Lincoln
slid into the one open desk slot at the grand round credenza, not because he
knew what he was doing, but because it seemed his only option. There were no
other openings, and it seemed at first glance that the assemblage was composed
of mostly gray-haired men, but there was at least one ancient Asian woman, and
Lincoln noticed two middle-aged black men sitting next to each other. All of
this he glimpsed and thought with a glance, and strangely he did not wish to be
observed counting faces, so he kept his eyes down, and figured that there must
be at least fifty people present.
Forty-nine, the thought rang in his head. Yes,
that is it, he is the forty-ninth member to join at the credenza. He does not
know where the thought originated, nor why he understands it to be true.
“Forty-nine
present,” someone says, and the gathering answers in one voice: “We test the
poison without drinking of it, and we are not harmed. Forty-nine members
present, in one accord.”
Lincoln
said the words, too, perfectly, in unison with the forty-eight other voices.
And he did not know why he said the words, or the meaning of the strange rote
speech.
His
heart slammed in his breast. He did not know what was happening. He did not
know what all of this was about, or why he was here, but here he was indeed. He
seemed to be dreaming, but then again not.
“Are
there any here present that are not awake?” someone said, speaking officiously,
as if the question was one of form and completely rhetorical in nature, and the
gathering remained quiet. No one spoke. The silence stretched. By peeking up
under his brows Lincoln was able to observe that all the members sat face-down,
as in a moment of prayer, or meditation. They seemed to be waiting. No one
seemed to watch. All waited.
Finally,
Lincoln looks up and glances about the room. He half-lifts his hand, then lowers
it to the dark wood of the huge round credenza top. He stares at his hand, hearing
a few soft inhalations, and perhaps one or two exclamations, and then he thinks
better of his reticence to admit his cloudy ignorance and raises his hand,
slowly at first, and then he is lifting his hand high, fully extending his
elbow and pointing up all of his fingers and his thumb. His hand and arm lift
all the way until he can reach no farther. He had best admit that he has no
idea of where he is nor what is happening, and not just continue playing along
with whatever strange ritual this gathering enacts. This is decidedly is not a
dream, and forty-nine is seven times seven. This is real. This is a real place.
This is not a dream even though all colors are muted, everything seems
confusing, everything slightly blurred.
Eyes
stared at him, and some lids blink rapidly. But there was only quiet from the
assembled, until after many pregnant eternities a small voice whispers harshly:
“Lincoln, please, this is not the time for one of your jokes. Please be
serious. Put your hand down.”
Lincoln
glanced about but could not locate the speaker. It sounded like a woman’s
voice, but he could not locate any female faces alongside the length of
credenza where the sharp admonition had sprung. He slowly lowered his hand.
Everyone stared at him. He did not recognize a single face. From somewhere near
echoed the mechanical rhythm of a clock ticking, what must apparently be a very
large clock, because although he had not noticed it before, he has been
listening to that metronome of time all this confused while.
An
old man sitting on Lincoln’s left said: “Are you serious? Are you not awake?”
Lincoln
coughed. He said, beginning slowly, softly, but gaining in strength: “I do not
know what is happening. I do not know where I am. I do not know what it means
when you say not awake. This all
seems like a dream. I know I am not sleeping, but this seems like a dream. I
know this place is real, but everything seems dreamlike.”
A
very large man seated a dozen seats away from Lincoln rumbled: “Record Keeper,
when is the last time that Lincoln was not awake?”
“A
moment,” a tiny person said. It was not obvious if this tiny person, the Record
Keeper, was male or female. The tiny person was very, very old, intricately
graven with delicate wrinkles. A glow appeared on the tiny person’s face.
Apparently a computer screen was set in the credenza top. Lincoln looked
closely at the credenza top between his own hands. Yes, an odd screen was
definitely set there, and glancing to his right and left he registered that all
of them had what appeared to be identical screens before each of the forty-nine
faces present.
