I don’t know where to start, how to begin. This terrible tale. The wanton destruction that we see all around. It was not always like this. 2035, the world had gone mad, broken into many tiny small outposts. First the fevers, the new fevers that caused death in hours had come, spreading from labs in the USA There was no antidote and within a matter of weeks more than 97% of the world’s population had died.

Three years after the fevers had run it’s course...

The smell was huge for Xtell and Mets as they picked their way through the vines and bramble that had covered the dead city. It used to be New York, and now almost completely abandoned. One of the great cities of the earth turning back to jungle. The concrete being ripped up by the growth of vegetation that had gone wild. It was home to the duo. They had met by chance while searching for food and batteries, and devices that could be made to function. Xtell had a duelle where he slept and gathered his finds, it was while on a late night mission that he first saw Mets. She was fending off two trog like men and a woman. They wanted her for their community, everyone was trying to clan up. The odds of survival were better if you were clanned up.

He strode out and said, “Release her!” They laughed at him, they began to circle. Xtell was fast, Xtell was smart, Xtell was unafraid. He had devices with him that would protect whoever it was attached to. He worked his way through until he was beside the half alive girl. she was conscious but had received a huge blow to pacify her. “Leave,” he said, “she’s not for you.”

Still they came on, he opened his coat buttons, they ran when they saw the glittering cords wrapped around his chest. This kind of tech was fearsome to the denizens of the city who had mostly retreated to a very basic existence.

He carried her over his shoulder; she was still unconscious, dark was lifting, it was time to get her to his duelle. It was another day before she opened her eyes. He had dripped water into her mouth and her body had reflexively swallowed. She was ravenous and the effects of her blow were still very painful. It was a week before she was well enough to follow him back into the streets. They only went out at night and returned at dawn, before the ravaging parties came out. There could be too many of them and they might try to overpower them to get at the tech they carried. Not too many weeks passed before they would be ready. It was dangerous to stay and It was getting time to leave the city. A few more nights and they might have enough supplies to begin the journey they had planned. There was a boat, a yacht tied up on a buoy just off the west side highway. The plan would be to take her and sail south to try to find one of the last islands that were still functioning as a sanctuary. They could use the knowledge and the tech machines that they had both made.

Xtell and Mets had collected rain water and filtered it because the dying city gave off many toxins. They were anxious to go, to search. It was a dream they had talked about, to travel to visit other locations, maybe there would be life and well people there.. She was tall and slender, he was short and thick. His uncut long hair had turned dread a long time ago, she was bald, alopecia, both had no memory of parents. They had raised themselves. He was a light skin black. She was straight up Chinese heritage. Two people thrown together. She was a weaver of spells, a healer, a sensor. He was tech savvy and a very powerful man with his great arms and trunk like legs. For all that he was light on his feet. She had a fetish to paint her toes. She had collected an endless supply of colours, raiding stores that were there for them to gather whatever they wanted. The food sources were even more scarce but if you knew where to look you could find stores that had been untouched since the fevers, since the population either died or fled.

The animals were slowly entering the city, prowling. Wolves and bobcats, even bears. The temperature had changed; it was now mostly a tropical zone. Xtell had a battered old suitcase filled with his tech, a slick console disguised inside the case. The day came when they were finally all set to leave. It was early morning, so they did not expect any trouble. As they approached the dock, they began to hear the sounds of the clans. There must be a big fight for control going on. Whoever controlled the city would have endless resources and safe hideaways way up in the crumbling high rises. They circled the sounds and took the long way to the docked boat. There was a large man with a small child waiting there. “I have been watching you,” he said. He shook slightly. He was not well. It was not the fever, but the result of a wound that seemed to have cut deep into his belly.

“Get out of the way,” Xtell warned, “we are armed.”

“I mean you no harm,” he said, “I am dying, but this young girl is my daughter, take her with you. Her name is Cly.”

He was pleading. She was clasping his hand, helping to hold him up despite her small size.

“How old are you,” Mets asked, “I don’t know,” she said, “maybe twelve.” She was wiry, she had the wide eyes, the hooked nose inherited from some long ago red man blood in her, evident in her long black hair and olive red skin. She had it tied over her shoulder.

“She can hunt, and can ferret out things. Cly can hear great distances, you won’t regret it,” her father said. “The red clan wanted her, but I brought her away because they have terrible rituals, and very tight control, there is no good future existing with them.”

The sound of the fighting was getting closer.

He pushed the girl to them, “Take her, I will hold the gang off here, I have a few charges for my gun. Go please.” The little girl clung to him but he pushed her away, “go, for my sake, so I can rest in peace knowing you may have a chance. Look for your mother when you can.”

The little girl clasped her father and with a last look she let go and hurried towards Xtell and Mets. “We must be off fast, it will take a little time to rouse out the boat.”

Running the last few hundred yards to the hidden area of the dock, they could hear the sharp shots, “That’s my da’s gun,” she said. “I know the special sound it has.” Finding the boat, they hauled it out from its hiding place and threw their cases inside quickly unloading the sled they had been pulling.

Xtell quickly cut the cords holding the stern, untying the front knots when he was aboard.

“The sails will take too long. “Quick, grab the oars and pole off the dock.” he said as he cranked the wheel. None too soon, the sounds from her father’s gun had tailed off and they could hear a raged shout as the attackers came for their real prey. Running down to the dock, the boat had only managed to get away from the land by about 20 feet, but it was enough, unless they had guns. No one in their right mind would enter that water so far upriver where the toxins were a live brew. The gang followed them a little ways along the shore, taunting jeering them as they went. “Come back, we will welcome you. You will be safe and fed,” one voice shouted out. They kept shouting until their voices were a whisper.

Night came, they had raised the sails an hour before, and as they were passing the end of the island they slowly entered the deeper draft of the sea.

The little girl was already asleep. She must have been exhausted when she came aboard. Anchoring near by the shore they were already a good ways from Manhattan. They collapsed. Mets offered to take the first watch even though she too was exhausted. She woke Xtell halfway through the night as there had been some strange sounds. He awakened quickly as was his want. He heard the sounds too, “Let’s up anchor,” he said, “We are still too close to the city, maybe there is a small boat nearby.” Even before the anchor was fully up the current had started them down the channel. Curses came from behind them. Xtell’s glass they could see a small rowboat near where they had just been. Two toothless men sat in the prows with wicked looking metal poles and an axe. It was a lesson they did not forget. Now they would travel by night and only rest when they could clearly see what might be about. Xtell rigged some motion lights round the boat and set up two guns one front and one back. One he gave to Mets and the other was in his pocket. The girl Cly had remained sleeping the whole time and awoke with a startled look before she realized where she was.

“My father is dead,” she said, “I can feel it.” “He saved us from the ambush, Xtell said, we are grateful for his sacrifice and will do our best by you.” There were charts in the boat that showed the route they would have to take. The GPS system was still mostly working and they hoped it would support them when they crossed the seas proper. They had been lucky thus far, with no further attempts to capture them. They were using their charts as a guide. They slowly shifted past Cities which had been the home of millions, alive with people, walks and amusement parks. There was a huge ferris wheel, with light still flickering from solar powered panels. There were no signs of life. Only a few mulling animals they could see. Around them, as they sailed further, the water started to clear of debris and coming to a more normal color. Still they were careful not to get it on their bodies. They knew from past experience that it would burn and create a rash on their skin if they touched it. They ate the stored food they had gathered over many weeks along with the distilled water they had stored in massive tanks. Xtell had rigged solar panels so they could charge their tech and power their lights. It wasn’t long before they had put a good distance in from New York. It was very eerie. There was no one that they could see, the land was silent and heaving and still no humans worked it. No one lived. The fevers must have been even more severe in the areas where they traveled. They could only imagine what took place in the days when people realized there was no cure for the madness that took place. The extremes that people gasping their last breath of life took. The shattered dreams, no more children. All of this started by one small mistake.

Xtell had found a memory stick in one of the city apartments he had checked for gear. It was prominently placed and labeled, ‘Please Listen’. It held the words of a scientist and his wife who tried to chronicle the aftermath and the spread of the fevers. They made the recording to try to warn the future generations of what had happened. Her name was Vera, her husband, Sam. Her voice on the stick was filled with shock, but still had the precision of a scientist’s observations.

In a soft voice she began, “So so unfair just one person, just one mistake and it almost wiped out an entire species . Maybe it was for the best. I look at this carnage. I look at the leftover. I look out from my sealed windows at the decaying city. All the things that I want to be and do, no longer important, no longer work. l wonder, was it all worth it, this building, this generational spawning, this ending. Now just us, just us, an incredibly small percentage of us living in the backwash of the DNA swarm. The countless lives shattered, cold stopped, aborted. And now just us.”

We had lively discussions about this tape that often ended in a profound silence. The amenities of the past, the aspirations of the future no longer bear, no longer wait on us. It was not our fault, we three had done nothing wrong. We merely survived. We merely adapted, us three, thrown together, fleeing the gangs that we had left behind. The distorted disgraced people, real people, who reverted to almost non-humans so so quickly. What was it to be human anyway?

