The Cabala of the Cushite, Zephaniah

By Beverly C. Prince

The story is about Zephaniah, a man named after a biblical author who proudly proclaims himself a Cushite in the Old Testament. The author uses italicized words from the Bible, so the reader is made aware of the racial identity of the biblical characters who wrote them.&nb

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bookside Press
• Release date: May 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781990695490

Beverly C. Prince

As a surgeon, born in the Bronx, she is part of the wave of southerners who benefited from the relative freedoms of the North. She used that freedom to gain knowledge from other cultures and has come to see that Africans have been part of the world much longer than history records. Prince believes explorers "discovered" the artifacts belonging to the older but more advanced civilization and profited, claiming that knowledge we have today. She believes a deeper understanding is clearly revealed when the knowledge is shared with the people who created the cultures.

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Copyright © 2022 by Beverly C. Prince

ISBN: 978-1-990695-48-3 (Paperback)

978-1-990695-49-0 (E-book)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

The views expressed in this book are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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CONTENTS

Preface

Chapter One

Aleph (א) The Fool

Path 1: The Fool, Kether to Chokmah

Chapter Two

Beth (ב) The Magician

Path 2: The Magician, Kether to Binah

Chapter Three

Gimel (ג) The High Priestess

Path 3: Kether to Tiphareth

Chapter Four

Daleth (ד) The Empress

Path 4: The Empress, Binah to Chokmah

Chapter Five

Heh (ה) The Emperor

Path 5: The Emperor, Chokmah to Tiphareth

Chapter Six

Vav (ו) The Hierophant

Path 6: The Hierophant, Chesed to Chokmah

Chapter Seven

Zayin (ז) The Lovers

Path 7: The Lovers, Tiphareth-Binah

Chapter Eight

Chet (ח) The Chariot

Path 8: The Chariot, Geburah to Binah

Chapter Nine

Tet (ט) Strength

Path 9: Strength, Geburah to Chesed

Chapter Ten

Yod (י) The Hermit

Path 10: The Hermit, Tiphareth to Chesed

Chapter Eleven

Kaf (כ) Wheel of Fortune

Path 11: Wheel of Fortune, Netzach to Chesed

Chapter Twelve

Lamed (ל) Justice

Path 12: Justice, Tipareth to Geburah

Chapter Thirteen

Mem (מ) The Hanged Man

Path 13: The Hanged Man, Hod to Geburah

Chapter Fourteen

Nun (נ) The Tower

Path 14: The Tower, Tifereth to Nezach

Chapter Fifteen

Samech (ס) The Devil

Path 15: The Devil, Hod to Tifereth

Chapter Sixteen

Ayin (ע) The Devil

Path 16: Temperance, Yesod to Netzach

Chapter Seventeen

Pe (פ) The Star

Path 17: The Star, Yesod to Tifereth

Chapter Eighteen

Tsadi (צ) The Moon

Path 18: The Moon, Nezach to Malkut

Chapter Nineteen

Qof (ק) The Moon

Path 19: The Moon, Malkhut to Nezach

Chapter Twenty

Resh (ר) The Sun

Path 20: The Sun, Hod to Yesod

Chapter Twenty-One

Shin (ש) Judgement

Path 21: Judgement, Malkuth to Hod

Chapter Twenty-Two

Tav (ת) The World

Path 22: The World, Malkuth to Yesod

Reviewed by Michael Radon

Genetic-like information, culture can be quite rigid in confining behavior and making certain the past is not escaped.

Deep beneath the surface of the Earth, history is threatening to repeat itself after a cataclysmically dangerous set of circumstances has forced many people underground. Divided by technology, culture, morals, and skin color, their worlds are bridged by the unplanned arrival of a surface dweller to the caves below. At first, it is an opportunity for the two groups to learn from each other and celebrate their differences and the humanity that combines them. But soon, just as they had before, assimilation and conquest prove themselves inevitabilities of human nature that lead only to more suffering and conflict. Thrust amidst the key players of this unfolding tragedy is Zephaniah, a strange man who projects an inner calmness that makes him stand out from his peers.

This peculiar world that combines science and nature, mysticism and realism is Zephaniah’s to explore. It is dangerous and threatens his life and those of his friends on multiple occasions, but it is ultimately the hand he is dealt. Spiritual ascension gives him the tools to navigate, but his corporeal form is still vulnerable to those who wish to use his stature for nefarious purposes. In the wake of a failed old world, a new one is being constructed on the same principles of classism, sexism, and racism—all designed to keep power with those who have it and deprive those without it a chance for equal footing. The revered leaders of these people move tactically to try and protect their interests and ways of life. Still, as it so often does, it comes down to the actions and decisions of a few individuals, whether in the ruling class or not, to write the pages of human history.