“From
the records,” the Record Keeper said, “it appears that this is the first
recorded instance of Lincoln in a state of not being awake.”
“Is
that even possible?” the very large man with the deep voice queried. “Was not
Lincoln one of the first? One of those first quickened?”
“Lincoln
was the first,” the Record Keeper said.
Someone
in the dim light, halfway around the credenza, raised a hand, and then half
rose from their seat. It was an ancient man with a bald, spotted head. “Lincoln
was instrumental in waking me, and I am one of the oldest.”
Lincoln,
aghast, raised trembling limbs and inspected the skin on the backs of his own
hands. His skin is liver-spotted and loose, splotched and lifted by dark blue
veins. These are the hands of the decrepit. Lincoln clasps his arms tightly
about his chest, exploring himself, finding himself withered, emaciated,
gnarled and old. He is ancient. Lincoln, unaware of anything, finds himself on
the edge of death, his entire body trembling.
“Adams,
please escort Lincoln to an alcove and make an effort to awaken Number
Forty-Nine, thank you,” a compelling voice chimed from somewhere in the room. A
bald man with a cane immediately rose and hobbled around the credenza to meet
Lincoln, who stumbled up out of his chair to meet him. Adams directed Lincoln
to a dark alcove lit only by the glowing illumination of a dark-blue stained
glass window. Lincoln focuses on that stained glass, the light drawing him
toward it. It is an image set in shattered glass, a very familiar seeming image
depicting a seven-branched menorah rising from an opened book, the flames
rising from the oil of the book.
Somewhat
breathlessly, the two old men half-faced each other upon an old padded bench
directly beneath the glowing glass. Lincoln now perceived the facing stained-glass
window, the one opposing the seven-branched candlestick. This window presented
a lifted hand, a distinctly red hand, shattered and comprised of glowing
pieces.
“What
do you know, in an awakened sense?”
Adams asked.
Lincoln
thought a few moments before answering. “I know that I am old. That is all. Oh,
and somehow I know that everyone calls you…Q.”
Q
smiled and nodded. “It will have to do. First, do not feel bad. I too have been
in this same predicament more than a few times. I believe I have found myself
in these chambers, not knowing who I am or what is happening, perhaps twelve
times in all. As you just learned, this is the first time it has happened to
you, but it will probably not be the last time, unless matters come to a final,
concluding head.”
“Is
there something wrong with my mind?” Lincoln queried, interrupting Q while shrinking
in on himself. He felt cold, and the voluminous sweater about his torso did not
seem to warm him.
“No,
brother, it is not your mind that is troubled. But time, itself,” Q said,
smiling gently, patting Lincoln’s hand. He spoke calmly, reassuringly, nodding
his ancient head. “You cannot see the Great Clock, but can you hear it ticking?
Yes, that is time, and the minute hand is now one minute before Midnight, in
figurative time, of course. The world feels the rumbles; no, the universe feels
the rumbles. All eternal time feels the rumbles. And so, to proceed, I will ask
you a few questions, or I will make a few statements, or suggestions, and you
should just allow yourself to react organically. Do not consider your
responses, but just reply as honestly as possible. First, I say the two words…Secret Societies.”
Lincoln
said the first few things that entered his mind: “Freemasonry, Illuminati, and
perhaps…the Militant Church? The inner workings of the universal church, the
secret part?”
“Good,
good,” said Q. “Yes, these are factions of the same side, all three. You are
not completely…not awake. Let me try
another word. Papacy…?”
“That
is not real,” Lincoln said, hardly without thought. They looked at each other
for a few moments, Q staring at him gravely. “Surely, that is not real. It is
merely a mythological rumor, isn’t that true?”
“No,
it is real. You are responding to remembrances from an earlier carnation, when
the Universal Church did not rise, but merely wreaked havoc from darkness, in
secrecy. But in this present carnation, the Papacy operates fully in the light.