The stick was a long poem, a long dive, a long investigation, a rambling, almost modeling the time, and the subject. The narration, the history, what was being said was vast, a chronicle of death, of an auto complete transformation. A slam on the brakes, this veneer of life, of civilization just a small skin sitting on another skin on top of a molten rock. You could hear Vera’s extra deep pain, her incredible muse of what was happening. They had isolated themselves in a penthouse, they saw from the last flickers of news station, from their telescopes, looking as civilization started to fall apart flickering. Their food and water became scarce. They were rich and had pantries of food and water to start with. They were unable to leave the sanctuary. All the while she kept recording on the stick, the stick that Xtell now had, telling the story, this long story of death, of change. From high up in the city that no longer vibrated with the sound of life of multitudes. One by one the stations that they listened to no longer transmitted, the isolated corners that still held life, becalmed. It didn’t take very long, just a few weeks before this whole train, this long pulling, this long drive of this life form, the product of the stew of thousands and thousands of years ending. Many animals had been reported dying. Also the very few remaining enclaves that still reported, that still broadcasted talks of people, so many people stripped of hope of possibility of meaning, now desperation, going wild. This loss of certainty, this chronicle of the end of humanity. Vera and Sam had tried to see, to understand, how many were left, was any place untouched. All the lights flickering out, all the voices ending, all the unfolding, all the giving up. The finality of it all.

We sat in our little life boat, savoring this last reminiscence of the voice of a woman, a scientist, and this last accounting. She must have spoken nonstop for hours. Xtell had downloaded it and stored it on other sticks, to preserve it in case it became lost or wet or died. Maybe there were other chronicles, maybe other people had made recordings.

All the while, their craft hugging the coast slowly passing by, nothing stirred. They never touched land. There must be more, even if only one in every ten million might have survived, it would be many. Could we find some of these survivors? Could we start again? Why were some immune? Why were there so few? Why had it happened so quickly?

They had come across it by accident almost, a swarm of tied boats, yachts of the super rich, in a graveyard of a Marina. Xtell had immediately identified a super craft as the one they would choose. They all had spent some weeks gathering supplies from all the other useless abandoned relics of money and power that were all tied up here. Cly was especially gifted at finding the secret places where the owners had hidden special things. Gold and diamonds, almost useless now, but maybe would become the basis of exchange in the future, if there is one. They kept a good watch. But what did time matter now? training to stay awake they slowly plundered what had been so carefully stored in the other nearby vessels. . Xtell slowly began to understand the full power of this life boat, of its sensor systems. They could spread a field around them and know immediately if anyone entered, if anything was a danger to them. They no longer had to keep watching, the life boat systems were always awake, fully on.

The daily tasks of survival occupied their time. Xtell had chosen this craft well. It was fully equipped. It was solar powered. It was built for survival. Someone had planned well, some very, very very wealthy people had planned to live on, in the event of a catastrophe, a catastrophe that had become real. What happened to them? How come they did not use this escape hatch that they had so carefully and very, very costly built? Xtell wondered why there was such a disparity. How could it be in the mass of humanity, that some could be so wealthy while others had very little.

The expensive automatic systems of their life boat worked the moment they were activated, it was designed to survive, to be a comfortable place. Xtell had found all of the controls and tech that had never been turned on before. There were stores of all books, entire libraries of music, of the world‘s thoughts and expressions, images, videos, movies, holograms. Biographies that helped them understand who had bought this boat, or who it had been built for, and why. There was something immense about it all. There was a family, a father, a mother, and their one child who was autistic. In all, there were 20 people connected to this boat. They had even planned for their servants to serve and take care of them. The young girl wondered, weren’t they afraid that the servants would become their masters. Xtell said,”no, they were wired, the servants were supposed have control collared, they could not make a threatening move that could not be stopped by the owners.” In life, power inequality would become translucent. Things they found in the individual cabins. Little personal touches of identity. The planned for needs and memories, the cushions of comfort. Xtell had tied the boat they had escaped from New York ito the stern of this one.

What must have happened?. Why was it all abandoned? We knew from the sStreet how incredibly fast the fevers had spread from their rooftop penthouse from their sealed chambers. The narrator spoke of the incredible speed. With some. It was just a whiff, and their systems went into shock with others. They struggled, some more fortunate or less fortunate could last for days. No one was immune except a very very small percentage, a microscopic percentage. What must they have felt as he watched and monitored everything around them crashing. Many did not survive even the ones who did survive, many took their lives. What was the point. All traditions were broken, all culture ended, and yet in their life boat, these three were surrounded with every image. Every idea every history every book every music that had been written and conjured it was like watching a play act.

Inm Xtell’s dreams he remembered. A memory like waking from a deep sleep. Not yet knowing that on that day, on that morning, the fever hadfever’s had spread. It wasit was not just the wind that carried a fever. It was something else, theelse the biology of it. The chemistry of it had changed the atmosphere instantly Everywhere he woke up to death. It was only his mother and he that had existed in his life, now she was dead. He was a bright boy Everywhere he looked when he leftwent out of his apartment, had crashed into one another, people had thrown themselves out buildings, couples had embraced in their final moments. The fevers were all internal. There was no sign of decay. No manifestation of the fevers outside their bodies, no external decomposition for the first 24 hours. You could almost talk to people that seemed to still be alive except they were slack. He wandered alone. Mets had had the same kind of experience, watching her mother and father, and her brothers and sisters die so quickly it did not even seem real. One moment they were alive, then they were in the throes of a fever, gripped. Some lasted for a few hours, others passed in seconds. Neither of the three of them knew why they had not died. It was the same for Cly, except both her and her father had survived until his encounter with the Red Gang ended his life. There was some hope that maybe her mother had also survived. She had gone on an expedition to the Galapagos to track bird migration.

They headed to the Galapagos. This, island was where they were headed. Xtell and Mets had early on thought that this might be the one place where there might be a living society. They had heard snatches of broadcasts from the island from time to time. Then it had ceased. They wondered if it was a deliberate isolation. Had the people there realized that it might bring danger if they kept showing life and survival. They had to see. If not then they would keep searching until they found enough people to start again. They all felt a compulsion to continue, to somehow rekindle the species, to save the human race.

There was a deep drive inside them when faced with extinction. It was meant to be that they would try to continue the race.

As they neared the island, they began to pick up much weaker signals, as if they were being kept deliberately small, to not travel so far. When they were within a few miles, suddenly a drone appeared in front of their boat.Then two others on either side. A wave blast hit their screens. “Who are you?” it said, and what do you want. We can eliminate you if you do not turn around, or if you do not permit our drones bots to board you and decide if you are clean and welcome.”

Xtell immediately typed an answer. We come in peace, we are clean, but we are also frightened of your intentions. I must warn you we have powerful defensive systems and we will leave if we do not feel that you have good intentions. There was silence. Cly now typed, do you know of my Mother Sahel? Before the fevers she came here to do research. There was more silence. Then the screens flooded with a large image of groups of excited people. A woman was pushing to be in front of the camera. “Mother!” cried Cly. They had arrived.

This is where their hopes for living life might find traction. From the images of the people they saw, from the kind face of Cly’s mother, they felt that sanity ruled. That here might be a place to restart. After all, humanity had held a very fragile beginning, just a few small tribes. The odds of becoming the sprawling human race was very small at the start. Maybe this time they could do better, set life in motion in an enlightened way. Maybe this time.

I wonder how many cycles of time this experiment has been set in motion. Maybe we are all a long series of conscious life rising only to fall again. Maybe this time, with history as a leveraging tool. When we don’t have to fight for fire and the basics of sustaining life. Maybe this time we will have a head start and will choose more wisely. Maybe this time.

There is no future in what I am doing, over and over I think this. My hands are a blur. I could do this while asleep. Except if’n a small slip and bang, it would be gone, one of my favorite arms, torn right off. This cranky old piece of broke down machine that was at the center of the cotton process business. Dat arm. Massa Jefferson, done have no time for no injured Negro. I had an idea, I had an idea to make this whole process come out faster an better.

My name is Hobbs. I was known amongst the Slaves as a maker, an inventor of things. The overseers up on those horses were dumb as shit. Everybody knowed it. Round here you don’t get to speak directly to the boss. He figured there weren’t anything interesting any one his Slaves would have to say. He came by the other day and the overseers flicked us up a bit with their whips and shouts, to show the boss they was working. We knew the gig, we could hustle up and seem like we was working double time, and the overseers would go light on the whip and just pretend fury. No words were ever spoke about this but we all could see the way the wind could blow. So best for us to play act together. We made them look good, hollering and buckling down when they yelled and stomped round us. They was mean old bone seers, slack and lazy too, but usually they did not beat us down too too much. Just when we was near by the farm, then a fury might come out into boots and the whips right there, in front of the house. They must do it there for show, yep, they was just the right hard men for the job. These occasions, the beatings were real, The folks watching would surely tell when there was a false beating happening. Lots of practice. The Slave drivers would say, please excuse me if any of the white folks was nearby, it’s just how you have to treat them. They don’t know no better. When the big boss came by with his friends he could see them drivers shepherding us round. We observed him right quiet. We knew he could see that both the drivers were not so on top of things, like I said they were dumb. But he probably didn’t know what else he could do, he surely could not run this cotton world hisself.