Drawing ideas from the tenets of various religions and mysticism, this story swells in the shadows, always keeping the reader’s attention on one thing while sowing seeds with another just out of sight. The narrative takes multiple twists and turns that are virtually impossible to predict, thanks in part to strong composition as much as its genre- defying blend of history, science fiction, spirituality, and speculation. The boiling down of so much human suffering into simple, easily understood ideas makes the conflicts of this story timeless, with easy to draw comparisons to virtually any region or era. The reader’s mind is not asked to be stretched by these motivations. Rather, that exercise is saved for how the story’s spiritual levels divide its players, giving them a self-ascribed closeness or distance to God based on their qualities or abilities.

There is an otherworldly quality to the world building in this story where so many elements feel familiar and yet wholly foreign. Any reader with any experience in Western religion will recognize names and characterizations familiar with that upbringing but will be challenged with the totality of their developments in an exciting way. That core idea of not being comfortable in what one thinks one knows permeates this entire story, giving the audience enough roots to empathize with and relate to the characters while still feeling outside of their world and the rules by which it operates. The creativity and attention to detail necessary to put together a tale such as this will not escape attention and gives plenty of reason to travel from chapter to chapter to see what happens next, learn what has already happened, and connect these two points with a thread of fascination.

This is a map of a world divided. There are ten levels: all must be experienced with a full complement of souls to attain oneness with its creator.

A map of the dead, it begins a journey with the end of corporeal existence, and the necessity of completion.

Whether we must transmigrate or reincarnate our path of omission or commission will be aided by memories contained in the body, thoughts within our minds, and genetic material mapped out for us here.

This map is a gift that insures its own existence.

And God said, Let there be light And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness.

Gen. 1:4

PREFACE

Preface

The Cabala is known as the receiving. It is a system of knowledge, a tree of life for all who receive it. It was written when the words let there be light were first spoken.

The stories in the Old Testament are the unraveling of a means for humans to reach their creator, one presumably lost at birth.

The figurative aspects of this unfolding are embellished with a literal appeal meant to assist the listener, not the reader. This knowledge was first revealed in oral traditions limiting the audience to a select few; it was first meant for the aural faculties.

It created in the listener an understanding of its allegorical significance. This understanding would equip the ear for memorization with the hope that repetition might lead to a mystical awareness in those who heard.

When the time presented itself for transcription, those soul writers maintained their identity through pointed references to landmasses named for people on the continent of Africa, extending from the center of its land mass, exiting through four rivers.

With foresight, they guarded their legacy, stolen from the intermarriage of war and econ-political domination so that, when these great documents gained worldly acceptance, none could refute that this great knowledge was being shared with the entire world by none other than the Cushites.

The Gene for white skin developed long after human evolution. For those forced from Africa, blue eyes had already shown, themselves as common but skin without the potter‘s dark earth uncommon. The lack of color didn’t stop them from reproducing images of old. It took them time, but soon nature replaced one gift with another.

Those with the new gene noticed an advantage for in survival. It occurred during a time when daylight, once associated with warmth was blocked by caves and animal skins.

They were all equally bestowed the ability to change enzymes in the skin, but those too rich in melanin now found themselves without the strength they needed to combat the simple change in climate.

Now their skin blocked the light it requires to change an inactive molecule into the life-enhancing chemical that made their bones strong and regulates blood pressure.

It did not take them long to realize the truth. Those, first shunned, as being without color were able to survive the harsh land and long winters while those once most favored grew weakest amount them.

It only took a few thousand years for them to return to Africa. Vandals, hordes grasping everything even words replacing it with history.

Aleph א

CHAPTER ONE

Path 1: Kether to Chokmah

Chapter One

Aleph (א) The Fool

Path 1: The Fool, Kether to Chokmah

The Fool, Kether to Chokmah

Zephaniah awakened because something nudged his internal clock. It was time for him to rise; still, it took an actual shift in the earth to tap his consciousness. Something had thrown dust in his face.

His reflex-motivated action, it turned out, was in response to the hairless, syncopated flicker of a rodent tail stirring sand before his closed eyelid. A brown-colored eyelid, it contracted slowly open—then again briskly shut in response to a similarly colored rodent sitting, its back before him. The eye should have been protected by Zepha’s equally hairless right fore-arm, but his face was buried corpse-like, right side facing up. So his forearm, down by his right side, had failed to cover it. What seemed to be the motion of the entire earth, to the awakening dead man, was just dust, earth particles flying toward his face each time the rodent’s tail moved.