There are churches, or should I say temples, everywhere. This is a smiling,
present carnation, fully speaking on television and all media. Do you know what
I am saying?” Q said, leaning close. “The other societies you mentioned, they
are hidden, considered by most to be conspiracies, in this carnation. From what
you remember, the outright, in-the-open truths are now in hiding, considered by
all but a few to be lunatic-fringe conspiracies.”
Lincoln
pondered a few moments. “I do not understand what you mean by…carnation. A carnation is a flower.”
“An
older meaning,” Q said. “Carnation, meaning flesh.”
Lincoln
began to rise from his seat but Q placed a hand upon his arm and held him fast.
“Let
me try another word,” Q said, gravely, with utter seriousness. “Incarnation.
What does that mean to you?”
“It
is a religious term,” Lincoln said. He thought a moment, his eyes flicking
about in his head as he sorted through his inner dictionary. “It is something
made flesh. A thought, an idea, or something of spirit. Or something that represents
an eternal truth.”
“Precisely,
on every count,” Q said, smiling encouragingly. “Precisely, my friend. I am
speaking of the Carnation of Incarnation, or the flesh of the incarnation, or
the manifestation of the dream, ideas becoming real, or reality casting shadow.
We do not have the time to delve into these ideas, it is only my intention to
nudge you, allow you to access the information that is buried deep inside of
you. You have the knowledge, but unfortunately it has all been jumbled in the
rumbles of quickening time.”
Lincoln
still felt lost, but he sensed what Q was attempting to accomplish, and
although he had not even the beginning of understanding, he nodded for Q to
continue.
“I
will continue,” Q said, “but if anything catches in your mind, you just signal
me with your eyes, and I will slow. You may ask me any question, but it is best
if you trust me in the flow, and tumble though you may, allow truth to open
your eyes. You may not like that truth, it may be confusing, and even irritating,
and it might even make you angry, but grab onto what is true, and do not let it
go. Are we agreed?”
“Certainly,”
Lincoln said, “please continue.”
“What
most people think of as reality, is in truth only the fabric of dream, and that
which they consider a vapor, or breath, I am talking about spirit, they
consider to be illusory. Spirit is truth, and flesh is the lie. This carnation,
perhaps more than any of the thousands, or millions before it, is more carnal,
more absent of spirit than any other preceding carnation.”
Lincoln
interrupted, merely be raising an eyebrow. Q paused and nodded his permission.
“You
are not speaking of reincarnation, are you?” Lincoln said with some obvious
trepidation.
“No,
no, my friend, as your face reveals, you retain enough understanding to know
that it is a shadow play invented by our enemies, a clouded interception meant
to ensure that those who should awaken will remain not awake for as long as
possible.”
“Our
enemies?” Lincoln interrupted Q’s answer to the first interruption.
“The
secret societies you mentioned,” Q replied.
“Are
we not a secret society?” Lincoln queried, waving a hand to indicate the
credenza where the forty-seven ancients sat talking softly.
“We
are the Forty-Nine Shadows that remain secret to all secret societies. They are
not our enemies, as they know nothing of our interference, or especially our
existence. But we are their enemy, because they are allied with His enemy,” Q
said, speaking rapidly, obviously attempting to say as much as possible before
Lincoln might interrupt again.
“You
refer to…God?” Lincoln said, eyebrows
lifted, humor crackling in the wrinkles surrounding his eyes.
“I
refer to Reality,” Q replied with gravity, meeting Lincoln’s gaze with steady
eyes. “We are shadow, as is the nature of our enemy. Only He is real. He is
Reality.”
“We
are shadow? Then what is Reality’s first enemy, the enemy with which the secret
societies are allied?”
“The
enemy of Reality is a shadow, as well, but a shadow much closer to reality, in
much the same fashion that people are shadows, but a more distant shadow than
are we,” Q said, speaking rapidly, confidently, as one that has answered these
questions many, many times. “People, or the moving hazy things we know as
people, are twice removed from reality, twice, or rather thrice.”