The boss was an old man, didn’t know the farm, didn’t know good. If it was running bad, it was always the Slaves fault and we could hear him say, ‘hear now you must not be soft on them, they were made to work and you have to force them to it without restraint.’ He would sing this out to his friends as they were near, ‘why just the other day, I beat’…just as they would be moving on, leaving you to image what torture they were talking about. I am sure they was always saying these fearsome punishment things right by where we might hear, to mek us fraid and cow down under the lash more with the work.Time went by, I tried to make a few simple improvements in the production line, but the other Slaves balked me most times. Don’t want to draw whities attention they would say. White folks don’t likes no uppity Nigger ideas.

Then come a day we was not called to work. No one came to drag an drive us to the spinning floor, to the fields. The church bells was ringing, though it was not a Sunday. One of the sisters, a house Slave came running back with the news, the old man had died. The plantation had not been doing well, though we didn’t really know it for sure, us being Slaves kept us pointed pretty inward from the big picture. Our lives were so limited that the nuance of small things became our universe of pleasures and correspondence, because everyone needed that. Two days passed and still no stir from the big house. Their meals were cooked and their laundry was quietly done. We felt sorry for them. White people, even in deep distress needed to have their everything done for them. That was not new.

This was a very uncertain time. What all could happen? What would become of us? All the possibilities were there. Separation, families torn apart, webs that we had grown at the milton plantation.

On the third day, little youth boy Wesley spied a buggy coming up a long way, off route 21. Then that buggy was turning into our entryway, tree lined for almost a mile, up to the house. One by one us ragtag Slaves all gathered off to the side. We could not, would not have gathered like this before, but this time we somehow knew things were all thrown up. The buggy had a black shiny horse, a show off horse you might say, so sleek and beautiful he were. The milton family stood on the porch by the railing, hands mostly folded and still showing mourning in their faces, in the rigid stance of their bodies.They seemed restless, agitated, though they tried not to show it. We could see, we could read them like a book, every nuance, every small shift. It were our business to know, to stay ahead was the dance of our survival.

The driver stepped down out of the buggy, bowed to the milton’s gathered on the porch, then he turned to us. We was all curious and huddled up, whispering mongst ourselves. He nodded his head. Some of us knew him. He was the first son, he had come home. He had been sent away in disgrace for being caught with a young Slave girl. She was sold off down the river. He was only doing what young masters will do, what his father did when he was younger and would still do, though less so lately. They all did it. His sin was to profess love for the girl. That would not do. They said she must have put a spell on him. She was hard whipped in front of him and then the boys after did it to her too. Then she was sent to some mean dog of a Slave house farm.

Truth is that whole history of the father is done, he has passed now, that old man. We had no affection for him. When his brother died, he sprang right into the farming business and the whole place started running down. If it wasn’t for the house Slave name Milly, the whole place would have jus slowly slid. Why she was so crazy about this place I could not tell you. I mean, she was the bosses old move, now turned house girl. She acted whitish round us whenever they had banished her for something, and sent her to know her place and live and sat amongst us for a time. Later we was to know the truth of her story, things have a deep pool underneath them, circumstances and the walks, up and down, and around tables in dis life. Well, the way you spin has to be in accordance with the precipice balance where you have to walk.

Dem house Slaves, dey was more cared, better food and clothes, ‘cause master don’t want no dirty looking Slave bout dere dinner table. So they had cast me down cloths, not too special, just clean servile looking same time. They had the queerness of standing in two pieces of earth. You have to bow down and spin around and dance, through this life. People, look and observe, who spin around to catch up the rightful start of events and the words, and in our case the punishments.

Back to the arrival excitement. We were pressed up ‘gainst one another, not wanting to stand out alone. When you are breaking the way things are normal, it’s best when you are packed up in a group. We watched him. Not a sound, jus a little wind stir up, only to shake the leaves of a big cotton tree cross front of the house. He turned slowly back to the folks on the veranda. Some were his relatives, and others, guests. The house Slaves knew bout these guests, then that knowing would filter down to us, the boss called them hangers on to their face. They were kept to entertain and quarrel and provide some excitement. Town was far away and the nearest other farm was a four hour distance. We could see that the son had grow, an we could understand from past rumors that he had been away at college, had done a bit of traveling, lost and made good money. He were a confident man, you could see it in the way he moved, the slow way he looked at you. Steady. There was no love lost between him and his family. They in fact had rejected him, after the do with that once well pretty Slaver girl. He only showed up again at the reading of the will that the old man had written secretly. On the self same day we all knew what that will said.

He had been given full control and ownership of the property, with the provision that the family would stay there for life with a specified annuity. His father had turned the tables on them. He had written, ‘none of my so called family near and far could even begin to manhandle this plantation. I fear it would be driven into the ground worse that I have managed to do so myself. As a family we are inept, I said it. The only one, the black sheep of the family, has the fortitude to turn this place around. To the other family members and even the long time hangers on, I don’t like any of you, but I will not see you starve or have you to leave your home. So I have left money and a roof for the remainder of your lives, But make no mistake you will not get in his way, all decisions regarding running the farm will be Jason’s exclusively’. Yes, all dis we was to hear, since the white folk never did not hold back to talk dem things in front of we.

He is our new master, Miss Haddie next day send to say. She had met him in the house and he took her hands, between his. She looked at him and said, “You done grew well and good young master, well and good.” She said his eyes teared up. Him say, “Miss Maddie, I have been around this world much further than you and anyone here could possibly imagine. I have seen different ways of doing and being. You can tell the others before I tell them myself that there will be no more whippings. That I will be speaking with each and every man, women and child on this plantation. We have a job to do to make this place work and the only way it’s going to happen is if we all work together. You will find many things will be different starting with the retirement of the two overseers.”

Well, we were happy about dat. None of us Slaves ever did like them at all, and more importantly, we did not respect the two of them. Lowlifes and cheats, we knew that for sure. The new master said he was going to speak to each of us. This had never happen, we were always seen collectively not individually, and he said, no more whippings. Overseers gone. This is change indeed. Maybe I can tell him my idea if he is willing to hear it. This here is a Christmas drink, a happy feeling, maybe the people in charge of our lives would lighten the terror of dislocation we had all been living through since the death. It had frayed our nerves and this boys’ words were balm to the soul. Well, let’s see. We will see how this plays out, like it or not.

True to this word the next day, saw him sitting on the long porch steps and all of us slowly creeping a respectful 30 feet away. He pulled us in with his voice and we gathered up a little nearer. He spoke like we could hear him, simple talk mostly, straight talk. He did not say you will be welcome in my home, but more like we will work together and try to make a good place to work and live. That there would be no more whippings, that we could go back to having Friday night song and dance, with fiddle and banjo playing, though not too late for the noise. All this time we could look over his shoulder and see one of them hangers on, drifting by, spying on the speech. That one Miss Mary knew we was watching, but she had in her head that the old days were still here, where it didn’t specify what ever we knew, no one would ask or even listen.

Jump the time now. Things are running smooth. Young Jason was ripening the whole production of the farm.The production was up higher than before. Jason was generous with the people that lived in the main house. From his arrival he started building a new home for hisself, built just down the road. Even with his generosity they were always scheming on him to get rid of him. They hated that they were not allowed to hit us Slaves or abuse us in any way. The natural order of things in their life had changed. Trouble began when Jason heard that they had invited a delegation of other owners to come by and talk some sense into him. They pulled up, the drive, maybe six of them, we knew dem from previous times they had came by to see the old man. They tossed their the buggy reins to us and one gave the horse boy a shout and a bad look. One even raised his whip, but when he looked at Jason for the go, he curled it back up quick. First it was all friendly like among the owners. Then the shouting began. ‘You teach them darkies the wrong way of things. They will get ideas and our Slaves would get ideas, you done gone travelling but you don’t know what you are doing!’ They wanted to whip some sense into us and force him to change. At first Jason was polite, but it reached a point where they threatened him and he pulled his rifle off the shelf and said, “Gentlemen, it’s time to go, if you come on my plantation again, or cause my people any trouble” (that’s what he called us, my people) “l will not stand for it.”

Now we know how deep the feelings run when anyone try to change the way things are. Jason had made his plantation a big success in just three seasons. He was more of a boss than a Slave owner. Don’t get me wrong he still owned us, he could still sell us, beat us even to death if he wanted. The difference was not only not being beaten again. He gave us something which we didn’t ever dream to have before, respect, respect for our work and we worked harder than when we was forced. This arrangement was a threat to the other plantations. They feared the other Slave dem would hear and discontent would brew. There are some very violent people running their plantation business and it was not long before he got a call to come to town to meet with the biggest of them all. We knew this, we knew the wind, we even told him don’t fight gainst them. Fake whip and beat round us and mek them think things are just going right.