The surroundings were even bleaker, more mysterious, since he could not see, having focused just one eye on an object so near him. Dazed, he continued to stare, blinking in response to dirt moving toward him. He could breathe because his right nostril was above the small horizon created by his body’s indentation in the soil. He used his mouth, his lips moving sideways, toward his ear, a faint accommodation of muscles moving without thought. He inhaled, but not fully, and certainly without noise.

Zepha had been a man who followed the rules. The elders had taught Zepha to sleep covering his face at all times. Yet it would take this intrusion of another life to awaken him, lest he sleep another half-century.

That he had not covered his face concerned Zepha because, for Zepha, it could only mean he had lost consciousness. And Zepha, had spent his years becoming a responsible member of his race and instructing others on the tactics necessary to survive in their world. He had accepted the position of role model for the younger ones, though it forced on him a behavior pattern most restrictive. So, if he was sleeping improperly, it was because something unforeseen had occurred.

Now alerted, he opened his eye, the right, above the left, this time, in space. He lay quite still, moving the extrinsic eye muscles, fixating his line of vision. Then he moved the intrinsic muscles, constricting his pupils to accommodate the light in this level and refocus on the animal before him. His left arm was under him. His neck would soon begin to ache.

But he could see the intruder. A rodent, large and well fed, using its loathsome yellow incisors to nibble the soft entrails of a plant.

What has happened to me? he asked silently, trying not to disturb the creature.

Others might have asked, Where am I? But, Since Zepha thought he knew his whereabouts. He stayed with the more pressing issue, breathing.

I have been asleep, he said to himself. Conscious of the throbbing gash on the side of his head, he thought, And I have been damaged!

He had been taught to avoid change of any sort. Anything which deviated from what was expected would require an explanation. This injury had caused flesh and nerves, and perhaps blood to change direction. And what would become of the organs the stagnant blood inside this lump, once nourished?

For a moment, with misplaced empathy, he wondered if the ones who’d inflicted this wound on him, knew the danger they were soon to be in? Then coming back to a more realistic thought Who have I angered to deserve this kind of beating?

He felt fretful. His thoughts organized to churning apprehension, Had his reputation been marred? This kind of injury is worth reporting, and he decided to file a report even if it did lead to someone being punished.

After all he thought, I am too important to be damaged like this! A blow of this nature-to his head, he reasoned, inflicting a loss of orientation, was proof that someone was out to kill him. An attack of this kind, took more than one person!.

Another tail flicker and the resultant dust brought him back to the beast before him. Zepha thought of how these creatures had been known to gnaw bones of humans, too old or too young to flee, or had remained still too long.

Not one for unplanned movement, he refrained using time to wonder how long he’d been sleeping. He stared at the one who chewed, holding the root with its left hand, white knuckled, pulling the roots to its mouth, his back to Zephaniah, flicking its tail with nervous clouds of dust in Zephaniah’s direction.

That’s when he noticed with a shiver, although the rat seemed consumed with eating, it’s head was turned in such a way that one eye was also looking straight at him.

Still, slowed by this thoughts, he watched the rat pull the outer layer of the root and collect the shreds and fibers. And, he told himself, the rat was preparing the vegetative substance in order to bring it back to its nest. He told himself it was female as though it would be less of a threat.

And he wondered in a dim witted sense, before acting, if rats knew that, in order to keep the upper incisor teeth from growing into their lower jaws, they must continually chew? It seemed they knew since he’d not seen any so deformed. If they knew, how did they know? How was the information transferred? Was it part of a behavioral pattern? Did the behavior stem from thoughts, conscious thoughts? How did they communicate this to one another? Did mother rats tell their children? How was this idea, something so important to their survival, passed on to successive younger rats? Was it just instinct? Was something coded into the genetic material destined to become the brain?

Was it like desire? An idea rooted in neuronal stimulation? Something that compelled the animal to gnaw and chew with no regard of what or whom it chewed? Was it pleasurable? Or was it a response to knowledge of a painful stimulus that would occur once the teeth grew too long? Did they enjoy gnawing? Did their teeth itch? And were they relieved by the scraping solid forms against them? If their teeth were like humans, the enamel wouldn’t be capable of itching; it would have to be the gums.

When their tiny jaws moved, up and down or sideways, did it give their tiny brains a sense of enjoyment? He was enjoying the slow drift of his mind. Now he wondered why their tails seemed hairless. There was hair; he could see the hairs. Then he thought, maybe the hair endings were more than hair, they were organs of perception, external receivers. Did the hairs contain a means of providing the brain with information? Did the hair follicles sit on specialized nerve endings that were able to detect things so the rat could see behind it? And this leading to Does the rat know that the man pretending to sleep was watching him?.

This last thought, motivated him. And, with fear, his body began to react. New ideas surged his body reacting to each.

