Scrolls of the Prophet

  Book I

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  Purity of Spirit

  “TAV, Tav, Tav, my boy..,” Master Izzy had called over, his voice ringing out with an almost infectious urgency. He stood there, his crooked smile wide, eyes gleaming in their mischief about an all too familiar play. The man had a knack for pulling you in to his scene whether you wanted it or not.

  The gap in his teeth was an ever endearing flaw, and often the subject of his stories—always with the same gift in refrain: “I had lost it in a scuffle with much bigger fellow, and mind you, I was just a lad closing in on your own age...”

  The story was one that Master Izzy would offer out readily to anyone who’d listen, and though I had heard it more times than I cared to count, I never failed to grin.

  There was something amusing in the way he would recount the supposed “battle of words” that had initially led to the violent exchange. The taller boy had insulted Master Izzy’s dear mother, mocking her as he did while making cruel remarks about Master Izzy’s family’s status.

  As the tale went on, the words had cut deep, and young Master Izzy’s fiery temper had ignited. The two had thrown fists, and in the chaos, Master Izzy had somehow managed to accept a strong enough blow to knock out his front tooth.

  “Well, of course..,” Master Izzy would carry on and laugh out with pride, “when I was of an age that was similar to yours, my hands were quick and my resolve even stronger..! The other boy couldn’t take it anymore, for the blood on his knuckles was sure proof of that..!”

  Each time he recounted the tale, I would chuckle and shake my head while he emphasized the age disparity, “When one was of your approximate age…” as though the years in their pass had never unrolled for him. His small, wiry frame and ever-present grin so often suggesting otherwise and if anything, Master Izzy had grown more stubborn with age, though, in his defense, not very much taller.

  Yet, despite the absurdity of it all, I couldn’t help but appreciate Master Izzy’s passion for the telling of his story. Perhaps it was because I had my own memories of a similar time in my life when things were far simpler—memories from a past period that came before the bazaar, before becoming a trader, a leisure that was caught up in the family activities which encapsulated my life. Not like now, when my existence consisted of nothing more than scraping by in the wilderness with what little I could find.

  I once again recalled the first time I encountered Maggy at the bustling market that day, I had been younger then, my steps much heavier while laden with the burden of life’s uncertainties. I had lived in the poor encampment that sat beneath the “Edom Mountains”—nothing more than a makeshift structure made of cloth, twine, and stone.

  The place I called home could hardly be called an encampment. It was more like a feeble attempt by a novice to make-shift a shelter—a rope-tent strung together with lengths of thick twine, these in turn being supported by two tall weathered rocks.

  The structure itself sagged under the weight of the sun’s given heat and barely offered protection from the harsh desert winds. I had tied the ropes as tight as I could, the fabric barely shading me from above as it left me exposed to both the elements and the animals that wandered through the barren landscape. I’d often thought the wind had more claim to the space than I ever did.

  The pit I had slept in was crude—a shallow trench that I dug with the only tool I could find, a shoulder-bone from a mule which I had found strewn and half-buried nearby. I used it to scrape out the earth and carve into it a place for my body that was deep enough to lay down in, the ground an escape from the worst of the sun’s heat, or that of bad weather.

  I had also built a small fire pit close in, though simplistic in the reveal, it had served my purpose well for the cooking of meals. I had used several oblong rocks which were collected from a collapsing out-cropping. It wasn’t much, but it was mine—my world of dirt and stone, and the sweat of my toils.

  Yet, in the quiet of that existence, there was something I had found unexpectedly in abundance, peace of mind. It was in the way the wind swept over the mountains, in the simplicity of my occasionally hard-won victories.

  Back then, I had no illusions about the way life worked, but somehow, in that small corner of the desert, I was more myself than I had ever been in the past, for now I knew about this larger world of merchants and the excitement of trade.

  But here appeared Maggy. She arrived in my life like a fresh gust of wind. An unexpected, and dazzling, light amidst my own bit of loneliness. I had first come to notice her when she walked by my booth in the market that day, her figure sharply in contrast to the drab surroundings of the vendors. She carried herself with a quiet grace as she made her way through the throngs of people while posed in a confidence that one rarely saw.

