The Chronicles of Ki
Book 1: In The Beginning
© Copyright 2024 Frank Walters Clark ~ All Rights Reserved
Shem Third Tezra waits nervously outside Curator of Ecid’s office. Staff members work at floatables around the administrative section where he sits, talking amongst themselves, pointing and giggling on occasion, and in general embarrassing the shy young cadet.
The wood door to the curator’s office squeaks opens, and Shem Seven Algot appears, smiling down at him. He has an ancient rectangular wooden box in his hand and gives a slight bow, then motions for Tezra to enter ahead of him.
Not what I was expecting, Tezra thinks, looking at the curator, then around the dusty office.
The small room holds little in the way of furnishings. An old desk with an equally old chair behind, a few rickety chairs in front of it, and a window high-up, filtering beams of light through mote-filled air. Half-melted candles stand unlit in cracked teacups at various junctures around the room, and tall bookcases crowded with old tomes stand at each end.
Tezra’s sightings of the curator in the past usually involved cowled passings in the near darkness and wordless acknowledgments. Yet here the old man sits, in all his uncovered and deeply wrinkled splendor, gazing at Tezra with eyes deep and old with mystery.
Paying his respects, Tezra can only stand and gaze back.
“I am your humble servant, Curator of Ecid.”
Arising from behind his desk, Curator of Ecid circles slowly around the young man.
Passing his eyes up and down and all around, seeing and hearing what others may not.
“And I, yours, Shem Third Tezra.”
Catching Algot’s attention, the curator raises his eyebrows and turns an imaginary cup to his lips. Algot nods.
“Will you sit with me and talk, Shem Third Tezra? Am I to understand you recently discovered the sacred word?”
“I did, master. A feat totally unexpected. A dirty one, I might add.”
While the curator retakes his place behind the desk, Tezra sits in one of the suspicious chairs facing it. Algot returns and places a small tray crowded with three teacups, a steaming pot, and a neatly arranged dish of orange slices on the curator’s desk, then takes a seat beside Tezra.
Smiling, the curator twitches a finger up and down, pointing at Tezra, then at the teapot: Pour.
Unaccustomed to the niceties, the teapot lid rattles as Tezra slowly pours, and he completes the honor without spilling any.
Returning the teapot to the tray, he sips, in discomfort, while the curator once again gazes at him with hypnotic eyes.
“Because you found the sacred word, Shem Three, you have gained access to our brotherhood’s advanced teachings. What say you? What were the bookends? The pair of words—or one word actually—that accompanied the sacred word?”
“Past, and past again, master? But I do not understand.”
Tezra is deeply puzzled, unable to grasp the nature of his curator’s curious question. A test, perhaps? A riddle?
Algot intercedes by tapping Tezra hard on the hand, fixing his attention on something other than the old man’s eyes. He turns to speak softly in Tezra’s ear.
“The three words of the sacred phrase are of import, Shem Three. Word by word, side by side, forward and backward. They are inscribed on the Emerald Tablet in that order.”
“Past, future, past? I still do not understand.”
Curator of Ecid sits forward in his chair and sets his teacup down, then leans his elbows on the desk, his eyes piercingly bright.
“Remove one word of three and what do you have left, Tezra? Deduce!”
Shem Third Tezra scratches his head in thought, pondering his possible answers, feeling them but unable to catch hold.
“If I remove the first ‘past,’ then future-past is left. If I remove ‘future,’ all that remains is ‘past-past.’ Taking away the second ‘past’ leaves ‘past-future.'”
Tezra jumps to his feet, eyes ablaze, remembering the sacred phrase: The past is the future is the past.
“There is no future without the past,” he says, “there is no past without the future.”
Beaming, Curator of Ecid slowly rises and points a bony finger at the spellbound Tezra, then rejoices.
“There is not one thing under Apsu’s lights, Shem Third Tezra! Living or dead, animate or inanimate, every molecule in fact, that has not existed in or as someone or something before— and will exist again. Not one thing in the past, not one thing in the future!”
“Every action and deed, done and done! Every memory won and won. No death, only life!”
Curator of Ecid drops back into his seat, tired but satisfied.
I think I may have found my seeker, he thinks.
Shem Seven Algot claps his hands together once, breaking Tezra’s spell.
“You have completed the first of many sacred lessons with our master, Tezra. Now you must undertake preparations for the next.”
Algot opens the wooden box, revealing its contents: A tablature with a glowing emerald face cover, and a black felt pouch rolled and neatly tucked to one side. Removing the pouch, he carefully unrolls it on the curator’s desk.
Resting at its center are two stones, one white, one black. Shiny and oblong, both seem to vibrate in their beds as if possessed.
“Shem Third Tezra. You are charged with possession of these sacred stones and you will carry them concealed on your person at all times. You are responsible for their care and safety from this day forward, until you are released by me from this sacred duty.”
Curator of Ecid clears his throat and points a quivering finger in the direction of the stones.
“I will tell you but one thing more, Shem Four Tezra. Listen to your heart. These stones will have much to say to it, about your future, and about your past. If you will only take the time to listen and heed.”
Walking back through the plaza, Tezra nearly trips and falls he is so excited. About the stones. About his lesson with the Curator of Ecid—about his new rank: Shem Four!
And very curious about his new possessions. He can feel them almost tingling in his pocket, hoping they foresee something glorious for his future, something that, he now has learned, will come from his past.