How long had the rat and he been there? The picture Zepha held in his mind: the rat coming up to sniff him while he lay face down, saliva drooling into sand.

The animal sniffing, to see whether Zepha was alive? Were there others? Other rats beside the one he’d labeled female. Other rats that saw him, even now, while he remained unaware? It was clear that his early musings had kept him from truly thinking.

Where am I? it was salt dropped into water ready to boil. There was a cascade, a flow molecules bounding from one chemical reaction to another, and this time it brought perspiration.

He couldn’t control his thoughts.

"Why was this rodent brownn? The most important.

Zepha looked at the face now, half turned, toward him: the lips and nose were black. Most of the creatures in this world were without color, various hues of transparency whose skins reflected the colors of the levels they inhabited. The fact that this rodent’s back held on to a color was as confusing as the fact that it was not afraid of him.

Rodents were prized by the powerful for the fresh protein they supplied. Not one could consider itself safe from the hunters who set traps for them, either to eat them or sell them to those who would. As with his kind his thoughts alerted instinct but Zepha’s instincts held him motionless.

He should remain still; this problem would go away.

His thoughts spoke to his body, releasing substances so that he felt himself grow sleepy. This was one of the protective mechanisms his people had perfected in this dark new world.

Somewhere in a place either behind or between his ear voices began to chant, and the drumming in the lower the caverns filled his head. The sound inside grew loud until it matched the rhythm of his heart. It grew in strength, the heartbeat waves attenuated by flesh.

The sounds met and reverberated, reminding him of the safety of the caverns on the day of sevens. His stomach became satiated and his lids grew heavier, just about to close the millimeters between them and head, back to sleep—when he saw another rodent.

This one was inching straight toward him. He could not see its color, but it walked deliberately, without fear. The rodents in his world were albinos, mutated genes depriving them the ability to convert chemicals to melanin-colored hair. And, as such, they were timid, running away, un able to use the darkness.

Zepha slowed his heartbeat and his body temperature lowered. This was his last defense, this lowering of his metabolism. Instinct made him mindful. Nothing else left; he saw his right arm moving searching for a weapon. To destroy the life form before him, he would have to strike quickly, killing it. If it bit him, it would expose his life force, and there are always others; he almost spoke, thinking so loudly.

If these two were not alone, exposing liquid life could mean a fierce fight with these bastard creatures, and he knew he had no weapon that could beat them.. Just then, the other creature, the one eating, stood on its toe-padded hind feet, sniffing. It turned slowly to its left and eventually faced Zepha. Its tail, which was not really hairless but seemed so, in that dark caused by light brushed more dust against Zepha, this time hitting his nose. Zepha held his breath and further narrowed his gaze.

When he did this, he had the distinct feeling that his thoughts further alerted the animal. So, he averted his gaze. Having lost his depth perception, it was difficult to tell how far away they were now.

Standing now just three feet from Zepha’s face, the creature, all twelve inches —had to decide whether it should strike or flee. The one, near the root, simply stood it would let the other decide. The light reflex caught the eyes of all, creating a horrid moment as four eyes met one.

Still hoping to help the mammals with their decision, Zepha willed his body to relax and every muscle began smoothing itself. He calmed his thoughts in an effort to slow down the adrenaline emissions. It was not working. The rodent that was heading toward his recumbent body bared its teeth and narrowed its eyes and increased its speed ever so slightly. Soon, it would be upon him.

Zepha held onto an idea- the rodent’s intent. It wasn’t trying to harm him. It wanted to see if this man he was a threat.

He could pretend harder. But he was always doing that.

Making believe he was not afraid, pretending not to hear, Pretending he did not see. And now he almost laughed, pretend he didn’t feel the razor teeth, against what would be Zephaniah’s last physical defense against the bacterial world- pretending.

But how could pretend, playing his role, help him if the rats bit him? He believed he could fight them off; that was not his fear. They were cowards after all, and even these abnormally colored ones would scatter if he but struck a few. He was concerned with having his skin penetrated.

That was the world he feared. The microscopic world filled with bacterial armies that would be introduced into his body.

This world contained the greatest number of soldiers of any world Zephaniah knew. And these soldiers would fight the finite battalions of melanin-laden cells called ‘white’ because of the way they reflected the microscopic light to the men who had named them. And his own cells, so much smaller in number, would prove no match. This was common knowledge. Was not the bacterial battlefield the site in the final hour for most of the sons of darkness?

Zepha’d been able to turn potential harm by not being aware of the danger. This was not, the same as ignoring something he did consciously. When unaware, he’d use the energy from the harming intent as nourishment. By failing to recognize the danger, he’d managed to dilute the outcome. His inability to see the potential harm of an incident, this ignorance became a shield, gave him strength. The lack of information, sheer ignorance, allowed him belief in his own frail abilities, his blind belief becoming a sword, his frailties a shield.