  I don’t know what it was, exactly—perhaps in the way that she moved, or the gentle look her eyes held—but from that moment on, my struggles seemed lighter. I had often watched her group from a short placed distance as they traversed the market. They seemed the norm, but she seemed unlike anyone I had ever encountered before. I had learned to be guarded, calculating, and wary of all others. Whereas Maggy, she was much less cautious, more open and quick to approach. There was a great sincerity in her smile when she openly spoke out to others while locked in a posture formed from a kind-heartedness that drew people in.

  I had watched her buy a basket of figs once—her fingers gently brushing the soft skin of the fruit as the vendor gave her a price which I, myself, had felt was too high.

  Amusingly, and to my surprise, the exchange that then followed was quick to elapse, almost too quick. And in the end, the vendor was left with a stack of fewer figs, a lighter purse in hand, and a baffled look on his face.

  One had seldom seen such a gifted transaction, and their was something remarkable about the way in which she bargained, it had caught my attention.

  It wasn’t just the fact that she maneuvered a lower price without any sign of effort; but more-overly it was her quiet insistence that something—anything—might be worth more than she had originally conveyed. And when she smiled eagerly after the deal was made, it was clear to everyone around who was watching that she had unquestionably won the race.

  Back at that moment, I felt something stir deep within me—an unfamiliar yearning, or even perhaps, something far deeper than just a casual admiration had taken place.

  That day, as the sun climbed high in the sky, I recalled how I had stood at my place in the market, my attentions still watching her in some curious fashion. It was as if time itself had come to a stop. And in that quiet stillness, a thought emerged unbidden—“Would she be the one to change all that I'd known...”

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  With a scrap piece of discard put to work, I proceeded to finish my construction. I placed the lower-end of a forked branch into a finger-sized hole which I had dug in the ground, this ensured that it stood tall and pointed up in the air, its prongs pointing outward toward the ark of twin horizons.

  Altogether, the task was simple, the stand and the fire-pit were both a significant achievement in my own world of creation—a modest, yet dependable, source of protection.

  The stone-lined ring around the fire-pit was merely a slight barrier, a mark of my labor and determination. It would hold back the wind, the sand, and the elements that threatened the fragile peace which I had so valued in my small corner of the desert.

  My work was done, I paused to admire the results of my efforts—both a triumph and a necessity, all wrapped up in one simple design. I had made a shelter, a water-bag rack which stood next to the fire-pit and that would serve me well for the coming days. And in some small way, it felt like victory. In the dry air which floated amid the heat of the desert, there was a satisfaction that could only be found in the art of simplicity.

  But survival was never just about one's immediate needs. With my shelter then secured and my fire-pit prepared, I shifted my focus. My hands moved instinctively toward a lambskin vessel which I had procured—a purchase made of more than just negotiation, but a mix of perseverance and shrewdness.

  The seller had demanded five copper-”talents”, but after a few minutes of haggling, I had walked away with its purchase for a lesser fee of three. It was a victory I could be proud of.

  I held the vessel in my hands and felt the smoothness of its tanned skin, and I then carefully looped its sinewy-strap over the forked end of the stick, this allowed it to rest there while suspended and with only a slight bow to the branch. The weight of the full bag strained the stick and just as I had hoped, it held firm.

  The thirst which had gnawed at me finally found satisfaction as I released its wooden plug and brought its spout to my lips, its surface polished smooth in preparing for its use. The water that flowed into my mouth was cool, even if only for a moment, and it slaked my dry throat with a satisfying rush.

  My stomach ever greedy in its fit to face the desert’s demands, absorbed the liquid eagerly, at-least until the vessel’s contents were nearly exhausted. I had drunk to my fill, and for now, one's need for sustenance had temporarily been quelled.

  But as I leaned back, settled into a posture of ease and I found myself looking beyond my immediate surrounding—at the pair of old-gray tablets which were laid out before me. Their stone surfaces all weathered but still carrying the marks of their intricate glyphs, their lines chipped but clear-enough to be ciphered and understood by someone who could read the languages of the ancients.

