But as time (yes!) passed he began to see that there was more to the figure, and became convinced that the small platform at the apex of the obelisk held more than just the figure and the seat. The figure … yes, it was a man, a man dressed in a long gown and a pointed cap … was bent over a small writing desk or lectern. He was writing, slowly and methodically, with a quill in a large ledger, his attention to detail fastidious, the tip of the quill precessing equinoctially, in slow circles.[5]
Time passed.
Below, the one who looked up waited. He stood completely still, eyes on the figure above. Waiting. Waiting.
A further duration ran its course. At some point in a moving stream of time that was now well-established, a few moments later or several hours later — no one could say — the man on high laid the quill aside and settled within the wings of his high-backed chair.
Something had changed in the interim. The obelisk was not so much an obelisk as a high bench — a very high bench, such as that from which a judge might deliberate.
The man in the gown and pointed cap looked down. The face was vague in shadows, but a flowing beard could be discerned, its color perhaps a silver-gray. The eyes, under a dark lowered brow, were pools of deeper shadow.
He spoke. He said, “Ah.” His voice was deep and resonant.
The man below said nothing.
The Judge (for after all, he must have a name) glanced at the open book. “I was just working on your entry. Good. You have come. Your time has come. Rather, the end of your time. There now must be a reckoning.”
More time passed, enough so that the man below felt he must answer.
“Where am I?”
The Judge smiled faintly. “Where, indeed. If this is a place, it is a place between places. Less a place than a transition between places. Between different states of being, shall we say. The notion of physical location is moot. This is not so much a place as it is a way station. A short stop on the journey.”
“On the journey to where?”
“That is what must be determined.”
“If you can’t tell me where I am,” the man below said, “then tell me who I am.”
“That also must be determined. Identity is not a constant thing. It shifts. It flows. It must be stabilized. It needs bolstering now and then. Reinforcing. It is not a given.”
The man below stared at the ground for a moment. Then he looked up again. “What am I doing here? Why was I brought to this place?”
“You are full of questions,” the Judge said. He smiled again and nodded. “Good. You must regard what is happening to you as a process, a situation in a state of becoming. You must ask questions, you must learn. You must forget what you know, or what you think you know, and you must learn it again, afresh. With the relearning might come something new. New knowledge. Sharper insight. A change of perspective. And all that will come, in time. You must learn, as well, to be patient.”
“I want to know,” the man below said. “I want to learn.”
“Good, good. You will learn. And you will know.”
The Judge leaned back and rubbed his eyes with thumb and forefinger. “Ah,” he said wearily. “This is not the easiest of jobs.”
“Who are you?” the man looking up asked.
“It is my job to see you through this process of learning. To guide you, but not to teach. You must teach yourself. I will be with you in spirit along the way. It is also my appointed task to choose a proper path for you. There are many paths to knowledge. Many means to the ultimate goal. One way must be chosen that is right for you, that is more conducive to self-instruction than any other.”
“Where am I to go?” was the question.
“Do not ask where,” came the answer. “As I told you, location is of little importance. More significant is the process itself. Forget for now the question of where in space and time the process unfolds. For your purposes, there is no space, save for that space in which you are to fulfill your destiny. There is no time, save for the duration needed for that destiny to be fulfilled.”
“Is it all written?” asked the man. “Is it all set down in that book?”
The Judge nodded, leaning forward again, looking over the edge of the towering bench. “I am writing it. It is being written even as we speak.”
“Then I have no will, no volition.”
“On the contrary! You have every means at your disposal to change the circumstances in which you will find yourself. You will have the wherewithal to resist, to fight, to scheme, to meddle, or to refuse. All is possible. All this you will do.”
“But if my fate is sealed …”
“In eternity, your fate is set. But you live in time, and you have the means and the opportunity to affect the outcome of all that you engage in. You will choose your fate. You will cause it to be fixed in eternity. You will be the only cause of your own predetermined fate. You will write your story. And I … I will set it down. Here.” The Judge touched the pages of the open ledger.
The man did not answer for a long while. The silence of the Plane droned on.
“I find all that … very interesting.”
“No doubt,” the Judge said. He sat back again. “There is not much more to say. Words, at this point, would be of little value.”
“You have not said many,” the man below said. “Nor have you told me very much.”
“That is true. For many reasons. And you will know the reason in time, as you shall know many things.”
The Judge straightened in his chair.
“It is time to begin.”
“Begin what?”
The horizon, the man suddenly noticed, was barely visible now, a faint ring of grayness that had slowly faded as the conversation progressed. The darkness that was not a sky above seemed to grow darker still. Shadows fell upon one another across the length and breadth of the Plane. Silence deepened.
“What is happening?”
“Nothing,” the Judge said. “This temporary existence is at an end. Chaos returns, darkness falls.”
“Will something take its place?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.”
“What is written in the book about it?”
“Only what you create and I set down.”
“But what does the book say?”
“If I read, it would be meaningless to you.”
The darkness folded in like a shroud. The horizon became the barest ghost of itself, a thin separation of the blackness above and the blackness below. Then it vanished and there was naught but the absence of light.
“This is meaningless,” he said in the last moment before he ceased to exist.
“What is?” came the last thing he heard.
Seven
Chamber of the Privy Council
They were all elderly men, all sitting around an immense oak table.
Dressed in fine robes and bedecked with heavy gold chains from which hung ornate gold medallions — signifying their respective offices and posts — they sat, hatted or hooded, in wary silence, eyes shifting, each taking his neighbor’s measure.
Mental wheels turned, spinning out plots and counterplots, assessing possible allies, gauging potential enemies. On the surface, there were a few bland smiles. The majority wore poker faces. Most went about their machinations calmly, coolly; one or two looked nervous.
One stroked his white beard, face forward, eyes sidling left. The man next to him met his gaze, raised an eyebrow. The first man looked away.
Someone coughed discreetly into a bony fist.
Points of candlelight glinted in dark oak paneling, richly stained and finished. It was a subdued room. A room of power. The chairs were of black crushed leather, the candlesticks of gold. The bare tabletop shone with a waxen luster.
Now and then, eyes drifted to the large empty chair at the end of the table farthest from the door.
5
The precession of the equinoxes is the earlier occurrence of the equinoxes in each successive sidereal year because of a slow retrograde motion of the equinoctial points along the ecliptic, caused by the wobble inherent in the Earth’s rotation, much like that of a spinning top.