Where others would have fought back, Zepha cooperated with his enemies,allowing them to beat him until they grew exhausted...

This is what he needed, this point of no return motivated his half-century- old frame, abruptly raising it to its full six feet. He bared his teeth, opened his mouth, and had it emit a sound. Both sets of creature eyes changed from narrowed slits to widened surprise, indicating they could see his change in height with the size of their scleral show. They were now woefully smaller than even the foot he raised to kick one. They scurried, bumping in to each other and beginning to fight one another as they tried to exit.

Zepha, surprised by their behavior, simply stood looking down on them. As the two struggled in the dirt, he thought to kick them, but stopped his bare foot, placing it upon the earth. He listened; the sound he had emitted seemed to lose itself, racing around in the cavern to dissipate into nothing.

But in truth, if truth was to mean the physical expression, there was no sound that could be detected, not by method of air and fluid. The mammals continued fighting, moving themselves further from the man they saw as still sleeping and further still from the apparition they saw standing six feet above them. They hit the wall of dirt the impact separated them allowing them to come near him again.

They’d looked at Zepha, not at his face high up above them, but at the place where he once lay. He was still there.

Zepha stayed still. Because he was a human with a need to understand, he made up a reason for being able to see the image of the two rodents so small beneath him and the image of himself still sleeping. He decided it had all been a dream, a bad dream, and now it was time for him to awaken fully and stand up. He willed himself to stand slowly, deliberately lest he frighten something. But nothing happened to the sleeping form.

The standing Zepha, his mind going back to his injuries, slid his a tongue over his lips to find saliva and, using his ghostly phalanges, spread what would be moisture from lips to eyelids, attempting to remove crustations. Again, after placing index and middle fingers inside his mouth, his shadowy fingers wiped around the corners of his mouth, He bent down toward himself and used his index fingers, tracing from the corners of his full lips, moving across his prominent cheeks. Then he touched his right temple, grimacing when his right-hand fingers touched the plaintive bruise on his right temple. He patted the area with a few quick taps and placed a finger into the place his mouth should be, sucking. He paused, then he smelled his finger. There was no moisture there to help the dried proteinaceous material solubilize, and there was no actual proteinaceous material. There was just knowing that dried blood was there, in the form, lying prone before him.

He attempted to swallow the material in an effort to enhance its smell. There was nothing to inform him that the material contains dried blood, and he shivered uncontrollably.

Standing fully erect, six feet, he looked at himself sleeping. And, in accordance with his dream state, he simply observed. The hair on his head shaved absent, a tribute to his physical and mental level of achievement; the absence of hair on his body a consequence of his race. He wore a cloth wound round his waist and small black buttocks, three full turns, in the manner of savants on the day of sevens.

He stood and continued to wipe his face and neck, feeling as if he were removing the earth caked round his neck from his lying in the dark earth. He saw himself laying on the ground; it came to him as a memory, he must ask the others how they did it.

Then sat his ghostly frame down, explaining to himself that he was dizzy from standing up too quickly. He sat his shadowy butt on a nearby rock while he looked down at himself. He covered his face with his hands but could still see. He creased his forehead, squinting at himself, since the substance of his hands failed to act as a barrier to the image of him on the ground. He turned, bending toward the place where the rodents had been.

There was the root, and the tooth marks left by the upper incisors gave evidence that what he had observed had in fact occurred. He bent down further, touching the root, still moist with rat saliva, watching it drop right through his finger. He touched the dirt below him: it didn’t fly away from his fingers in a cloud, nor scattering away, as it should with his touch. He rubbed his head, again looking at himself sleeping peacefully, ad mittting he didn’t know where he was. Now there was an alarm, that sound made inside the mind when something unexpected occurs. If anyone had asked him (and if that person were either on his level or above), he would have told them that he knew of every level in his world. But he had, no idea what level he’d come to now.

The only difference had been his ascension from a man lying in the dust to a man seated who was now steaded. Now as his eyes continued to adjust, he noticed now how much the light here was blinding. His pupils shut, unused to this stimulation, the discomfort resembled pain.

The light was passing through him. Maybe, he thought, I raised myself too quickly. He tried to look around: he could see a rock, no color, just a form. He looked at his own hands and they appeared as outlines against the stinging air around them. He clasped his hands together, he could almost grasp the light as it struck his skin. He tried to recollect what had happened to him, believing this would help him control the fear in his chest. He bent down, touched his sleeping head , tapping as he often did when in thought, this time to recoil from the pain. Something was still hurting him. Standing, bending over toward himself, he pulled his ear forward, observing the matted dry blood. And, thinking of the rodent, he thought, as if talking, Good thing it was dry.