  These tablets had been part of my life for a time and I, myself, had never quite grasped their full-meaning. I had found the pair during one of my earlier trips to the marketplace in “Madaba”, they were buried beneath a pile of broken trinkets and cast-offs that were set aside, the stones discarded like common waste, refuse. But I had seen them for what they were: artifacts, pieces of history that held secrets which I longed to comprehend.

  The glyphs imprinted on the stone plates, despite their old-age, seemed to call to me, their words beckoning me to uncover their meaning. They were the product of old-ancient hands, their passages made of strokes from a long forgotten scribe, and within their stone etching, there was something more—a map of knowledge, or perhaps, a record of lost lives.

  I knelt down before them, my hands tracing the worn carving and allowed my fingers to follow their paths. With each stroke, I found myself drifting deeper into the hidden mysteries they offered. The languages being shown, foreign in nature, yet strangely familiar to the insight of my mind. Symbol sets of worlds which were passed and lost to time, there meanings elusive; but the weight of their teachings, this was something to be understood.

  As my gaze lingered on, the world around me seemed still. I felt like I was falling—falling into the past, into the lives of those who had come before me, their voices calling out from inside the stones themselves. Their knowledge, their struggles, their triumphs—all had been captured in these ancient glyphs. I wondered if the ancients had also known what it was like to feel this same thirst for understanding, this burning need to uncover the truth which commanded the world.

  I leaned further back, a strange feeling settled in my chest as I stared up at the blue-sky above. The wind rustled at the top edges of my rope-tent, and for a moment, it was as if I was no longer alone.

  One could hear the faint voices of those who had crafted these tablets faintly whispered in the air, they spoke out in words that I could not hold on to. Yet, in that moment, I knew that I would find the answers. It would be only a matter of time.

  The shift in my thoughts brought me back to that encampment by the fire-pit, the water-bag as it hung from the stick, and the stones which were arranged carefully around the campfire.

  This was my life now—a simple, yet sufficient life. But even in the midst of this barren desert, I felt the stirring of something greater. I was not content to simply survive. There was more to this world—more to learn, more to find out, and more to uncover. And those ancient tablets, the ones with their chipped and worn edges, they seemed to be a key. I wondered where this path might lead me.

  “What did these stone plates have to tell me that might change my life, my fate..?” For now, I could only wait, watch, and learn—and be on the ready to take the next step...when the time would be right...

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  “MASTER NETRAMIE...” My voice barely escaped as I whispered the plea, it was a self-conscious murmur that echoed through the silence of my simple encampment. I couldn't help but fret—if I were to offer such a delicate and finely honed set of items at the market, it would be nothing short of disastrous if I were to provide an aspiring client with the wrong information, or even worse, a falsehood of interpretation.

  This was something that would surely put a dark-mark on the budding reputation which I had so painstakingly built among the traders at the “Madaba” market. In the bizarre, one's reputation was more valuable than gold coin or nugget. The last thing one wanted was to bring down his own weight with the gift of mis-truths.

  As I knelt down to lay in the trench of my bidding, my thoughts quickly turned toward the fine master, the very same elder-scholar who had long been a guiding force in my life. His teaching, though long past their hey-day, they continued to carry great weight in my mind.

  He was, after all, one of just a few people who had truly seen any potential in my quarries, guiding me to more understand the world of words, and the symbology that eluded my knowing. His was a wisdom so immense, and his knowledge—surely vast.

  Master Netramie had lived in relative isolation for some years now. His home was a simple cave which was perched on a hilltop just a short walk from my own. A place of quiet reflection and study. Master Netramie in his youth had been a well-regarded cleric, and his teaching had been sought out by many in the town for over fifty-years, and he had been at the center of its main school for learning, revered for his clarity of thought and clear speech, and his deep understanding of ancient texts and their laws.

  But time had dulled his once sharp mind. And though he had not yet lost his ability to communicate and forward the essence of his teaching, his thoughts had become less certain, more fogged. He had then been replaced by a more favored, younger cleric—someone more aggressive, more modern, and whose fervor and likeness had won over the people.

  Master Netramie’s loss being “Madaba's” sure gain, for he had been relegated to a status of a much lesser elder, a retiree in the temple’s eyes, someone who was forced to give-way to the aggression of new blood.