Late into the night we talked out how this will go. When he came back from the meeting his face was set. They are trying to run me off. They said the klan would come and teach the uppity Niggers who thought they could not be beaten again. His family an the hangers on were in on this in a big way. They were furious that their every whim was not instantly obeyed, that they could no longer kick, spit, order a whipping and do worse than that too. Well that was it for them. Once they turned on him, he shooed them off the place quick as a flash of lightning

We knew the day would come when the klan would ride. Jason gathered us out of view of the few remaining relatives. “Look”, he said, “we have to be clever here. We need scouts day and night to know when they ride. Everyone must disappear. If even one of you attacked them they would be able to stir up the whole county and more, to come save me from you, that would be their excuse.” We had always been watching the masters, this was no different.

We laid out the lime and the false trails. We moved off into the back fields and dug down into the earth. We had signals and we practiced going into hiding. This plantation only had 135 Slaves so we could all manage.

The scouts were out day and night, so when the moment came we knew it long before the most of us could see the torches the riders carried. Bang, we were not there. They wheeled in and Jason meet them with his rifle in front of the steps. He called out “Anyone who enters my home or attacks my people will feel this bullet flying right to you.” He had hired a few white hands that had adapted to his ways; they two stood by with rifles. The klan boys circled round whooping and hollering some good ole Nigger baiting taunts. This is not the end of this he was told. Meanwhile another group of them had snuck round the back way trying to hunt us down and at least make an example of one of us. They could not find anyone and they ended with shouts and warnings and rode off, sayin we will be back you can’t hide them Niggers forever. Things were changing in the deep south, new ways were being tried. Jason’s success when others were struggling was an important and significant lesson. Three times they came back, once with dogs, but the false trail and the lime and cho powder stalled them dags. Over time most of the relatives moved away and the hangers on had long since been invited to leave. He was generous with them, but said, don’t come back.

Us in our cabins lived in two worlds, one that held the fears of the forces that existed beyond the plantation territory and one that existed within. We heard there was a war coming, we heard that the northerners wanted to free the Slaves. Jason said, “Hold on, there are big changes in the air and I will do my best to see us through.” Five months later that boy, Jason would be killed when the northerners came, they cut him down when he went out to welcome them with his rifle in his hands. He was a good man and because of him we learned what it was like to be respected, to have our decisions mean something. Most of us joined up the army as cooks, we carried supplies and scouted. A few of us died in that war. We got separated and found each other again. That Slave girl that Jason had loved, well, he had found her and brought her back, but she was disfigured and her mind had gone. He cared for her and when he died I took her into my little family.

After the war we all moved North, some of us even went to Canada. I am an old man now, lived to a ripe old age. I look around sometimes, mist in my eyes. Every year we would try to gather and remember the man who saw ahead, remember the one real human being in that county where our lives had changed.

Africa, has everything the world needs. It has been fought over by Western powers, divided, well fucked up. The whole continent has been robbed, disrobed, disennobled and pillaged everywhere, all up into recent times. Very recent times. Africa still has all the precious minerals needed for the daily functioning of the world economy, most importantly it has the people, the young people. Tåhis is a tale about Africans in Japan and South Korea. That’s where it all started. The slow inexorable take over of the world by African young people. It was a benign take over. It started as one of support to replace the infertility of the younger generations of the first world countries, but it was not always an easy start.

Japan 2037

Tokyo International. Funny thing, every service agent that is not automated, and that is still a lot, is black. Highly sought after and very well paid Immigrant Infill from Africa to prop up the rapidly aging society. Amane was standing there, a classic beauty. All of 17, yet in charge of her section of this vast complex, where elderly Japanese and other travellers are fast tracked onto moving platforms. Some standing holding the railing, but most sitting down. She would like to talk to all the people she sorts and assists but she can only speak to just a few. One old man in particular always seemed to be coming and going. He had a spritely step and a clear, even penetrating gaze, steady. She became aware of him when the face recognition system tagged him as a face seen beyond the typical statistical average. He travelled a lot, but always for very short times. Sometimes just a few hours and back, sometimes a day. Rarely overnight. That’s why when he stopped showing up in the tracking system it triggered another sort of alarm. She puzzled over it. People came and went out of the system all the time, but he was somehow different. Nothing wrong, but the few times they passed each other there was a warmth, a recognition as if they somehow knew one another. No words were spoken but she felt that one day, one go, or one return, they would find time and purpose to be face to face and say something. This is why she was quite disturbed when he dropped out of the system. She began to check other recognition systems around the airport and around the city. No trace. She called a friend, who owed her favors. She could really help you to pass through her sector, moving you right through the crowded areas, dodging the old people, who moved at a snail’s pace, when not on one of the moving tracks. Her friend was a specialist, he searched for him, but no, “so sorry your man has simply dropped out. No trace in Tokyo, no trace in any of the world wide webs that I could enter, and that’s most of them, No-can-find, sorry.” “It is rare for someone to disappear, sometimes it is just a system glitch, sometimes we had the same person counted twice.”

She could feel it, something was not right. She widened her search, no trace, she did not want to go to the higher authorities who had written him off as a glitch. She knew nothing good would come from their inclement involvement. She decided she would search for him, it was somehow important that she find him. There were still some restricted areas of Tokyo where the Infills did not go. They could, but would not be welcome as the Japanese tried to maintain some of the old Japan. With no very stand out black foreigners present. She would go there first. She had never been there before, the Shinjuku heritage area. It was not what she was expecting. They really had conjured up their old roots, many were dressed in elaborate kimonos, very well coiffed with painted faces. She could clearly see the deep lines beneath the powered layers. There was piped music coming from the artificial flowers shining and moving with a hidden electrical current. It was all a fake, a trying too hard to recapture an old world. The average age of the inhabitants here was close to 95 with many over 100 plus years old. He wasn’t here. She might try the foreigners’ enclave next.

She was sure he had not just accidentally slipped the identity chains and had been opted. No, some programmer, maybe he himself, had completely erased him, his history, his presence. She could no longer find any data that he had even existed, his transits, the videos and body scans taken entering the airport, had been erased somehow. How could this happen? system was supposed to be foolproof. The only thing she had of him was a handheld recorder that she had been scanning, when she had stepped away from her desk. It was tantalizing, she did not know why she had to find him. She just somehow felt it was important.

Though she did not know it, the man she was searching for was the mind behind the whole Japanese enclave project. He was the architect of this last ditch attempt to save Japan from an ignoble weathering away. The remaining Japanese youth saddled with huge numbers of the elderly to support were in arrears.This program, this nostalgia, was in the face of unheard of, unconsidered in the past, change. There were many such enclaves around Japan, and he was the mind that conceived it and executed it. But, it was not working, it was not enough, it had no future, no vitality. It was aging, a useless sentimental dreaming, it was failing, and the youth had rejected it. So he was trying again, this time something radically new. He always travelled incognito. He liked to observe. He was aware that there had been a search, made for him. Even his wife and staff had not heard or seen his presence since he had erased himself, disappeared

.

He was no longer in Japan proper. He was consumed with the idea of a Japanese world, that he had created on one of the many Eastern Asian Islands. It was formally just an old fishing village, a well to do one. The houses and the lanes, and the shops had not changed in hundreds of years. Mostly there were old people living there, but you became aware of more younger people than now were on the mainland. Quite a few. It was said that the last remaining enclave of people having babies were on this island. Many babies it seemed. Somehow he had found a way for love, desire and sex to be rekindled in the hearts of those young enough to bear children. In the last decade Japan had become known as the country where there were very few marriages, not much dating,and generally no intimacy or sex. Desire had been lost, passion was lost. Just easy immediate stimulation. No need to be fixed on just one person or any person, all kinds of thrills were available privately. The need to work was being replaced by robots who could do a variety of jobs, not all jobs but a high percentage. The government handed out meals at open eating places. You could walk in and a robot would bring you a selection of whatever was being offered. You would not starve but you could die and drift off from slayed ennui. In a land of deeply held restrained emotion that would burst out in unexpected ways. A passionate people, hidden in the folds of the culture.

It was not easy to get to the island. There were only ancient fishing boats. No longer used, the seas had become too toxic to eat even the smallest fish. This was the last place on her list to search for him. As she approached the island, she was aware that it was becoming very silent. There were no mechanical sounds coming from the dark shore. It had cost her a lot of money to convince an centenarian sailor to carry her over. She did not know what she would find. The island was totally off limits to non-Japanese.

A small dock barely visible told her she had arrived. As soon as she had stepped off, the sailor pointed his boat out into the bay, in minutes he was gone from sight.

Standing there in the wind she experienced a deep sense of alienation and some fear. What would they do when the day light came? Her Japanese was perfect and in the dark she could be taken for a native. Slowly she crept towards the only lighted building that she could see. Why am I here? She thought, I have an unreasonable compulsion to find this man and it has led me here. There was a lit window some way off the ground, so she piled up some rocks that were lying around and climbed up to take a look. Peering over the window sill she was utterly confused by what she saw.