He kept palpating, using his fingers to massage and search for more clues from the body prone before him.

Yes, someone had hit him on the head. He continued palpating until he reached a very small piece of wood that had splintered on impact. He attempted to pull it from his head, but it did not budge. He remembered his stick and smiled, grudgingly, at the thought that someone had used it to knock him out. There was a bump on his right temple. When he touched it, he felt himself pain so he’d been laying there long enough for swelling of his skin.Then he bent down, touched his sleeping form on the left side, and again felt pain as he palpated a swelling from the abrasions on his left flank. He decided that someone had dragged his body. As he stooped down examine himself yet again, his breathing quickening, he became aware of an whirring sound. He looked toward the root fearfully, thinking the creatures had returned. He saw none and almost laughed. Rodents did not behave that way; they were cowards; they would not be back. He should have felt better, but his pulse, too, had begun to race.

It wouldn’t be correct to say that the man sleeping moved without thinking, It’s just that he was sleeping, and he was not accustomed to performing deliberate actions while asleep. So, with a part him thinking, his arms wrapped around, his long thin legs folding, he tucked his head, flexing his neck, forehead to knees becoming rock still. His body, all in the motions of restless sleeping, had curled up into an embryonic ball so that he seemed to disappear in this strange light among the rocks. The standing Zepha closed his eyes, and just in time.

For once his eyes closed he could hide his spirit, backing up against the dirt wall behind him.

He heard a voice call out.

Dodi. A voice, no man.

I come seeking you. But still no form.

Zepha stood motionless, not knowing what to do, but feeling safe both bodies being still.

"I know you want to hide from me; I am not all that I should be. Where are you? Do you walk among the savants? Forgive me!

I am incomplete. Come make one of two." The voice used a melody when it spoke.

Zepha listened to the desolate tune with full concentration. He strained his ears. Then another sound, higher pitched, staccato, then, Please, forgive me, I did not create the world as it is! The wretched voice cried out, lacking the pure quality of truth.

Now appeared what must have been the author of this haunting a large head floated past. The head appeared only as an outline because it did not absorb the light it appeared as a gray-black mirrored image. There appeared to be no body. The great head stopped hovering near Zepha’s folded body.

The great head shifted, thinking so hard one could hear it.

I know I heard something here, it thought, not seeing the body, and it not aware Zepha watched him about four feet away.

Let me but look upon your face, for it nourishes me. The head stopped and thinking.

I cannot see you but I am aware of your presence! The chair swirled, back then forth, right and left quite deftly.

I will have to let that alone enrich me. I sense your fear!

Now Zepha realized the voice was coming from this chair, a mechanical device in his chair cleverly mixing thoughts and the whirring sound.

I can understand why you hid, why you remain hidden. But I did not create the principles that guide it. I was a pawn, then, as you. As the big headed man, looked around, one could see he was sensing Zepha. Then, There was no understanding. The world needs you to experience it Don’t punish me! As it spoke, the sound of the great drum monitoring the hours that pass in this dark world resounded.

There were twenty-three times when the great drum beat just once. Then it doubled up to signal that once again the counting must begin anew. This time was called midnight, from a time when there was a physical separation of night and day.

Zepha felt he would soon expire, and he realized he’d been holding his breath. Very gently he exhaled looking at his real body; he still managed to remain motionless. He noticed that his ribs, which he could clearly see were still.

Then there was a shift in energy, a man walking briskly, speaking at a distance.

There is no one here, your greatness. The voice was impatient and loud, speaking above the double rhythm beating. The great drum was now beating at further intervals, thus signaling the end of the day of sevens. It almost caused Zephaniah to gasp. He remembered The beginning of the day of sevens, so this means he had been asleep for a week. Certainly, someone or something did try to kill him. They had hit him hard enough!

A human had come near walking so briskly that some might call it running; he wore the boots of the enforcers. He kicked Zepha’s ankle with the tip of his boot, but, in the blackness, he did not see him. Then, standing with his foot against Zepha’s ankle, as one would stand with one’s foot against a large rock, he came to a halt. The sleeping Zepha remained quite still, refusing to acknowledge the pain.

It is not safe here, sir, the voice said again, the tip of the heavy boot perceiving no human presence. But he shifted his weight anyway, looking around uneasily. The large head turned and seemed to float away, taking its whirring lamenting sound with it. Zepha squinted, looking and seeing now that the whining belonged to the electrically powered chair.

We must go back inside. No one must see you. It was the voice of Kadmon.

