, odd blue eyes, completely unreadable face. Bland and happy he looked. Almost the vacant look of someone mentally incompetent. Or, someone without a care in the world. Fred considered that for a moment. Only an idiot hasn't a care in the world. And this, he was certain, was no idiot. His eyes blurred for a moment, and the features of Kindly Bob's face swirled or melted.

"Here now," said the bartender. "Look at this. It's important."

Fred blinked his eyes, and normal vision returned. Looking down at the parchment, he hesitated, then reached for it and started to carefully unfold it. It smelled musty, like a dank closet or some forgotten cave. It was familiar, but that familiarity faded and he wondered if it had happened.

He looked at the writing inside. It was blurred, maybe water damaged:

"It's an equation," Fred said with a confidence he could not place. "Something about laminar flame propagation. It's an Arrhenius expression of some sort. You can see it there," he said, pointing at the line with the numbers and brackets. He stopped. “How do I know that?” he murmured aloud.

The symbols danced and swirled in front of his eyes, and he teetered on his bar stool. Sylk reached out, steadied him, and whispered, "Your dream. Tell us." Fred gazed slackly at the mug before him and almost wondered what was in it. “My dream…”, and he went there right on the stool and began narrating his dream quasi-consciously.

The chain saw had sputtered out, and one of the Europeans was urgently gesturing at their guide. Barney could not quite make out what was being said. It sounded like English, but somehow not.

The native was clearly unconcerned about the sound. In fact, Barney now realized the native had barely flinched at the explosion preceding the chain saw. They got into their canoes which were suddenly and always there, and continued down the Blue Muddy which had just become a new feature in the dream.

At some fringe location of his consciousness Barney became aware that he was having a directed dream; he knew he was dreaming, and he was exercising some control over the events. He'd read somewhere that people could do that. He hadn't realized that he could.

He wondered if he would remember when he woke up. And he wondered, if this were a directed dream, and he was exercising some control over the events, that implied he knew what he was supposed to be dreaming toward. And if he knew already, why dream?

"To ease it into the conscious mind with less chance for psychic shock," his paddle gurgled. "Hmmmmm," he hmmmmmed.

He focused on a flock of large birds majestically cruising overhead, their powerful grace soothing him, their wing beats carrying him on, when, rounding a bend, their sun-silhouetted destination became slowly manifest, shrouded in mist. Was he supposed to see it? No, abort.

Fred started awake. He looked at the other two, his eyes darting back and forth, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What are you doing to me? Why am I having a directed dream?”

Sylk’s eyes widened and then his face went impassive, telling Fred more than Sylk intended. Kindly Bob smiled blandly and asked, “Can you continue your dream? Methinks you can, even if not dreaming. Tell us a story.”

Fred began, “So Sparky decided to cut down this oak tree. You’re not supposed to cut standing timber in a forest preserve, but you can use any fallen timber you want. Well, Sparky wanted oak, so he went after it with his chain saw. As it started to fall, he backed away to what he thought was a safe distance. The tree fell, pivoted on one of its larger branches and the trunk swung around, slammed Sparky in the chest knocking him down. A jagged section of the trunk tore his blue jeans from crotch to just below his knees yet somehow missed his body. He was lucky, if he’d been laid open he would have bled out before we could do anything. However, when he fell, the trunk landed on him and snapped his right leg. We had heard the tree fall, and then the screams. Seven of us were there almost immediately. We tried to lift the tree but could not. Dave had his Husqvarna with oversized chain guide and attacked the tree…”

“Wrong dream,” interrupted Sylk.

Fred stopped, internal alarms going off. He stared at Sylk and then past him at the entrance to the tavern, gauging distance.

“You won’t make it,” said Kindly Bob amiably.

Fred looked at him and said, “I’m not supposed…” not supposed to what?! He stopped.

“Things have changed,” said Kindly Bob.

“Our need is great, “ Sylk said darkly, dangerously. Kindly Bob handed Fred the mug and said, “We can help. Drink this.”

“Help me with what? What is happening to me?”

Sylk stood, “The question is ‘what happened to you’, and we all need to know.” Kindly Bob said with those bland blue impassive eyes, “Drink. We will help.”

Fred stared at each in turn and then said in slow measured tones, “What is happening to me.” Kindly Bob tapped the mug and said, “Let’s find out.” Giving up, Fred drained the mug, sat still for a long moment, then slumped over. Kindly Bob caught his head before it slammed into the bar.