  The master had lived a humble life. His needs being simple, and he received charity from a few kind souls in the town. Dried meats and flat-breads, and the occasional skin of honey-tea—these being the simple comforts for a man who had once been the guiding light for so many. And yet, despite his recent fall from grace, he still retained his dignity, and his knowledge, for the gains in the age of his life, its troubles, had not dulled him entirely.

  When I ventured out to seek his opinion of my frequent discoveries, it was not only out of necessity that I journeyed, but also out of respect. I would bring whatever I had found, whether it be an old relic from an ancient tomb, or a “stone-tablet” that had been inscribed by hand in a host of strange markings.

  He was the one who could make sense of it all. The one who could translate the unknown and bring meaning to the seemingly cryptic. He maintained deep understanding of the old languages—“Aramaic”, “Egyptian”, “Roman”, “Greek” and “Sanskrit”,—they had all made him invaluable.

  The gift of his insight was immeasurable in keep, it even extended to include the languages which were much less known at the time, the forgotten tongues of the old gods, the gods whose names had been lost to history, but whose whispers had still resonated on the surfaces of these plates from their placement during long past eras.

  In our exchanges, I often found myself humbled by the breadth of his learning. Master Netramie spoke with ease in these old languages I could not yet begin to understand. To him, the syllables of ancient tongues were as familiar as breathing, each word flowing with clarity from the cast of his lips.

  I, on the other hand, struggled and fumbled with the words as they seemed to slip from my grasp no matter how hard I tried. But I did not mind the struggle. I was patient, for I knew that every effort I made in his presence was an investment in knowledge.

  When together, one of our regular barters involved a mixed triage of dried figs and soft dates. I knew how he loved them, and whenever I had the chance, I would bring him a small supply.

  I knew that his heart would be warmed by the gesture. And in return, he would offer me translations, cryptic explanations, ciphering of symbols, and/or, the meaning of obscure texts.

  We both benefited from these exchanges, and the bond of our trust only grew as we developed what I considered to be a very rare friendship.

  In my recent travels, I had taken to exploring further and further afield and trekking along the mountainous paths of “Moab” and the nearby regions of “Jericho”, “Nebo”, and “Ammon”. And though my efforts had yielded only meager returns, I could not shake the hunger for any new discovery.

  The untouched caves, the hidden ruins—they all called to me plainly, their mysteries beckoning out to me like a siren’s song. And so, I journeyed on...

  The terrain was harsh, and the rewards were few, but each journey, no matter how barren, had brought with it the promise of a chance at new knowledge. And that was what kept me going—what kept me moving forward, even when the road seemed endless and the rewards felt fleeting at best. With each endeavor, I would return to Master Netramie more eager than ever for his insight, his wisdom, and his gift of translation.

  One of my most recent discoveries had been this set of stone tablets. They were old—discarded, unwanted, and covered in dust. They had been thrown away in a displaced pile of counterweights, long-abandoned, long forgotten while left far from the prying eyes of the townsfolk. When I first uncovered them, I knew immediately that they would hold great significance.

  The etchings on the surfaces were unlike any I had known, a mix of symbols from different cultures, their overall meaning was lost to me. It was these very tablets that had lain on the ground beside me in the pit, their faces smoothed and cool to the touch.

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  Master Netramie had ciphered them for me, but his translation had been anything but straightforward in tell. He had spoken of great gods from old, forgotten kingdoms, of rituals and ceremonies which had been long buried beneath the sands.

  But to him, the tablets foretold a great story—an imagery which spanned through the centuries and stretched far across time, and they spoke of a period when civilizations had risen and then just as quickly they had fallen away. When empires were built and then fought for their dominance over others, and when the bodies of the gods themselves had walked among men.

  As I traced the symbols with my fingers, I felt a strange pull; an urge to understand and take care of their meaning. There was something more to these tablets than the simple history of old.

  For me, they were a key, and I believed—a key to something greater, something beyond the grasp of mere mortals. And as the words of Master Netramie echoed in my mind, I knew that I had to unravel their mystery, no matter the effort and no matter the cost.