I still make the decisions here, the other voice said. Although the words sounded powerful, at least to Zepha, there was no force in them. Still, the other was affected.

I meant no harm, it said in quick response. I am only here to protect you. And I fear for your very existence-. And the speaker shifted this time, taking the pressure off his right foot, which was pressed against Zepha’s ankle. It added, These days.

These days are like all others! Days do not contain energy, people contain the forces of change, the voice answered.

There has been a shift, Kadmon answered, as the forces of nature affect people he thought.

There is always a shift, the earth has been shifting since it was formed. None of it has affected the laws. There is gravity, polarity, cause and effect these forces do not affect change. The big head answered Kadmon’s thoughts.

But there is talk; this is jubilee! There is a sense of a new spirit, Kadmon insisted. If we can’t find Zepha, I say we leave this place, and call the enforcers, he said, looking around.

You are beginning to believe your own lies. Jubilee is nothing new, he answered. It expressed only a time interval, a subjective time interval at that. It simply marks the beginning of our world. A very minute interval when compared to the universe, the human being ‘who sits’ spoke.

But the shifts, and the jubilee are coming close together, it is just unusual, that’s all. Look at what the shift did to the Podium. It makes them believe things, Kadmon spoke, shifting from one foot to the other, causing Zepha’s body below to experience intervals of pain. Kadmon was talking about the great shifts in the earth’s layers. One had been expected. According to the scientists it was due around the change from one fifty-year interval to another. It was said to be a mystical time and the shifts were heralded by smaller rumblings.

Hope is a good thing, he thought. He understood that it all depended on magnitude: the greater the hope, the greater the disappointment. A long anticipation led to a more spectacular culminating event.

There is no need for concern. What will happen will be only what can, no more, no less. But we can always make it seem as if nothing has occurred, the voice said dispassionately, with a hint of despair. We can do nothing more to prolong the effect. It will occur, he reminded the shorter man.

Our ability to color the experience plants the illusionary seeds. The reality still exists, and some of them can see it clearly.

I wish to suggest that we can still do something, Kadmon said. We can do more to prevent the tension between positive and negative forces, the younger man said.

We have slowed it down, tempered it. But it will still occur!

Whether this was spoken through the whirring mechanical apparition or just loud thoughts, Kadmon heard it. Zepha listened, trying to understand what all this meant to him.

Perhaps this time the separation of mind and matter has reached such polarity the attractive forces will be too great.

That’s how these things happen; it is not a matter of will, he said, then, as an afterthought, to convince the wheeled man. Kadmon said,

You have called her name in your sleep.

I wish I could sleep, the wheeled one said,

Oh Kadmon, I wish I could close my eyes enough to dream, then I would have my soul might find her.

Kadmon was thinking,

Everything sleeps, isn’t that what makes all this so unpredictable? The wanderings of the souls when sleep takes over. That is the most undesirable time

A most desirable time for some, the Other thought as if his turn.

Yes, Kadmon had heard it all before, depending on your outlook No, depending on your level, Jon Smith said, And the direction of your climb.

Outlook, level, it is all the same Kadmon answered, wanting to present his ideas. To discuss them, to make them heard, give them voice. To illuminate them and, in telling the Only, perhaps give them sustenance.

Cause them to come into being. Is that not how power is acquired? Besides, sleep is causing trouble for the enforcers.

The enforcers need to take advantage of their mystical training, he said. But he knew that mystical training was most difficult to teach. It would require that they allow themselves to feel. And there were only a few levels wherein this could be safely done.

We need to visit, Chesed he thought. That is one place….

Kadmon countered—it was his job to counter, Better we visit Geburah.

And again, he might have been more correct. The concept was subtle, control of the emotions was important in maintaining this world. We had listened to the experts from Geburah in every step of this project, he said to Kadmon. But we must be mindful, the universe demands balance! He sounded as though he was pleading. Then as if that small flux in emotions opened a door, he said, Listen…do you think something is here with us? They both listened.

Zepha stilled all sound emanating from his body as the younger man, Kadmon, continued impatiently. We have always prevailed, he said in an effort to perform his job’s most important function. He gave physical form to the pure mental energy before him. He provided sensory input, and tried to detect physical and mental need. Right now, in picking up fear, guilt, despair, he was doing his job. Inside he thought, the one who sits should not be thinking this way. There was too much fear. And Kadmon worried, If I fail him, I will have failed myself, I will have failed all of us.

Even Zepha felt the profound sadness seeping from Kadmon. It was touching him; he closed his eyes so as not to see it.

If I can help, Kadmon said, attempting to move closer to the chair as the one seated moved further away from him. Kadmon continued to follow it, removing his foot from against Zepha’s head.