Inside were a line of people all facing towards her. They were all masked, completely. She was sure none of them could see her. A gong sounded and a slow shuffling began as the line of women moved to the center of the room. They were all naked. She could not see but could hear a rumbling from under her window. A group of men seemed to be held in place just out of her sight. The women were all mostly young. All of a sudden she was pulled from her perch and lifted by strong arms, carried to the entrance door. In front of her was the man she had been searching for. “I was expecting you,” he said, “please come in. I know why you were looking for me. It is to know what we are doing. I will tell you. We are trying to rekindle the race. To inject passion into the social construct. By blindfolding the participants we get rid of the social mores and restrictions that our society has placed on intimacy. Instead we have gone back to a very old tradition where people couple without knowing their partners. We are trying to produce children, we will need your help to keep the press and the bureaucratic directors of Infill away. You must blind them and obscure our presence.”

“Why would I do that?” she said.

“Because you are a kind and caring person who sees our need to have an identity. A historical Japanese identity. We will slowly spread out from this island when we have many children to share. Every year more and more women somehow find us. They are drawn to the chance to be a part of the greatest test to Japan that we know,” he replied. She looked at him in disbelief. There is no way such a plan will work. The old days are gone, No longer will Japan or other western countries have their own identity. They have to change. He abruptly pulled her into the room. She suddenly realized that all the males against the wall were black.

Where had it all gone, where had the energy gone, the creativity gone from the Japanese. No one was trying anymore, where you were not needed, by the society or by anyone else. It was an isolated massive rapidly shrinking society and this fact accounted for his many trips back and forth as he checked on the progress of his Marshal plan, restricted recreations of old Japan. It worked at first, but now it was all winding down, in only just one more generation Japan would no longer be the home of the millenia old culture that was uniquely Japanese. This same phenomena was happening all over every first world country, dying the torpid death of no follow on generations. Many countries with less than a zero replacement birth rate. A rapid shelving off of new people. No one wanted children, there was too much to do. Life had become incredibly available for those that had money. Generally living off the largesse of centuries of rape of the one country that was able to fill in the missing links. The super continent Africa.

Mr Igwa said, “I am now doing the one thing that can keep Japan from becoming a non entity. I am bringing vital young men from your continent to begin a repopulation of young people. If the mainland knew they would shut us down, but when we show up with hundreds of youngsters even of mixed race, the people will realize it is better than the oblivion our culture faced. They will be brought up as Japanese. Though they may be brownish babies they will be brought up to be real Japanese, with a Japanese soul, with Japanese culture, a new Japanese history, real young vital Japanese. This will soon be taking place all around Japan in isolated communities. I need you to help facilitate the survival of these efforts until it is too late to stop it.These men were brought here directly from Benin. These ten men will father a thousand children and then we will invite another ten. We have also seen that our people of childbearing age can be inspired to change. When they are around lots of children they start to get motivated to create at least one. I could see a future where the whole trend reversed, then we will have a culture stronger than before.

“Will you please help us?

”

This Bodhisattva story is dedicated to Michael Glennon and an anonymous supporter who I would love to thank. Without my asking, and without my listing a dedicated pathway for support, they pledged money for my writing. The money is one thing, the belief, the interest, the sweetness of the unexpected support is the most important thing, a gesture of recognition, I see you, I am interested….Yah mon, yu can’t beat dat kinda love up ting!

The sea was dark, aglitter, awash with the refuse of the many vessels anchored in the sound. It had been my dream to travel to India when I was a young boy. Now at 72 years past, it was all behind me, a lifetime of memories. I had found what I was looking for, though at the time I did not know what it was. I was an orphan, and I found my family. Not blood, but a larger more universal connected sense of family.

I ran away from the stifling atmosphere of the orphan home, not to mention the beatings, the awful food and the domineering Anglicans and Methodists in charge, sadists I called them. Me and George, we made a plan to run away, right off, we headed to the docks. We got separated on the way there and I thought, I have to take whatever opportunity presents itself. Meanwhile the man at the dock gate rushed by me screaming for someone to grab a little boy who had fled his ship. Minutes later, he came angrily striding back and something made me say, I can take his place if that's what you need sir. I have no Ma or Da and I am ready to go, and some call me smart, sir I said. He stopped. He looked at me. No one had ever paid that depth of attention to me. In an orphanage you are just that, an orphan disconnected from all the usual things, even from individual recognition. You are an orphan, just an orphan. I had learned to stand my ground, especially when the bullying treatment was being meted out. Whatever the man really thought he did not say, he said I need a cabin boy, we leave in one hour, are you really ready?

The Solar Barque was on its maiden voyage from London, on a nine month passage to India. Little did I know then but that ship was aptly named for my journey ahead. We left the sound, not 40 minutes after I had boarded. I looked back at the town and then turned my gaze to the sea, just the channel at that point, yet still the sea. I was free. It was me and the sea, everything else all my duties did not get in the way of the sense of the sea. It was the vastness, the immutability, the permeability, the motility of it that captured me and freed me. I was precocious. By the time I had left the orphanage, I had read upwards of 40 books, ginned from the library. When I went to exchange books for the headmaster, I always managed to finagle another for myself. I am sure the librarian knew, he could see the avid look in my eyes when I handed over the book to borrow, it was always one that was different from the regular orders for the clergy at St Joseph.

Mumbai was a heady experience for a youngster of 11, working in the trading house as a runner. There were lots of other English and Indian boys training this angle. But I had the advantage, I was savvy, told just once, never forgot. I could do much more than carry messages. I quickly fell in with a group of older boys, men of almost 15 years old. Wise in the ways of drink and women. It was a hard drinking time back then. Small beer with breakfast, wine and spirit with lunch, and more of the same at dinner. We would rise early to beat the heat of the sun, which by noon was a blazing chariot that blinded and robbed you of your strength. Noon was time for the siesta. A time to sleep off the effects of the 11 o'clock lunch. Somehow, the natives found strength or was it fortitude, poverty created the necessity to mind the heat. Working with no hat for hours while the Europeans took shelter in their darkened rooms.

Within a short time my Hindi was better than all the older men in my uncle's office. I was often sent out shopping where I would argue back and forth with the coolie sellers. They took great delight in bargaining, shouting, gesturing back and forth, and found great amusement at the youngster a jabbering away with them right along in time. I am sure they sometimes relented and gave me better choices of the vegetables, chickens and meat I was sent to purchase.

I was later transferred to the main trading office in Delhi and by the time three years had passed I was known as a young man about town. I lived on my own in my own shebang, rented with my own money. You can bet your life I was paid for all my shopping and guiding, and it was not too long before I was arranging proper escorts for the lonely sailors that stopped on their way to China. I had my own cook and servant to clean the house, Aray and Didi, only slightly older than I was, orphans like me. This may explain why they were quick to join in when I wanted to take a journey into the Himalayas. We procured three horses and a pack mule. I had estimated it would be about three months on the road.

I had already grown tired of the charms of Delhi. I had an unquenchable desire to see the high mountains and maybe meet some of the Sadhus and Monks that lived in the high places. I was not religious, Jesus Christ and the rest of the West's spiritual concoctions never seemed to make sense to me. Too much to swallow, too many superficial things to believe. I was hungry for deeper truths. I was afraid that staying in Delhi I would become too dissolute like my older friends who were already on the way to a full on hashish and alcohol habit. Tearing myself away from my employer was easy, he too was a straight up alcoholic. It was the way many of the Asia hands coped with this dislocating culture, so vastly different from anything they had known.

Within a short time we were on the outskirts of the city. The buildings gave way to open fields which slowly turned into lush forest. In India there are shrines to the gods everywhere, piled stones, amulets tied to them, prayer flags fluttering, temples in the most unexpected places. This was a very old culture and I was fascinated to think that they had built great palaces with vast infrastructure. Writing great books while England was still a land of poor filthy villages.

After a few days of travelling we decided to camp by a small stream. No sooner had we set up our tent than two small face peered at us out of the bush. We hailed them but it was not until we held up a roasted ear of corn, a traditional sign of welcome, did they venture forth.

I expected rag tag peasants, or two poorly dressed urchins. Instead these visitors were clearly coming from a high level estate. The girl was about 16. The younger boy was around my age. But it was hard to tell their age, there was something unbound about them. As if they were not really there, though we could see them both clearly.

She addressed us. What are you doing here out in the woods where it will soon be the domain of all the wild animals that come out at night. Those tents of yours will be of no barrier to them. Didi and Aray seemed very fearful at this telling, having lived in the city all their lives. I had my guns and felt less fear but the stories of the wild tiger that had been coming at night in the village had me frightened. She suggested we come and stay inside the compound of her father.

We quickly packed up and followed her.

In no time at all we came to a rise and saw a beautiful village at our feet. It was filled with pretty buildings no more than two stories high surrounded by huge walls, birthing sharpened sticks - to keep out the tigers, she whispered.

