Kyrie Eleison

By Max Morgan

Fred, a man of Faith, learns there's no hierarchy among the gods and they don't all play by the same rules. If he doesn't work things out the right way, he might be damned no matter which god he pleases. The title of the work, taken from a prayer to the Lord, presents a problem if one isn't certain which "Lord" is listening.

Our hero, a professor at a major secular institution, keeps his religiosity to himself, going through life trying to do what he considers the proper thing but often failing. His faith is challenged when he’s confronted with the problem of determining Who or What he’s serving.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Max Morgan
• Release date: Jan 2, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311466228

Max Morgan

Worked as go-fer, mortician's assistant, business consultant, teacher, head hunter, fund raiser, (and a few other nondescript things) but not in any particular order. Fondness for long hikes and communing with nature. Interested in the kind of philosophy no one reads outside of university philosophy departments. Would prefer to live in the eighteenth century, if I weren't a peasant (as a blacksmith would be nice). Non-technological (don't own a cell phone). I think my TV set has tubes but I never looked. Trying to find a good typewriter. Can be reached at [e-mail]

Book preview

KYRIE ELEISON

A Novella

by

Max Morgan

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 Max Morgan

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

* * *

Chapter 1

Winter came early to Atlanta that year, disappointing the anthropologists who had gathered there in the hope of having a good time and conducting a little business. But the ice storm that greeted this academic crowd as they exited the convention hall at day’s end really put the kibosh on their plans for a fun evening. Traffic went nowhere; cars slid around and into each other; drivers were seen to be screaming at no one in particular, frustrated by their inability to control their fate. In time, all the conventioneers made it back to their respective hotels where they established themselves in the warmth of the cocktail lounges and forgot about hopping cabs and doing tours of the city’s night spots—not in this weather. By the end of rush hour, Atlanta seemed totally devoid of life as the sleet continued to fall, glazing over every exposed square inch and making life miserable for a population unaccustomed to dealing with arctic rigors.

Yet, one hardy soul appeared to brave the elements. He slipped his way along the sidewalk, took a spill, struggled up, and continued on, sleet spattering his face and making his life temporarily miserable. After ten blocks and what seemed a hundred miles later, Fred Roberts managed to locate the small piano bar and haven from the storm. Upon entering he stomped the ice and slush from his shoes, then handed his overcoat to the hat-check girl who seductively gave him full eye contact.

The place wasn’t as expected. At best, it could hold only about fifty patrons comfortably, not counting the pianist, his instrument, and the small dance floor which might handle three or four couples max. Surprisingly, even on such a night, the crowd was large enough to make him stand at the bar where he ordered a double neat Wild Turkey. It took some time for his eyes to adjust to the dim light coming from the candles placed on each table and the two Tiffany lamps hanging across the bar.

The patrons were a subdued lot who kept their conversations in a low key, while the pianist helped keep things that way by only playing soft, easy-going music. Yes, the Cozy Corner seemed as had been described to him—a decent spot where a man could be alone with his thoughts, yet find some companionship if desired.

After a time, Fred became attuned to the action going on. There were clumps of men engaged in what appeared to be hushed business transactions, and some mixed groups which formed and disappeared as time went by. No couples came in together, but that’s the way they left. An older crowd—didn’t seem to be anyone younger than thirty; most being in their forties and fifties. And there was something about them that convinced Fred they weren’t lower middle class: dressed too well for that. Yeah, this was definitely Fred’s kind of place. The information given him by a friend was correct.

Along about eleven o’clock, and four double bourbons later, a small table became available in the corner which Fred grabbed. By now he was oblivious to the comings and goings around him, so he didn’t immediately respond to the request which the woman repeated.

I asked if I might join you, she said with a mild insistence.

Fred felt too stewed to be interested in having a drinking buddy, but he motioned for her to sit, which she did. Looking at the bartender, she made a gesture indicating he should refill their drinks, something to which Fred didn’t object.

Haven’t seen you in here before, she said. I’m Margie.

Fred, he replied, from out of town. Here on a convention. A friend of mine put me on to this place. I rather like it.

Oh, are you with those anthropology guys? she asked in a bubbly voice.

Yeah, I’m one of them, he responded flatly.

That’s neat. I never got to college but I bet you must be smart.

Fred gave a highly visible smirk. Oh, yeah, I’m smart all right. That’s why I’m here getting plastered.

The bartender delivered the rounds Margie had ordered and Fred quickly grabbed one. Then, for the first time, he examined his companion. An attractive woman: looked thirty, but he somehow knew she was forty-ish. Good bod’—no doubt a working girl. Now then, what to do about this situation? Didn’t know. He’d let her carry the ball.

What does an anthropologist do? she asked, fingering her tall glass in a sexually obvious manner.

He perked up. Liked discussing his discipline, even when he was drunk. But now he had to be careful. Didn’t want to reveal too much about himself to a stranger. How to proceed?

Oh, it’s a broad field. The study of man and everything he does. We each carve out a kind of specialty area.

What’s yours? she asked.

Me, I like old religious myths and traditions, especially Mideastern ones. Fred gave an ironic grin. I guess that might sound weird. You’re probably thinking, who the hell cares about that?—right? It sounds positively worthless, but I like it.

"So I guess you know all those old languages, too, like Greek, Roman, and....what’s another one? Margie continued.

Aramaic, he answered. Yes, in this line of work languages can be important.

Margie shrugged. To each his own. I like collecting sea shells and backpacking in mountains. Some of my friends consider that dumb. What do you say? Want to do some business tonight? she said with a wink and a smile.

Her question came a little abruptly, but Fred knew what she meant. Was he in the mood for a screw? Damn right. That’s one of the reasons he came to this place. Somehow things always seemed more proper when a woman made a move on him. Responding to an overt invitation was less culpable than his initiating what might be considered an immoral suggestion. Though hesitant to admit it, Fred had some decidedly old-fashioned religious scruples about things, which he managed to not let get in the way too much. On the other hand, he also took care not to reveal his traditional religious views in the academic setting