Chapter 3

Fossa tells a story: ingenious. This pioneer overcomes all obstacles!

Gathered around a sizzling evening fire, Fidei and the now walking (and wide-eyed-and-eared) daughter, along with her pair of matriarchs, listen to the gentleman-in-charge rattle off a sincere narrative of reality.

It goes as follows: much remains in our field of vision; we have more to see (let me decide if we need to); now hear about a place to which you can go. I know you can go because I know someone has gone. Someone like us. No! Someone like you.

That someone, a male (of course), began what he called a journey. A search. For all these swirling, twisting, colorful pieces of imagery on his horizon, surging before his eyes, dropping out-of-control into a mound. So much! All of it, to him, excellent. Pleasant things. Beautiful things. 

He lived for these abstractions; these valuable fragments that only seemed perfect for a few seconds. He chased them always. But how to make them last? And how to shove away the occasional dreary and uneasy flash of picture and sound? 

The only importances were what he wanted to be real, and what he wished were unreal. The only improvement, to conjure longer and longer reels of attractive truth. 

Conjuring discomfited him, however, and therefore an objective made itself visible: wander through the mists of vague sentiment, pass unhindered to the cloudless boundary.

He contemplated how this lofty job might be accomplished. He was only a single being, one and only, so far as could be guessed, attempting to outstretch a hand and clasp the fleeing tail of an emotional beast. 

He thought to no end; cursed himself when it seemed as though invisible walls imprisoned his mind’s ability. This carried on--the thinking man went days without food and scarce drink--until finally, an alleviating finally, the answers came. 

They came from . . . a man. 

The man . . . appeared as he, the thinker.

The question; the answer.

The answer-man differed from the question-man in that the answer-man appeared shadowy, like a cloud of dust, like a phantom. 

The spectral figure presented itself for the pleasure of the onlooker: smiling face, open arms, clean and kindly manner. 

The two identical men said nothing, simply stared at one another, the starved and weary questioner struggling to keep eyes open, wondering what sort of event was at hand. 

If they said anything to one another, it would have been this: 

Phantom: “You have worked with great effort. Do you care to witness your reward?”

Reality: “It seems I shall, at any minute, cease to survive. It seems I shall not know my reward’s benefits.”

Phantom: “Ah! Follow me!”

And so, wordlessly, the hollow, famished man lifted from the ground and trailed his ghost through the beauties of nature. No perception of time, no weight of a tedious journey nagged the solid man.

They emerged from thick greenery, foliage-and-moss-covered ground, to a desert’s edge. 

The answer-man, if he had spoken, would have said: “The secret lies there. You may have your reward. Listen! The secret is: there is no such thing as death.”

And, silently, the most awe-inspiring beam of golden light, filled with twinkling sparks, reached to comfort the barren, lifeless desert.

It took the dying (with a wink) man. It took him first. 

It let him be anything he thought.

It let him have anything he thought.

Forever.

It was the only important thing to him.