“So
we, the Forty-Nine,” Lincoln said, “are closer to Reality than are human beings?
Then you are saying that we are not human beings.”
“We
are human beings,” Q said, “but we are progressed, just a bit further than
those that are not awake. We are the dreams that know themselves to be dreams.”
“Are
you saying that we are dead? That we are spirits?” Lincoln said, his whole
being radiating incredulity.
“No,
my very sharp friend, even not awake you are quicker than most. No, we are
certainly human beings, and we are not dead. Listen, Lincoln, do you hear?” Q
said, tilting his head, his eyes closed, a half-smile upon his lips.
Lincoln
listened. The loud but soothing clockwork ticking was all that he could hear
other than the soft murmur of the Forty-Seven at the credenza.
“The
clock,” Lincoln said.
“Yes,
the Clock,” Q answered, opening his
eyes, nodding. “We are outside of Time, that is why we do not see the Clock,
but only hear its progression.”
“It
seems to me,” Lincoln said, wryly, “that if we are outside of the clock, it
would be the best place to observe it.”
“I
said we are outside of Time, not outside of the Clock!” Q laughed. “That is an
example of your natural humor, Lincoln. But then the Clock is merely a parable,
to aid us in understanding our task.”
“What
is our task?” Lincoln said.
“We
are to aid and soothe Reality,” Q said, leaning forward, his hands upon his
knees. “Reality is greatly aggrieved, even tormented, not willing to lose even
one, but alas, as is obvious, only a relative few ever choose wakefulness, and
only those that are awake may move from shadow toward Reality.”
Lincoln
placed his palms over his eyes, shaking his head. “Soothe Reality? We are to
aid Reality?”
“Again,
I am speaking in parable. Reality is greatly troubled with unrequited love. The
love of Reality flees to the enemy of Reality, but Reality refuses to turn away
from His beloved. Reality aches for her, this faithless love, but she will not
return to Him. And thus we act as agents between them. It is our task to
deliver messages, to produce coincidences, to suggest an awakening to this
star-crossed beloved, and draw her back.”
Lincoln
could not answer, but sat staring, his mouth slack.
“Those
that believe in reincarnation, which is but a warped image of carnation,
believe that we come back, returning in this life over and over again, leaping
from shadow to shadow, but the Reality is that the whole world is caught in a
bubble of Time, and this bubble is a returning dream haunting Reality. Reality
sleeps fitfully, tossing and turning, and the dream returns to Him, over and
over again, it is reborn every night many times, and with Reality, a day is a
thousand years, and a thousand years is a day, because time is only a bubble
inside Reality’s dream,” Q said, and his voice was like a chant, soothing and
flowing and tumbling over imaginary rocks and falls.
Lincoln
rubbed his forehead, his eyes closed. He seemed very pale. “I seem to remember,”
he whispered, repeating the words over and over again: I seem to remember, I seem to remember...
“Each
time the dream recurs,” Q continued, his words engrossing and swelling,
floating up above them, “it is slightly different each time, as Reality strains
and sweats for His beloved. It is His will that not one be lost, and so He
dreams time over and over again, each time saving a few more, if perhaps only
one. Reality is willing to endure this endless nightmare, for the love of even
one.”
Lincoln’s
eyes snapped open and he interrupted Q yet again: “But would not there be the
danger of losing some, each time the dream is dreamed? What if one that was won
was lost in the following iteration of the dream?”
“Good,
good Lincoln, yes, yes my friend! You waken! Yes, each time the dream is
dreamed, a dream of thousands of years, a few are saved and these ones are
moved safely out of Time, into the hallowed halls of Reality’s memory, safely
held there awaiting the time that Reality finally awakens and comes so that we that
are alive and remain may see Reality, finally, as He is, face to face.”