We waited at the barred gate until the watchers saw a sign from the girl. Slowly the large gates swung open and we entered into a world as different as Delhi was to London. Here were meandering bricked pathways, no carriages, no beggars, flowers sprouting on either side. The air smelled perfumed. There was a sense of urgency in how we were being gently shepherded through the twisting puzzling pathways. Finally in what appeared to be the central square, we were directed up a set of three stairs to stand in a shaded porch where sat three old men. They were seated, but there did not seem to be any supports underneath them, and yet they seemed comfortably relaxed. I noticed they had drinks beside them but they were not on tables, just there at their hands reach. My two servants threw themselves on the ground, prostrating fully in front of these venerable men. It's the only word that could be used to describe them. There was an aura of peace that radiated from them. A sweetness in their looks. I was welcomed, and my servants bid to rise. Please sit, they said, and suddenly I was sitting, but only on the air which had seemed to spring up and form into seats as I began to sit.

The daughter who had guided us here was gone. My servants had also disappeared, normally I would have been worried, but it was so softly, gently peaceful here that I was calm. I realized I could hear them but no words were actually spoken.

We have been waiting for you. It is an old legend, many times older than you see us here, that said a young man from afar would come, he would have the eyes of a tiger and the hair of a lion, and the skin of a white rhinoceros would be keeping the sun off his shoulders. He would come with two servants and he would make a camp right outside our village. We are here to quicken you, to bless you, to help you to gird your loins for the task ahead. Many, many years we have waited for the one who would be able to sit on the air. He would not be afraid. He would be the one who could find what had been lost. He would be the one to gather the forces that would repair the rent in the earth. The opening to another world from where all the confusion and resulting evil spilled from.

I was lost inside myself. Something about what they said had stirred echoes, events and happenings that were littered throughout my past. Strange unexplained things. I knew I had to continue my journey. I knew the mountains were calling. That this was only a rest stop, an informational pause, a fill in the blanks of my past. I bowed my head and in a flash I was back in my camp with the servants sleeping peacefully side by side, sharing a blanket as they always did. No animal would venture near, we were protected, I knew this, I was certain. Finally I drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the day and the effort of making sense of what I had experienced.

The next morning Aray and Didi were up before me, breakfast was ready and they seemed anxious to move on from the campsite. When I questioned them they had no memories of the visitor to our camp, or of our journey to the village, or of meeting the holy men.

We gathered the horses and started in the direction that we had trod the evening before. In no time we came to the rise in the hill but there was no village, no high walls, no beautiful buildings. I was shocked but at the same time it all made a kind of sense. I was living a parallel life, I still carried the essence of the three teachers in me, and at the same time the youth who was looking for adventure.

What will this day bring, what was my mission. The horses seemed rested, there was a light feeling in the air. Didi started singing and Aray joined in a call and response they learned as children. We didn't see a soul all day. In India that is beyond rare. We had a quick lunch, watered lightly the horses and rode until the sunset was coming on.

As we were dismounting our horses we suddenly began to see people; they were passing into a crowded village. We followed along. It was as if we had just now returned to the real India. But in truth we had never left. When we asked the name of this very large village I realized that we had travelled more than two thirds of the distance to the mountains in one day. A horseback journey of a month at least. Didi and Aray had no idea of where we were. I was to realize that they thought the foothills of the Himalayas were in fact just a few days' ride off. We spent the night in a small hostel, no one seemed to have any questions for us, it was as if we were apart somehow.

The next day we set out bright and early. The same thing began to happen, gradually the people and the details of the land disappeared and we rode through a curious light. Still Didi and Aray had no reaction to this strangeness. I did not want to tell them how truly odd this hopscotch travel was, or tell anyone else for that matter in case they thought we were crazy or evil spirits.

By the third day we were already 1000 feet up in the foothills. Here time and travel seemed to slow down as if it was now time to pay attention to the passing details of the country, of the people. We stopped to rest, leaving the horses back in a little hut when the trail became too steep, telling the dwellers there that we would return for them. There was a rushing stream right off the trail and we all bent to drink and refill our water skins. After our drink, Dide and Aray lay down to rest, and soon they were fast asleep. I sat still, the high mountains were behind me and a beautiful vista in front of me. I was so absorbed I did not hear the clatter of small hoofs approach. I turned there were three small wiry mountain ponies walking towards us. It seemed natural to wake my servants and mount these ponies, still not a question from them. They were happy and cheerful, in their own world. The ponies seemed to know where we were to go, taking a slantwise pass up the steep mountain side. It was getting colder, I could see the breath of our little ponies. I looked back at my servants, they looked like they were in a dream state. My mind was clear and there was a cloak of warmth around all three of us. Soon we were enveloped in a swirling mist, thick enough to not see the ground. The noble ponies just plodded along picking their way over and around boulders unseen to me. At one moment the mist cleared and I saw that we were riding along the edge of a deep crevasse. I reached out my left hand and could brush against the mountain side. The mist closed. I did not feel any fear, only a sense of wonder, my two servants were still oblivious. After a short while, the ponies stopped. You have arrived! a deep booming voice called out, echoing across the mountain repeating the greeting three times. I looked back and pulled the tethering rope I had strung to keep us together. It pulled up in my hand, neither the boys or the ponies were attached. Don't be alarmed, they are perfectly safe, this is not their journey any longer, come with me. I could see a small light in front of me, shining with a blue intensity. I was walking but I did not recall getting down off my pony. There was something very light and soft in the air. I could hear even my favorite music that my mother used to sing to me, wafting, embracing me. We arrived at a wondrous place, a perfectly formed flat meadow, in the middle was a sitting platform. I went towards it, drawn by a strange compulsion to mount it. This is your place of memories, the voice said, here you will remember who you are and all the past lives that you have lived.

I sat down. I lay down, I sat up again, deep in an inner trance of vast proportions, tumbling, scratching, a tumult of lives. Endless chains of lives. Microscopic sparks, briefly lit then onto the next, countless little births and deaths. Gradually the impressions, the images, the lived experiences had a wider field, a bigger slice of the earth to connect to as the life chain wove through tiny earth crawlers which were a million times bigger than the previous life sparks. I marveled. I had a thought that this was only a journey of resilience, one after the other, the urge to oneness to freedom, yet transcendence had an incalculable pull, hauling, dragging, kicking, each being from one stage to the next. Consciousness ripening as the spark took on larger forms, faster movement, longer lives, still rushing by in a blur. I thought to stand to stretch my legs. It felt like I had been sitting for a long time. I raised my arms to take a full breath. Then I was back in the stream, sitting again, the life river continuing. The ever expanding perceptions of my transforming bodies, sweet running, galloping, chasing, eating, killing, back again, a few steps back, repeat a hundred times, a thousand times. Then out of that vortex, a long slow time, slow only in contrast to the previous immense speed, swishing in a blur. A few short sharp twists, black out, black out, passing through thousands of lives, it was beginning to rapidly accelerate again. The all at once it's done. I have a brief glimpse of the now me. I am here, I am me. I am not only the me that first came here. I am the confirmation. I am the point, I am the rider of the life chain. There is nothing I do not know. Freed finally from the endless living dying living train. Stopped, dead, so to speak.

This moment, this time, this travel, this reality locked into place. I found myself back where my servants were. The boys were no longer boys but had aged, each day as we travelled back to Delhi, they were aging even more. While I had not changed. Once again they did not seem to notice the radical dislocations that were taking place. They called my name, they had made breakfast. I could see that the sun was now just rising. They had wanted to see the mountain, to meet a holy one, now they were ready to go home. I looked around, we were camped just outside a village that I knew was only a day's ride from Delhi. “Aren't you ready?” thet called, full of infectious excitement. “Yes I am ready,” I said, “I am ready to return, I have found what I was searching for.” In an instant they were packing up our camp. They might have thought I was a little crazy, but I was a good boss, or sahib, better yet I had them call me Sab, when they insisted I needed an honorific.

I knew in my heart that Delhi would only be a stopping point. I arrived at my old place of lodgings, but it was a new fancy hotel. The man at the front desk asked my name and said there was a letter for someone by that name. It had been in the hotel safe and just that morning he had come across it. “I hope it's not bad news,” he said. “It seems very old” as he handed it over. “You must have been away for many years.”

When I went to look for them my two servants were now old men with children of their own. They did not know me. Everything around me had experienced time changes. I found a place to sit and read the letter, stating the orphanage had located my mother’s solicitor. She had passed away and had left me her small home in the north of England and a small stipend to live on. I wondered if they would still accept my claim on the house. It was so appealing, things didn't change much in the highlands country. At this time I was still a young boy but a very old soul. It would take time to digest, to reinvent, to settle, to begin, to have a launch pad to gather and contemplate my next move, one I already knew I would take. I could see the beginning and end of the journey. I would remain in the small cottage for the rest of my days and write. That was to be my sledgehammer, my sword of Manjushri, my cutting cleaver of wisdom. My light pouring through the arches of time. Sitting there waiting for each generation to produce more readers slowly injecting some elixir into their individual life train. The sea, India, I am content. I am here, but not here.