  But the deeper I delved into their meaning, the more questions arose. "Who had created these tablets..?, And why had they been discarded in this horrible way..?, just what was the purpose of their message..?" These were the questions that I plied to find answered. And although one thing was clear, the path I was walking was one of great significance, and the knowledge I sought was not just for myself—it was a key to the understanding of something far greater than the simple life I had known. For now, I could only continue my search, guided by the cryptic markings of the past and the wisdom offered out by my friend Master Netramie, and the quieting of the gods and their whispers in tune...

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  “DIONYSIS Falls...my young master...that is the tell here..," Master Netramie’s aged and weathered voice rasped out the words as they stumbled softly from his lips and out into the air. His eyes, once sharp and perceptive, now appeared clouded by time, the brown-pigments of his irises had taken on with a semi-solid appearance, and yet they somehow still managed to glimmer out to me with their faint flickers of brightness.

  The years were not kind to him, and though his wisdom remained hardened, the clarity with which he once saw the world was now slipping away. "This was a slow creeping thing...age..," and it took from him greatly piece-by-piece, in return it only left the memory of his once brilliant faculties unguarded, dismissed.

  I watched as his hands shook ever so slightly as he reached out for a fig, the motion he gave graceful despite his deterioration. In a few seasons’ time, his sight would be gone entirely, and I feared that the world would shrink away from him completely and lead him into a hollow-pit quite filled up with darkness.

  ”What survival...if any...would remain for my friend..?"

  I wondered quietly to myself, the question had slipped out before I could even catch it, before I could protect the elder’s dignity from my worry-some thoughts.

  A deep sadness swelled in my chest as I watched him chew thoughtfully on the edges of a dried fig, the frailty of his body, it was cast far-more apparent in his gestures than the sharpness of his mind.

  “Master Netramie...old friend—have another fig..,” I offered out gladly while I pushed aside my melancholy. I gave him the dried fruit, and watched as his hands, though covered with age-spotted skin, grasped it up willingly with an unspoken gratitude. The tenderness of the moment had lifted the tension which sat upon my shoulders as his voice continued on.

  The old scholar, with a gleam of something distant that still flickered in his eyes, he peered for a second at the two-clay tablets I'd brought him. His gaze was affixed as he searched out their meaning, the lines in their etching, the subtly-traced symbols which his thick fingers followed as a guide to their shapes, they were patterns which might offer up to him with their long, held-back secrets.

  “A very sad tale...indeed..,” Master Netramie murmured, his voice thick with the weight from unspoken years, yet the melancholy he offered was clear in his tone. He raised his gaze briefly, his face tight bent with concentration. He looked over the tablet again, and I could see his mind whirling as it worked beneath the surface, it turned over and over the lines of transmittal, translating their impressions, or what could be translated, deciphered what was there and had long been forgotten.

  As he read aloud, I leaned in closer, and I followed each word that passed from his lips. "The deity was called back from her hold and cast back to the spirit world in the end...she grew distressed about life...her emotions more frantic...for she could no longer live without the love of her honored...the master of her hopes...the one who it seems had already succumbed from the depths of his wounds...The gods took him up...their jealousy of the love-bond between them..."

  The words fell from his lips with a heavy resonance, it was as though the tale was one not simply of gods and that of mortal men, but one of fate—a bitter, cruel, and inevitable ending.

  Master Netramie paused, his hand once again reached out automatically for another round fig. I handed him two-more, both of which then rapidly disappeared into the fold of his pocket before he continued:

  “This is the handy work of the old "Hebu" clerics...no doubt about that...yes...yes...these are their words...and the hands which have dealt it...”

  I felt a surge of excitement. "Do you think they are of any value...Master..? The tablets...I mean...what can they fetch..?" My voice came out fast and though calm, it betrayed my held eagerness.

  There was some part of me that languished this moment, to hear him confirm what I had already hoped—that these treasures, these works of the gods themselves, they might grant with something more than just simple understanding. The prospect of barter weighed heavily on me, and I held fast to the distant gift of a promise that grew nearer with each passing moment.