“Let’s get this started,” said Sylk.

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An unkempt man fleeing the cold, and maybe something else, takes refuge at the Screaming Monkey’s Head. He meets the inn-keeper, Kindly Bob, and a man talking about scram jets. He gives his name as Fred. Weary and discomfited he accepts a bed.

Fred allowed himself to be led into a scruffy back room. He moved numbly, his body betraying no sign of the tumult within.

Collapsing on the bed, his body feeling otherworldly, he struggled to make sense of what had just happened. Slowly, the tension from his meeting the huge ebony man seeped from him. Fred's vertigo passed, and his head grew heavy and sank into the pillow. Somewhere a harpist(?) strummed a lullaby.

Methodically, Kindly Bob went about the business of the tavern. He seemed to know everyone, calling each by name. He was treated with a measured deference, not ordered around; rather, the patrons asked politely for refills or snacks.

He was jovial enough, and tended to all their needs with an unobtrusive efficiency. He did not seem a servant.

Patrons would request his opinion, or perhaps solicit a recommendation regarding this or that. The resulting conversations were short, yet amiable; more often than not the exchange would end with a bemused chuckle from one or other patron, and frequently the customers were left scratching their heads over some comment he made.

The evening had worn into night, when the huge man reentered the bar, though it did not seem he had come through the front door.

He approached Kindly Bob. He wasn't just tall, though he was in fact in danger of scraping his head on some of the lower beams. He was bulky, with an unnatural wideness that somehow escaped looking obese. He maneuvered across the floor with no particular grace, yet managed to evade the haphazardly strewn chairs and tables, and the odd outstretched arms or legs of patrons in various stages of inebriation.

He had acquired a cloak in his absence, and it wafted this way and that as if animated, appearing at times to guide him across the floor. The whole effect caused any conscious patrons to turn away vaguely unnerved, rather than stare in curiosity.

"Well, Sylk," said Kindly Bob. He wanted to ask where Sylk had come in from, but instead, "He doesn't look like much. What's your take?"

"That's for people with more intelligence than I to determine."

Kindly Bob regarded Sylk from beneath a furrowed brow. From the top of his yarmulke to where his neck was enveloped by the turtle neck, he could detect no sign of false modesty in his unlined expansive face. Just that preternatural alertness. He wondered how the turtle neck sweater could expand enough to get over that head.

"More intelligence than you? Humph."

"I am a laborer only," said Sylk. "As you well know."

"No, I don't know at all," replied Kindly Bob. "I've seen much more than I care to remember, and the part about you being some dumb laborer seems to have escaped me."

"Stout," said Sylk.

Kindly Bob drew the black bitter liquid into a pint glass, chewing thoughtfully on the ends of his moustache. He held the glass up to the light, noting its opacity, and finding it oddly appropriate.

The patrons thinned out, and finally Kindly Bob helped the last one to the door with a "Get along home, Billy." He barred the door, and turned out all the lights save the one over the bar.

Sylk roused himself from contemplating the residual foam in his nearly empty glass.

"2 a.m. Wake him."

"Now?", asked Kindly Bob. "He's only been down a little while."

"Ask him if he dreams; if no, let him sleep. If yes, bring him to me."

Kindly Bob made his way back to where Fred lay dreaming.

The oppressive tropical heat made breathing difficult. The over moisturized air seemed to be oozing. And the insects! The little sugar bees just crawled all over you, and tried to get up your nose and into any other handy orifice. What Misery!

The little party of Europeans were being led by a small local Native, about 4 and a half feet tall. Barney couldn't decide if it was a small man or just a boy. In fact, except for the very young and very old, all the natives appeared to be the same indeterminate age.

They had been hacking through underbrush and through vines as thick as their own forearms, and everyone was tired, hot and becoming very irritable.

"Why are we using hand tools to get through this?" Barney wondered aloud. In response, a purple flower grew up quickly beside him, opened to reveal little snouty mouth pieces and whispered, "Power tools haven't been invented yet." 'Oh', thought Barney, as he watched the flower progress through its accelerated life back into fertilizer on the jungle floor.

