In the thirty-third of the Master’s life, during the third month of the third year of His ministry, the Master determined that His mission was a failure. The Apostles squabbled amongst themselves for His favor. His followers were prepared to do anything for Him, even things He told them they should not do. He was reinforcing everything He needed to destroy. He decided it had come time for Him to martyr Himself and reveal to His followers the truth: that He was not God’s son.
He made arrangements with Judas Iscariot to have Himself handed over for execution. The Master and His disciples would celebrate the Passover meal, and the following morning Judas would turn Him over to Roman soldiers. Judas was pulled aside from the other disciples and informed of the planned self-sacrifice.
Judas asked the Master: “How can I betray you, whom I love above all else?”
He replied: “Do it like you should do all things; with love,”
Judas asked: “How can I erase the Word that has become flesh?”
He replied: “I am indeed the Word, and the word I was to bring was ‘destruction.’ My teachings were to cause the walls of heaven to tumble. Instead, they will be bolstered, making them nigh impenetrable to mankind.”
After the Passover meal, Judas informed the Pharisees of His whereabouts. The Pharisees of Galilee, shouting for His death, exerted great political clout among the Romans. Rome had a proxy government in the area, set up mostly for tax-collection purposes.
The Pharisees paid Judas in silver. Judas took the thirty pieces with the intent of helping others with it. The only thing left for Judas would be to directly point Him out to the Roman sentries who would be dispatched in the morning to apprehend Him. Judas decided he would not point a finger at the Master. He would say good-bye with love. He kissed the Master on the cheek that morning.
The Master was crucified in a manner typical of an enemy of the state or blasphemer. As He hung nude on the cross, He cried out “Eloi Eloi lama sabachthani. (My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?)”
He lamented not the pain in His body, but His failure to reach and help mankind. He was stabbed by a sentry in his side with a spear, but His legs were not broken. This caused Him to suffer, alive, for hours, as He could support His weight by standing. He muttered: “Forgive them, Father, they know not what they do.” He hoped His death would not be too late.
As the sun was setting on that Friday, Joseph of Arimethia arranged the removal of the Master from the cross. A sympathizer of the Master who had Roman connections, Joseph confronted Pontius Pilate with the claim that He was dead (though He was clearly not) and should be taken down before the Sabbath was to begin at sunset on Friday. Pilot, having felt pity for this victim of religious injustice, allowed His body to be taken down without proof of death.
The Master’s recovery took three days. He was nursed to health in a large tomb. Upon being able to move about on His own three days later, the Master sent His benefactors away and sought His Apostles.
Upon exitting the tomb, He spied Mary Magdelan approaching. He had not seen her during His recovery and did not want her to see Him in His current, broken state. Her shrieks at discovering an empty tomb forced Him to confront her. He did not explain what had happened, nor did He claim to have died and risen. She did not ask, she only embraced Him with a vigor He found painful. She led Him to where the Apostles were hiding.
He confronted the Apostles, who were all gathered in a small room, save for Judas and Thomas(who was out running errands).
Judas had been summoned to meet John and Peter the day after the execution. They led him to a small field where they said the Master was waiting, alive. There, they hung and flayed him. The Apostles told the Master Judas killed himself.
In the coming days, He would later appear to Thomas, as well as others. Many of Judas’ converts beheld His presence. The things He began preaching frightened the Apostles.
He said to His disciples: “Truly, I say unto you, the gravest mistake has occurred in my time on earth. None have listened to what I have said. You hear only the words you are listening for.”
Peter told the Master: “Now, more than ever, we must proclaim your wisdom.”
The Master said: “You believe me to be brave and that I am alive by miracle. Instead, I am alive by a bribe, making me a coward. Who do you say I am?”
All His followers, in turn, replied that they believed He was the Son of God.
He said: “Do not think that my coming will bring peace. No, my coming will bring not the olive branch, but the sword. My presence will turn a son against his father and a daughter against her mother. A man’s enemies will be those in his own family.”
Shortly after this final meeting of the Master with His Apostles, they poisoned Him in His sleep. They vowed to claim they witnessed His bodily form ascend to heaven. His remains were burnt in the desert. They dispersed thoughout Rome, the Middle East and northern Africa to spread their teachings, in His name.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
The Good Atheist
“…and never let the liberal media tell you otherwise,” barks the radio. George nods in agreement. Damn straight.
Red light. I hate these fucking things. As soon as you build up enough speed to really-
A boy jumps on the hood of his car. Standing akimbo with the glare of the early morning sun silhouetting his baggy clothing and wiry frame, the boy makes a hand gesture at him. It’s the kind of gesture George translates as, “I need to be taught a lesson.”