  With an exaggerated, but gentle applied touch, Master Netramie placed a single bony-finger to the round-tip of my shoulder, his touch slightly weak, but surprisingly firm. "Three-silver-"talents" or more...for the pair..," he declared, his voice spent with confidence.

  "It does appear that the gods themselves have smiled upon yet again...young master...You’ve done well to have found these..."

  A sense of triumph swelled within me, but it became tempered by the sobering realization that I had just begun to walk the road of a new trade or set barter, and that this world was one where power shifted hands with a whisper.

  My heart raced at the thought of the journey to come, but I kept my composure, and as I leaned into the moment, I soaked up all I could of Master Netramie’s praises.

  He gave a slow nod as if he were satisfied with his own analysis, and then changed his tone to shift over in a call somewhat lighter. “Young Tav...my lad...it seems it is time for our tea...” He spoke with a peculiar softness now, his earlier intensity having gave way to a warm, almost child-like energy.

  The change in him was strange—an ephemeral quality that I had learned to expect from him arrived. The frailty of his old-age would return time-to-time, and at other times, he would once again regain a clarity which I had thought was lost forever.

  With that, he rose from his seat, his movements slow, but constant and deliberate, and he then made his way toward the shadowed inner sanctum of the darkness in his cave. As I watched him walk by, his head shook just slightly with each step given in the effort, and I felt a pang of protectiveness arrive which I wanted to provide. "The world is not kind to the elderly...and not very kind to those who had given everything in life while expecting nothing in return..," I thought.

  When I followed him into the cool, dim interior of the cave, the air there was thick with the scent of old-books and warn-manuscripts. The fire pit crackled softly from its indent in the corner, and cast a faint-light on the scattered parchments and scrolls that littered the ground.

  Our voices grew casual as we settled down by fire-side, and the warmth of the tea and the familiarity of our conversation began to ease my inner tensions. The slow simmer of our shared words began to settle in my mind.

  Sipping at the tea, I felt the weight of the world outside fall away, at least for a time. Here, in the presence of the old scholar, I was reminded of the simpler things in life—the things which mattered most as they rested beyond the acquisition of coins and the barter or trade, beyond the rush of the market and all its exchanges.

  When it was time for me to depart, the sun had already begun to dip down and below the horizon, it cast its long shadows over the landscape. I rose reluctantly from my place and gathered up my belongings, and I slung my heavy pack over the breadth of one- shoulder.

  Master Netramie followed me to the cave’s entrance, his frailty more evident while he stood at the threshold, he smiled and waived as he watched me take leave.

  "Take care...young master..," he said, his voice carried the weight of his unspoken wisdom. “May the gods smile upon you today...but they are so fickle...please do your best to keep all your wits about you...”

  I nodded in a silent agreement, and gave him one last glance in return before I then made my way down the mountain's steep path and back towards my camp.

  The journey ahead loomed large in my mind. The coming barter of the tablets, the prospect of one acquiring some wealth—these things filled me with nervousness and great expectations. And as I neared my camp and settled into the solitude of my small hearth's existence, my thoughts began to turn inward. The excitement of the day then faded and fell into a darker feeling of dread. The market, the barter, the inevitable dealing—it all seemed quite closer now, like a mirage on the horizon.

  “Early to the pit...early to the rise..,” I muttered to myself while I attempted to push the reoccurring nervous-tension from my mind. "The morning would come soon enough..," I thought, and with it, my up and coming expedition to the market.

  But tonight, this night, I struggled to quiet my mind. The weight of what was to come pressed heavily on my chest and I knew that no amount of rest could settle the restlessness that stirred deep within me. It was the fear of the unknown, of what might come to pass from the exchange. "What do the gods above truly have in store for me..?" I wondered.

  The fire crackled with life in the pit nearby, but I did not seek to ignite it or draw-out its comfort. Instead, I simply bent down and crawl in my bedroll, my thoughts still raced, my emotions caught up in bits of restlessness and the uncertainty of the future.

  Tomorrow, that would bring its own revelations, its own trials and tribulations—and I would face them all soon, but for now I would sleep, but sleep had eluded me.