Find her! Help me find her. The thin body with the oversized head looked directly into Kadmon’s eyes. Kadmon looked away. He did not wish to speak. He knew that, even by thinking, he might give away too much.

I do not believe that finding her, will solve our problems, he finally said. It might amplify them. Distorting the truth, that does not offend our world. Truth will always be affected by the gravity of the situation. But to deliberately contract the truth? Is that wisdom? Kadmon had long since learned where and how to find gravity, and he was expert in wisdom. She is dead, Kadmon said. The one you search for has long been deceased.

Kadmon, there are those who would say she has merely left that body and now she inhabits another. All we need to do is find it. Again, the deplorable whine. It seemed to Zepha, that the Only was attempting to force Kadmon to think beyond his confides. Zepha has known Kadmon but a short time. He had come to know that Kadmon offered nothing but stability to this world. And stability was important to all of them. Zepha pondered, leaning against the cavern wall. It appeared that the Only was not to as concerned with stabilization as Zepha would have expected.

What if it is not in a woman’s form? What if it is forbidden to you? Worse, what it she is with the rebels?

And who are the rebels? the voice spoke so calmly, it soothed Zepha and Kadmon simultaneously. This was the true voice of Jon Smith, the Only. And he spoke it when all he wanted to hear in return was truth. And his fearless desire calmed them, the truth having the power to free them all.

I don’t know. But I am concerned it will be within a form that is unacceptable to your level. Then what will be done? Kadmon spoke, attempting to answer some of his own concerns.

If she is with the rebels, then I am ready to meet them! Jon Smith said. Kadmon did not answer; he gave it further thought.

Impossible. After Kadmon said that word, nothing else was said for some time.

Zepha, who had been standing against the cave wall, took a moment to look up. What he saw was puzzling. The very walls of the enclosure seem alive. The ceiling was vibrating, small flickers of light and dark. As he gazed at the enclosure, he found himself in, he searched hard to find color, knowing it might help him identify this level. There was, after all, aemanatingng energy in every level. And each emanation contained some form of electromagnetism that called forth the sensation of color. He concentrated, looking at the ceiling some thousand feet above his face. If there was a color in this level, it was a deep color that absorbed the light from the Only’s wheeled-chair headlights.

Zepha could not decipher from his own skin, which literally consumed all light it met. Instead, he searched the skin of the Only for clues as to the level where they now stood. If the names of colors could be used to tell tales, this one level might be called Indigo with, judging from the color of his cloth and the face of Kadmon, a hint of midnight blue. There was a hazy, shimmering, iridescence that blended so well with his own skin that the Zepha, lying coiled, could not be seen. The sky, as the ceilings of each level were called, in places matched Zepha’s body, and appeared to figuratively quiver with excitement.

It is the truth, I fear, the voice whined, I am afraid too, Kadmon. I am afraid of the present, what is. I fear what will become. He turned his chair, facing Kadmon. From our control stations, we know that we can manage this world. We have used this vast technology. We have been granted supreme intelligence; we used it well, he said mounting an uncontrolled desperation. But still the past frightens me. And the future, what will become of us? He sat slumped in his chair.

You have conducted yourself for the good of all mankind. Kadmon was sullen, and he found it difficult to contain himself, but he decided he would let the other speak. He was next in line, and whenever The Only seemed tired Kadmon could not help but wish his day would come; perhaps this jubilee might free him, too. Perhaps, he thought, this will be the last one The Only will conduct. He stopped in his thoughts, The Only was thinking.

We have learned to control the physical manifestations of the world in which we abide. We perfected regulation of the mental resonance. We have successfully defined their emotions.

And in giving it definition, we were able to force it into hiding, Kadmon interjected, to support him.

But the spirit world. We have made little progress in this direction, and its mysticism creeps ahead of us, Jon Smith said. Kadmon began to pace. He did this when he thought. He walked.

There is still very little proof that such a world exists. We cannot measure it. There is no physical evidence! he said.

Can we physically measure emotions? the ‘One Who Sits’ questioned. Yes, sir we can, Kadmon said, eager to turn what was once rhetorical into his most recent theory. I say that emotions are the result of the physical and mental forces, Kadmon said, gratefully seizing this opportunity to speak. He attempted to clarify his former statement, I think there may be only two real forces, the physical and the mental and they are opposed, naturally occurring, and in opposition. The birth that arose from their conflict? he looked at the One Who Sits, narrowing his eyes, reminding Zepha of something, and then he said, Emotions.

There was true silence. All that could be heard was the drum that sounded an interval called time.

The man in the wheeled chair had not spoken. More important, he had been careful not to have a single thought, unlike Zepha whose thoughts were shaking. He struggled so much to still them;