My deep thanks to Nancy Reilly, who has edited all my stories thus far.

I would like to talk about a life. A life of one man. A difficult life, a vivid life. Fraught. Shining. A long life, a varied life. One man's life. It took him from pillar to post. I mean from country to country. He was born and lived most of his early years in India. A country that you can got lost in, get submerged in.

There were trees by his house near the river. Very special trees that attracted just one kind of bird. The Mawa, a screeching cawing massive vulture. When I say he is friends with this flock, I mean soul friends. This man has no boundaries, he was not held to any standard. He was a free man. He was not bound by societal rules. He ate carrion. He ate rotted food. It gave him strength he said, and the soul of the dead carcass became a part of him. He had enormous strength. The villagers were in awe and also afraid, until one day he cleared the village of the tiger that had menaced it. He demanded a sacrifice. A life for all the ones he had spared. He was at this time not a nice man. Not a pleasant man. That came later.

A girl, a young girl, was sent to him. She had a cleft foot, and was useless to the villagers. She came to him across a field. She walked towards him, shuffled really. She was slack jawed, her eyes were glassy, she was unsteady; they had drugged her. They had saved her life by doing so. He would not harm her, it was not in his nature to harm the weak, the sick, the disabled. He was subject to fits, to vagaries in his mind. He did not heal all that was wrong with him until later. She would be the source of his sanity. He did not know it at the time. She could not know it. She was drooling, she was without fear. She was giggling. He seized her, her feet were badly cut, she had walked carelessly, unknowingly through the sharp cutting grass in the rocky field. There was a bright sun that cast her shadow. He bent, examined it and looked closely as it splayed on the ground.

In that moment he took hold of her. Lifted her up high off the rough ground, and took her to the river. He undid her poor garments, he washed her with the soapy leaves by the river bank, he scrubbed her with the stiff bristle of the Minoka bark. Then he washed her again. He dressed her in his voluminous kura, his shirt. He took her foot in his hands. He gave her the sinews of his last carcass to eat, it passed up from his belly into her. Her cleft foot had turned yellow, she coughed and she cried out. He wrapped it in reeds, he layered it in mud. He twisted her foot. It broke, it fell into place. She was no longer lame. She did not know it, until later. She had passed out when he tore her tendons.

He carried her to his tree house. It was nestled in the very top branches high off the ground. It was the tree of the vultures. He called to them, and they gathered near. Vultures are very loyal and misunderstood. They were the cleaners, the returners to the earth, the shitter out of dead beings that they had pecked. They were spiritual, ritualistic birds. Shunned by people, and it was for the best so they could do their work of transmogrification alone. She was safe, up in the tree, no one would dare climb or even look. The villagers had a fear of these huge black birds, with their nice shiny pointed red beaks, ready for ripping and tearing flesh.

She was deeply in a trance from the healing potion he had given her. She would not wake for a week. He dripped water into her open mouth, and fed her small pieces of nourishment, which her body chewed and swallowed reflexively. The vultures watched over her, they gave her their urine. They soaked her bandaged foot in it. They lined up one by one on the branch above to sprinkle their golden innards on her. They were giving her the essence of the many beings they had helped transition. The uneaten ones, the unfortunate ones simply rotted away and returned to the earth. The vultures saved the souls of the ones they chose, they cleansed them with their sharp beaks, leaving only the lifeless inedible parts, but the soul, the atman was free and could seek a higher rebirth. So it was said, so he knew.

Her name was Phadma. She was only 15 when she was brought to him. He did not leave the area of Jinidia until she was a fulsome young girl of 19. She was very beautiful, she shone with the countless spirits she had absorbed from him, from the birds. He did not love her, he could not love, he was too full of life to love. He shared his deepest self with her. He was her feet, she was his wings.

They prepared to travel, the time had come to leave this hidden jungle sanctuary. The last old bird of the tree had fallen dead that morning. It was time to go. He was wealthy, the river had given him gold, baskets of it. He was smart, he was an absorber of knowledge. He had a mission. Phadma had taught him language, before he had only known the speech of the birds. The languages of all other beings were nothing for him to learn.

He had sent gold to the villagers to buy him a phone with a satellite connection. When the delivery drone came he was ready. He put shoes on his feet for the first time. He wanted to see the world. It was time. He ordered a boat, and it came up the river, slowly. The sailors were very afraid, what would they find, what would the new very meritorious owner be like. They only knew he had paid in cash, gold delivered by drone. They pulled up to the GPS tracker that he had installed and tied off. They quickly jumped back into the second boat they had trailed behind them. The new owner was very specific, he did not want to see them. They had to prepare, and cleanse it before they left. He waited a week before going onboard.

“Do you like it?” he asked. She was not used to being asked such a thing, all was the same to her. She was more deeply developed than even him. She looked at life plainly, she said, “if you like it then it is enough.” One by one the animals came on board, mostly monkeys, but also some snakes and lizards with their special qualities. They had all been trained. In many ways they were more adept, reliant, loyal, and resourceful than the previous crew. On board, quickly the animals began changing, within days no longer were they wild monkeys, most of their fur was gone. Their legs had lengthened and straightened. She was to blame, she had quickened the lives of the animals, speeding them up by light years, evolving their bodies into human forms. The precious human body which according to Buddhist tradition, is the only true launch platform to achieve infinity on earth. The animals flashed through countless lives in a matter of hours. The karmic schedule sequence could not be altered, but could be accelerated. Needless to say all present had numberless experiences, an infinite amount of mistakes and trials by error which developed deep insight and intelligence. They were possessed of a depth, a context only a far seer could know. Quickly they had absorbed the boat’s technical details. Gradually no longer was the boat crewed by a menagerie of animals, in their place instead were highly educated sophisticated exotic specimens of the human race. Ones that commanded immediate attention. What was their mission, their cause? Why and how had all this started and blossomed?

These transformed animals were to be the vanguard; his mission was to save the world from confusion, hers was to purify and give birth to a new consciousness that would be so obvious, you could not argue its truth. Its satisfyingness and groundedness, would be unmistakeable. They were the front of the tidal wave that was slowly bubbling in far off places, far away from the dense world society. The time had come. From the roots, from the earth, the wisdom, the clarity, the saviors would come.

They set off, she wove a path and days later their boat was approaching a town. Before the town existed, years ago a saint had passed by there, and had sat at that spot. Soon after, the people built a shrine, and later meditating monks, locals, goods and services arrived. They called this place, Shadin, which means, ‘he once sat here’.

They would begin their mission here. This little village became a holy temple, for retreat. The vultures came, gradually there was a horde of them, settling into the tallest trees. The jungle, purchased by gold, surrounded the town for hundreds of miles. Gradually this place drew the most aspiring minds, the quickeners, promoting the next level of consciousness. He used his power and money to lure world leaders here, for a week, a month, a year. Here in the village these leaders were slowly subtly changing, in their thinking, their manner, and gradually, imperceptibly at first, they began to develop a loving kindness for all humanity. Upon returning to their countries they would be the instruments of change for the betterment of humanity.

One man with his animals did this, one man began the transformation of the world. He had in turn been transformed by Phadma. We all owe the original vultures a debt, the feared birds, the eaters of death, they were the source of rebirth, you well know this, it is as it should be

.

You may ask, what is a great opening line? It jumps, it doesn't settle. It is quivering, it is a porthole, an entry point, a bridge, a carefully laid snare of no consequence, or it is of supreme importance. It may also be a throw away. Or it was written and placed in deadly seriousness, it was earnest, it was thoughtful, it was boring, it was deliberately disguised to be boring. It was suspenseful, it was better than the second line. Sad when it’s the best thing on the whole page much less the book.

Yet a good opening line does give a whole lot of capital. You can write shit for pages after a good opening line and not lose your reader, surfacing better material just as the virtues of your good opening line has run it’s course. Maybe it is a memorable line. The kind of line that people quote at parties. The offensive line, the heartwarming, the tongue in cheek line. It has to start somewhere line. Well, that’s true for every book. A good opening line is an easy swallow. A hidden symmetry that tells a lot worth knowing about the writer. There should be a law, editors don't get any input on first lines. We have the right to see the writer’s soul striped bare, no prior credibility to prop up the desperate first line. Maybe it’s a good title, but even so that just raises the stakes of the opening line. Now, just how long should it be, there is a record of opening lines that went for a 120 words. That’s a good line. I just made that up, but I am sure that has happened. You know you could be like Merce Cunningham and write a book then just randomly pick the first line. Wow, you can just keep doing that until all the lines in the book have been said. Someone somewhere must have done that.

How many tears how many drinks, how many sunsets and sunrises, how many sleeping pills, how many coffees, how many pieces of paper crudely rolled up, cut up, burned up, all of them scarred at the top by just one line. The rejection, the anger, the fear, the leap of faith was all residing on that first sentence. Many give up at this point which is a good thing, there are far too many writers. That’s a category I hope to get out of. That’s why I want to do a book about opening lines by the famous and the not so famous authors across history. Should make quite a read. I wonder if it will make sense. How do you order it? That’s a book in itself. There is the writing and then there is seeing the writing, knowing what it’s doing, making it do what you want.