A low rumbling sound made everyone stop in their tracks and look around for the source. They weren't near any falling water, and it didn't seem like rain or thunder. The sound grew in volume until skshcchhhhCHCHCHboom BOOM, it shredded in a violent paroxysm of sound, followed by complete silence.

Everyone stood in a half crouch, shoulders hunched in anticipation of an unseen blow. Slowly the usually unnoticed buzz and hum and screech of normal jungle life returned.

In the distance, a chain saw started up. But, they hadn't been invented yet...

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Rounding a corner, he saw a wooden sign adorned with the head of a screaming monkey. It was not the actual head. Rather it was a carefully wrought carving. The bizarre likeness hung over a window so encrusted with the dust of ages that only an orange luster emanated. After trying without success to peer within, the unkempt man focused on the grotesque image above. He searched for some clue as to the nature of the establishment. The screaming monkey’s head only stared back, causing a shiver to run up his back that had nothing to do with the weather.

If there had once been a name or some wording on the sign, it had long ago worn off. He turned to the rough hewn black door, started to knock, then simply pushed it open.

Stepping inside he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dim light. He was in a tavern.

Kindly Bob stood behind the bar, wiping out a glass. “Welcome!”, he cried, “Come in, come in.” The unkempt man took a seat at the bar and let his shivering subside.

“Strange weather, for May”, said Kindly Bob. “Is it May?”, came a voice from a shadowy alcove. “Dunno,” he replied, “but my comment is valid enough, regardless.” “S’pose so…”, the reply drifted away, losing substance as its author lost interest. Kindly Bob turned to the unkempt man. “What’ll it be, stranger?” “Mmm… mulled wine?”, the stranger asked. A snort came from somewhere down the bar. “Sure, though it will take a bit. Can’t hurry that drink. Got to mull it over, so to speak.”

The stranger looked at Kindly Bob, searching his face for some sign of humor, or a sense that he was being made fun of. Kindly Bob’s face was impenetrable. He simply looked back, his oddly blue eyes emotionless.

“So, while we’re waiting, what’s your name? You needn’t give your real name. Fact is we can’t refer to you as ‘the unkempt man’ all night. So, what’s your distinction?” “Gandalf the Grey”, said the unkempt man.

Kindly Bob regarded him long and slow. “He was a being of subtle majesty and abundant skill. Why don’t we try again?” “Call me Fred.” “OK Fred. Here’s your mulled wine.”

Fred sat holding his drink, letting the steam rise to his face and permeate his senses. “Speak to me of Scram Jets, and thing that go Mach 8.” The eerie dark voice came from his left, and Fred started violently, sloshing his drink on his hands and coat. He thought he had been sitting alone at the bar. He turned to look at the owner of the darkling voice.

Sitting beside him was a large bald ebony man, wearing a black turtle neck and a yarmulke. His eyes were feral, and he seemed to quiver with alertness. “I, I, uh, mmm, what?”, stammered Fred. “He said Scram Jets”, Kindly Bob was wiping off Fred’s hands and coat. “What?”, asked Fred. “Sscram Jetssss”, hissed the ebony man.

Fred leaped up and looked around. He experienced a moment of vertigo. When he re-focused, Kindly Bob was gone, and the ebony man was sitting very attentively. “What’s a scram jet?”, asked Fred. The ebony man’s face contorted with annoyance. “The peculiar arrogance of the willfully ignorant!”, he fairly spat, and then he stood. “Prepare yourself. If not you, then who?”, he asked. Surely he simply walked away, but Fred did not see him go. Rather, Fred became aware that the large man was no longer in the tavern. For the second time that day a non-weather related chill ran up his spine.

Kindly Bob pressed another mug of wine into Fred’s hands. “Drink this, and then I’ve got a room in back. You can bunk there tonight. There is much, much, and no time. Ah, that’s our lot though.” He gave Fred a wink, as thought they were party to some conspiracy. “Is there something I need to know?” Fred asked. Kindly Bob gave a laugh. “Always! What not to know… now there is the valuable question.”

On impulse Fred drained his mug and said, “Bunk?” Kindly Bob motioned that he should follow and led him behind the bar and through a door to a hall. Two doors down on the left was a curtained space. Inside was a small bunk, and a low table. Kindly Bob lit the candle that Fred had not noticed and turned to leave.

“Where am I?” Fred asked softly. “Why, you’re at the Sign of The Screaming Monkey’s Head. Pleasant Dreams.”

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