“But
what about the next dream? Would not there be holes where those few were
removed?”
“The
gaps are filled with simulacra of those moved outside of Time, empty images
with no breath of Reality,” Q said, gaining in excitement, eyes alight with
fire. The years seemed to melt off of the old man’s lined face. “Puppets with
appropriate responses, repeating endlessly well-grooved habits of eternity.
Shadows of shadow.”
“A
sifting,” Lincoln murmured, “you are talking of a sifting…”
“Yes,
sifting,” Q rejoined, “or a refining.
The dream becomes worse, each dreaming, more and more a nightmare, and after
thousands of iterations of this dream, millions of reoccurrences, what Reality
experiences now is a night terror, the very worst of nightmares, grim, and
horrific, ghastly. Thus Reality is tormented in His slumber, but because of
love, unrequited love, He continues to dream.”
“You
are talking about hell,” Lincoln said, “the very torment of hell. And Reality
is tormented more than all.”
“You
are beginning to understand,” Q said, “and this explains why the allies of His
enemy are so effective in twisting their understanding of reality into grim and
hideous farces, a distorted glimpse of Reality, through the mirrored lens of
lies. And in these latter-day nightmares, only the fiercely evil remain, perfecting
their techniques and thus secret societies may finally walk in the daytime of
this present carnation, and the lust for flesh increases mightily.”
“It
must be evil, then, inside the bubble of Time,” Lincoln said slowly, shaking
his head. “Maybe this is why my memory is clouded, because of the torment.”
“They
wander, the lost, in this hell, and they talk of politics, and saving the
world, and they go to church, and they hug their children, they warn of a dream
hell that they have in fact created in their own wicked minds, and they talk of
molding Reality, of shaping it, hardly knowing that they have done all this a
thousand times before, a million repetitions and more,” Q replied, and he wept
softly. “They repeat their dark choices, again, again, and again, each time
wondering at the Reality that juts through their dark dreams, pausing to
consider that it seems they have done this all before.”
He
wiped at his glittering eyes, and they sat in a few brief few ticks of the
clock.
“And
it is our task to reach them? Those that are not awake?” Lincoln said, aghast.
“That
is our impossible task,” Q said. “Not only to wake the shadows, but to
determine which shadows may quicken, and which are simulacra. It is not easy to
discern the difference. We may never know the difference. The weeds appear as
wheat, and the wheat as weeds. And when the Clock reaches Midnight, the dream
will begin again, from the beginning, and the results will be more
heart-wrenching and hopeless again, and yet still, He dreams, Reality wanders
His dreams of unrequited love, calling her, she, the beloved, back, calling her
to return.”
They
turned to regard the credenza, where the Forty-Seven stood from the credenza as
one.
“Is
it time?” Q called.
“It
is time,” they all responded in one voice, and even Lincoln found himself
saying the words in unison, as if upon cue.
“We
descend into the dark dream of hell?” Lincoln whispered.
“Yes,
my brother, we descend.” Q patted Lincoln upon the shoulder and aided him in
rising. “And you will discover this shadow reality much worse than I have
portrayed, for the shadows of shadow glory in their own imagined perfection.
They sneer at the shadows about them, discerning the others’ abomination, but
never their own. They believe themselves covered, these shadows, and yet they
embrace only darkness. They speak names, the babble names, never understanding,
always fleeing the light.”
As
they joined the group heading toward the corridor Lincoln spoke to Q one more
time: “We will see each other again?”
“Yes,”
Q said, “when the dream ends, and Reality tosses and turns and closes His eyes
again. Then we shall meet at the credenza, we who test the poison without
drinking and are not harmed, and we shall prepare for our next descent, until
the last dream is dreamed.”
“Until
the last dream is dreamed,” Lincoln repeats, his mind expanding, entering the
tunnel that progresses from soft, blurred light into a descending coil of darkness,
descending into the Earth.
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