It’s a opening salvo. It sets the immediate stage and if it’s good it sets the last line too. It tells you a lot about the writer, it’s a big choice. It’s a jump off point, it’s your line, your vision, your intelligence, your artistry, your suitability for the medium, your talent or lack there off.

The first line. How long have some of them taken to finish? How obscure? Did the line come later when the book was on its way, or did it come at the end? Is it a sign of an organized mind or a obsessive one, or just a clear one, or a well, this start is as good as any kind of mind. Still, the start says a lot it and it also says, pass over me, continue on. Don't mind me. I am just the start.

BLOOD

You carry my blood, she doesn't. You have her money, her wealth, her comforts. But you, you have my blood. A strong blood, a long history, generations of struggle, forged that particular rich valvular essential blend. It's the essence in you, the strength to walk through the problems and hardships of this world. You will survive and if you really want to do more than that, and triumph, well, that's in your blood too.

You can look at me and not want to own that I am your mother, I may be poor and ragged as you see me now, but I was not alway so!

She took you away from me, my son, my one and only, just a young baby. She had the power to have men take you to her, to banish me, but I hid, I stayed close. Mostly, because I am your mother. I am happy you have all that she can give you, because I am your mother. I am happy for all the ease and the future of open doors for you.

I knew where you were. I knew all these years. I have seen you grow, tried to watch you. I left on long journeys making money. I lived. The few times that I was able to help and do something for you, were precious. You thought it was people and circumstances always going your way, but often when there was a block your step mother could not clear, I’ll grant her the use of that name, I tried to be there, I was there.

If I had to give my washed body, I would, I did. I schemed for you, I have even killed for you. Yes! That's your blood. Its savage vicious primal power. Trust it, wash in it. Own it and the world is yours.

Good bye, for now sweet child, I can see how fine you are, you have said not a word, no expression, but wonder has crossed your face. I am content with that, for now.

Step by step, I will break her, we together will break her. I am happy for you, but I also seek revenge for me.

I know that he sees me, knows me through the lens of our shared blood. He recognizes in me the impulses that he already has. His way of speaking and observing was the mirror of mine. We will close the gap, bridge the chasm of time and familiarity between us. I am consumed, I will not rest until I have caused her the same ripping pain I have endured. I will slowly turn him against her, to leave her, to milk her, to laugh at her, the thief of my child. Blood will rise, cleansing blood. Mother’s blood!

This time. This time it would be better, this time I would not fail. This time. Out of many times, many failures this time was mine. I would rule it. I would master it this time.

He threw his money down. His assets down, his life savings down. Before he had only placed portions of his wealth down on the black and red wheel. Now, this time, everything. It was a fork in the road. Either/Or. This time he would not have to think. The choice was not his, he was not in control, how very delightful he said softly to himself. 

There was a hush around the table, no one spoke, hardly breathed. Only the dealer saying, Last Call! He looked over at me. He was an older man, well used to his job. Jack, his name tag said. He was the highest paid croupier at the Golden Heaven Casino. He had seen it all, but he had never seen this. The blue platinum tiled chips on the table represented the wealth of a nation. The Syndicated Golden Heaven Casino had joined with many others to pool their money. This guy always lost, we will win big, they all thought. The biggest hit that borrowed money could earn. Even a small slice of the wealth on the table would have turned every bank that was in on the deal, private. Jack was sweating, this was the big time, the biggest of time, likely never to be repeated big time. 

Bannon, sat, his mind free, he was not its master, nor its slave. He was not filled with fear or desire, only wonder. He knew it was his moment, his time, he knew. They did not. Slowly the blue radiating chips in front of him were being anted up and matched as even more individuals wanted a piece of the pie, and the collected counter debt in front of the dealer grew. 

Parity, the computers announced. The sums were even. 

She was drawn to the look on his face, the simple, I am not touched by any of this look. If he lost he would not even be able to come within one hundred yards of a club like Golden Heaven. Her hands moistened, this was power, raw, one man against the world's banks. With all their statistics telling them to bet, finally, everything. She coughed, she had been his friend for many years, they had just last night, slept with each other, the first time. Then this, was he being a daredevil, but not even devils dared this big she thought. 

She was on the edge of the precipice, she was at a fork in the road. She had a choice, but it was not a choice she could make. Most of her wealth was sitting on the table opposite his. If he lost, she won, then she would lose him. He was more to her than gold. He had said the choice would be made. If he was right then he would win. How did he know? If he won then she lost, but she gained him. He had promised, if I win I will bow at your feet. If l lose I will have to walk away. If l lose it would mean the universe had rejected me and I could not bring that beside you. It was a tricky situation, a tense situation, but he was not tense, it was as if he and she were the only people at the table. 

There was the dealer, but he was far away in a cloud, the buzzer went off. The dome closed, all hands off. Time dilated, slowed down. The silver ball trickled, tinkled down spinning up and down weaving a pattern of gravity and physical speed in an angled side banked wheel. Slowly, ever so slowly it seemed, flipping up in the air, catching beams of light  sparkling as it fell, running, dancing, twirling high above the slotted numbers, so slowly, endlessly, but gradually now less frantic, speed  slowing down, resounding echoes of the cracking of the tines as the ball bounced here and then there. Red black, nothing mattered there was only one place that ball could land that would echo his certainty of a win. 

Slowly the wheel spun down, that little ball, if you could at that moment take a photo of its shiny surface and magnify it, you would see reflected many many pairs of eyes glued to it. All those around looking only at one thing. The ball danced on top of the red nine, teetering this way and that. No one had ever seen this happen before. The dealer looked up at the camera where he knew the entire owners of the Casino were intently watching, not all their money was on this game, but a lot more than usual. After all the banks where in, they never gambled, it must be a sure thing. 

The shiny silver ball was tilting first one way then another. She went rigid, she froze, fear and anticipation, draped her usually rock steady form. Her teeth shook,  her eyes watered, her ears popped as if there was a massive release of pressure. He sat, his gaze clear, the future ripened. She slowly subsided, she had passed through a huge barrier. She was content to let the move happen in any way.

The air did not move. The dome kept it absolutely still inside the wheel, the air was chilled so the journey of the ball would be lighter and the sparkling light from it would be brighter. It was all supposed to be mesmerizing. Bit by bit, on highly precisioned balanced gears the wheel came to a stop. Not even a tank hitting the table could have moved the wheel, it was anchored in steel all the way down to the limestone foundations. 

Stopped, nothing happened, the ball, the perfectly smooth and round ball was balanced on the tine separating his winning number from the losing number. 

No one moved. He did not blink, her heart raced, it was now the fork in the road. Well! he said, it is a cusp moment. What fork will be followed? Against his vast wealth, were poised the wealth of nations, the robbers and stealers of their citizens' money. 

His money came from the mountain he owned, at least until his blue chip had included its ownership on the green felt table in front of him. She sat down, composed. This was a test, a test for him and her. He was sitting in the certainty of his win, relishing this hanging moment. Sooner or later the ball would fall, for him or crashingly against. For him it was all the same, an equivalence. 

The nudge the ball needed was his real desire to win. If he truly wanted it. The ball would slowly fall to his credit. It hung there, all the will of the dealer, the other myriad of betters were wailing, calling, blowing their breath symbolically against the ball. Even those in far away countries that were in on the bet were stricken. Their innards tightened, their anuses fissed from clenching. Their collective will was tightly aimed and focussed on pushing the ball forward over the tine, not falling back into his lap. 

The silence was broken when the dealer began to announce a misfire. Ladies and gentleman, it is the policy of the house that if there is no winner, the wheel must be... As he said the last word, the man breathed out, he sighed, he gave in, he wanted, he desired, he quickened, he had chosen the fork in the road. He who had tried to give up choice had chosen. He had to, he could not see the future game, only this one. The choice had been made for him now he had to make it, he had to want to win, to really want to win.

The ball seemed to lift off the tine, suspended in the air and with a heavy plop fell into the man's winning slot. All around there was a true collective scream, echoing through many parts of the world. 

Africa could rest, the country of the future had won. You see Bannon was black and the mountain he owned was in Africa. He had bet his country's livelihood, he had pledged the money of his country. He had unleashed generational change, he had in one moment freed his people of the need for outside interference. It would create huge benefits and huge pain in the transition, he had to want it badly enough to bear the torment his country would go through as it shed its colonial shackles. 

His new friend, a princess in her own country of Uganda, would be his consort, he would be hers.  Africa was a country of the future, with a huge number of its population still young. 

It would be the savior of the world. It would spread across all countries. For a hundred years Africa would be once again the center of culture and strength. He was the burning spear that had set it in motion, he had stood on the pinnacle and aimed at the perfect moment. He who had steadily and willingly lost, then won. The one moment he had sensed. He would be awash in the new vision. He had brought it about. Give thanks and praise, Jah Seh! He rose, she took his hand. She guided him out of the room. He was blind, that was where his insight came from, she supposed.