  The night had steadily settled in on me as I stilled myself in the humble trench I had dug, my entire camp now surrounded by the fading echoes of the day’s rays. My body ached from the long haul, and the worn steps of my travel, and there was no energy left to coax out more comfort from the damp grave where I was piled.

  Instead, I resigned myself to the chill of the dark-night and the creeping coolness of the desert air. The quiet was comforting with its gift of laxed stillness, and though the stars hung above in their distant sparks of glory, I found no peace in their brilliance or the large voids between their lights.

  With methodical care, I tipped my knapsack on its side, and I felt for the familiar weight of the tablets which rested within, their significance in life so prevalent in my mind and I couldn't quite shake the inner-sensation that they were somehow connected to me and not just mere relics.

  They were their memories, and the telling of their stories was living proof of the gods themselves. And I, just one who was a humble traveler who had stumbled upon them in the most unlikely of ways.

  There was something special about them, a desperate call that beckoned to me, a voice I had yet to understand, but nonetheless, one I could feel pulsing in the very marrow of my bones.

  Slowly, I retrieved the wrapped tablets from their confines, and let the cloth fall away. I carefully placed them at the far end of my shelter where the soil had been cut to fit the shape of their bodies.

  The contours of the earth embraced my tired form as I slid them down gently, the rounded edges of their forms then settled in easily as they shifted in place while the day's twilight came creeping. The sheet I was in barely covered my body, and with practiced hands, I did my best to make do with a firm, gentle pull. Unfortunately, and to my dismay, no comfort could be had...

  The weight of the day's events, the trek, the barter, the knowledge that was provided by Master Netramie, it all hung heavily upon my mind. Yet, I felt there was something else—an inexplicable tension had taken hold of me, a mixture of apprehension and anticipation—a strange wanting which gnawed at the outer-edges of my thoughts.

  I had been so focused on the future, on the journey that lay ahead that I had not fully embraced the importance of the present moment. And now, in the silence of the evening, as I lay down to rest, my mind unraveled itself from its tight coil of anxiety, and I finally slipped into a more relaxed state.

  The transition from wakefulness to that of peaceful sleep was slow but inevitable, as though the pull of the unknown had become too strong to resist.

  My senses became dulled as the weight of my exhaustion carried me deeper into the realm of on-coming dreams. In those moments, when the boundary between reality and illusion blurred, I found myself drifting—floating—an un-anchored body which only resembled my physical form.

  I was no longer tethered to my earthly form. Instead, I was adrift in a vast expanse of ever-shifting shadows, a place where time seemed to be irrelevant. There was no horizon, no reference point, only the enveloping darkness that seemed to stretch out endlessly in every direction.

  And yet, within this void, I could feel a pulse of life—a pulse from the universe itself, a soulful beating from an ancient type of rhythm.

  The visions came to me then, as they always had in the realms of my sleep. But this time, they were different, more vivid than before, more insistent, as though I were not simply dreaming, but receiving messages—warning, or perhaps, calls to an action.

  These visions unfolded before me like a series of layered realities, each one on its own more strange and bewildering than the ever before. I passed through their curtains without provision of effort, my spirit moved effortlessly as the fabric of the world faded.

  One vision was particularly striking, it was one that left an indelible impression that I could not shake free from, even upon waking. It began as a path, a road, though not one constructed from any material that I knew.

  It was not of stone, of wood, or earth, but of something more elusive—something that defied definition. It rose from the blackness like a gentle fog, and then wound upward into the span of the unknown. There was no clear beginning, or end, only an invitation to follow, to step forward into the basin of its mystery.

  As I moved closer to the road, I felt a pull—an irresistible force drawing me toward it. My spirit-body soared and seemed to stretch forward and I was eager to answer its call.

  The path itself seemed alive and responded to my presence. It shifted and undulated as if it had a will of its own. The world around me felt distant, It grew to be redefined as if I had transcended time itself and now existed in a place that was caught between mere waking and the fullness of dreaming, between what was real, and that which might be newly created. Then, something changed...

  The air around me thickened, and I felt another presence—an energy, a force that out-matched my own. It was as if I had collided with another form of life, one whose essence had now intertwined itself with mine. In an instant...

  There was no fear, only a sense of union. It was as though I had found a new part of myself that had long been forbidden. Our forms blended together, we became as if one in a dance of creation. A union of spirit and boundlessness that transcended the physical realm. And in that union, I came to feel a profound peace—a peace that seemed to wash away all the worries, turmoil and uncertainty of my former waking life.

  I did not know where this path would lead me, but I knew I could help but follow it forever. It was a road not meant for the body but for the soul, a journey at hand that could only be undertaken by those who were willing to surrender their entire being into the unknown.

  The vision began to fade, but not before I felt one last call—one final whisper in the darkness. It was a voice, but not one spoken aloud. It was felt, deep within me, as though the very fabric of my being had absorbed all the words.

  “Seek the truth within yourself...be strong...and you will find your own way...”

  The words lingered in my mind as the vision dissolved and left me floating once more a void of enchantment. And then, with a final, gentle pull, I succumbed once again to the physical realm, to the camp where my body lay hobbled beneath the hard earth, still and un-moving.

  I awoke with a startle as my heart raced on, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The dream had been so vivid, so real that I could still feel the echoes from it as it vibrated through my soul.

  I took a deep breath, steadied myself in the quiet of the night. The sky above had shifted—the moon was now casting its pale-light across the landscape, the stars twinkled softly in their eternal embrace.

  I could not shake the feeling that something had changed within me. The dream, or the vision, it had imprinted my heart within a telling I could not fully comprehend, but I knew they held meaning—an unknown understanding which I had not yet grasped.

  Perhaps this was a path that I was meant to follow, or even a warning, a reminder that the journey ahead which I had to embark on was not simply about finding buried treasures or some hidden knowledge, but about finding something that was stilled within myself.

  I looked toward the tablets which were still rested at safety in their foothold of placement, and I wondered if they indeed held the key to the mysteries of life. “On the morrow..,” I thought, one would seek out the answers, but for now, I would allow myself to drift back to sleep, the strange sense of peace from that stilled dream before, it still lingered within me.

  As I lay there half-sleeping, the journey before me had yet to begin, and with would come the subtle promises of something far greater—a whisper from the depths of my soul. A reminder, perhaps, that the truest discoveries lay not in the external world, but within one's own hardships themselves. A path that would led not to riches or glory, but to the heart’s deepest truths, where one could then find some solace in his purity of spirit..!

  ...Select Next Scroll...

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  Thank you valued Rider's Vault Members..!

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  CURRENT VOLUME List:

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  Scrolls of the Prophet...historical/biblical/adventure/coming of age

  - Awakening

  - Gathering

  - Binding

  - Bloodline

  - Prophecy

  - Phoenicia

  - Future Dig

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  Scrolls of the Past...historical/adventure/coming of age

  - Amen Rey (Egyptian)

  - House of the Fawn - (Greek)

  - Spice Road - (Persian)

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  Dominatrix...sci-fi/thriller/action/space adventure/coming of age/assassin

  - Domina

  - Bisal

  - Alaran

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  Terraformation..sci-fi/action/adventure/alien love story/space travel

  - Terra-Form

  - Terra-Rise

  - Terra-Site

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  Quest of the Seeker..thriller/murder mystery/afterlife/coming of age

  - The Key

  - The Clown

  - The Seeker

  **Hint: The Seeker is the Grim Reeper's brother...:)

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  The Cleaner..action/thriller/coming of age/assassin

  - The Child

  - The Woman

  - The Teacher

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  Ready The Yeti..children's series/adventure/life lessons

  - I Am Ready

  - I Am Sassy

  - I am Abominable

  or

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  Follow my load of chapters 1-30 as I edit / proof-read / and post...

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  Scrolls of the Prophet - Book Volumes 01 - 07 + all other titles in progress (25 Book Volumes)

  Join and continue to chapters 01 - 30 of each volume

  Read them as a whole - or read them as I load them...

  Thanks for your support....Rider

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  ◆ all volumes ◆ all titles ◆ unedited ◆ edited ◆

  ◆ full-draft versions ◆

  ◆ early-bird releases ◆ bundles ◆

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  Or if you feel fishy... -Nano

  https://youtu.be/oVDP3mlpniQ -