George puts the car in park and opens the car door. He does not see the man walk up behind him with a baseball bat. George manages to say “I bet you think you’re pretty-” before all two-hundred and forty pounds of him slump to the pavement.
When he comes to, he slowly tries to sit up, but fails. He succeeds in laying himself out in the snow-angel position. He turns his head to the left. His watch is gone. He turns his head to the right. He sees blood splattered on the concrete. He rolls onto his side and curls into the fetal position. He’s naked.
This isn’t happening.
He hears giggling. He cranes his neck back and sees five black children, three boys and two girls, looking at him. He can’t tell how far away they are, but they are hunched over to get a closer look. “Man, you got fucked up,” says one of the boys. He looks about the same age as George’s eight year old son. After some growls and coughs, they scream in mock terror which fades into laughter as they scatter.
He slowly climbs to one knee, then his bare feet. One hand cups his genitals, the other steadies himself on a telephone poll.
Where am I?
It’s not the best neighborhood. He is at least a fifteen minute drive away from his home. He doesn’t have a stitch of clothing, and his car is gone.
Panicked, George runs in front of the first vehicle that passes: a black Cadillac with a cross hanging from the rearview mirror. The ashen haired man behind the wheel stops just in time. It’s the priest from his local parish. Using both hands to shield his privates, George walks to the passenger side of the vehicle. The window cracks slightly, barely an inch.
“Sir, you got to help me. I was carjacked and they stole my clothes. I gotta get out of here.”
The priest scans him sidelong, mouth slightly agape. After an uncomfortable few seconds of silence, the priest replies: “I really would, but I’m already late for services and, well, frankly, the car is brand new and I… um… couldn’t help but notice that you soiled yourself.”
George hadn’t even realized the thick, brown feces caked between his thighs.
“I’ll pray for you, son. Maybe you should lay off the booze.”
The priest doesn’t even wait for George to step away before accelerating down the road.
Going the other way, he sees a silver SUV. He recognizes the man as someone from his church. He saw him at the fish fry last week, and he plays softball in the same league. The SUV doesn’t even slow down.
Not long after, a red pick-up truck playing Lynyrd Skynyrd approaches and stops. The driver has aviator sunglasses and sports a wicked mullet.
“What in the hell do we have here?” he shouts out the passenger window.
“Some kids, they took my car-”
“Niggers?”
“Huh?” replies George, shocked.
“I said: niggers take your car?”
“Um, I didn’t really get a good look at them. The kid who jumped on my car was black, but the person who hit me from behind-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says the driver in the truck. “I ain’t talkin’ to no faggot with no clothes on, covered in shit, who gets hit from behind for the viewing pleasure of nigglets.”
“Wait, what? No, see, I never saw the guy’s face-”
“Look queer, I just pulled over to find out what gay-ass, butt-fucker quarrel you got into to be in this situation. I heard you pillow biters were into playing with shit, but goddamn! You don’t believe it ‘til you see it.”
The truck peels out, leaving black skids on the pavement. The truck has two bumper stickers: “Abortion stops a beating heart” and “Bush/Cheney ’04.”
Standing alone in the street, George is torn between screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs and bursting out into tears. Before he has to decide, a white Prius drives up. It stops, and the driver gets out of the car. He has several ear piercings and tattoos scattered along his arms. His Pearl Jam t-shirt is torn and stained.
“Hey man, you need some help?” the driver calls out.
George licks his lips and seems to genuinely ponder the question, “Yeah, my car and clothes were stolen.”
“Do you want to go to the police? Or home, to get dressed or something?”
“Home,” says George. “I want to go home.”
“Okay.” The driver looks the man up and down, squinting. He walks to his trunk, opens it, and pulls out some towels. “Here,” he says. “You can cover up and maybe wipe yourself off a bit.”
George takes them and promptly wraps one around his waist, and drapes the other over his shoulders like a shawl. The driver gets back into his car and motions George to the passenger seat.
“Yeah,” the driver says as he buckles up. “I keep those towels back there just in case. Shit happens when you party hard.”
“I wasn’t partying, I was carjacked,” George says. The driver pushes a button and the car turns on.
“Yeah, you mentioned that. That’s a bummer, dude.”
Great, he’s a fucking moron…
They sit in silence for a minute before the driver turns to George and says, “So, where’s home?”
“Oh right,” George says. “It’s just twelve blocks up this street, then a couple turns and you’re there.”
“Cool,” says the driver, putting the car into drive with a little joystick near the power button. “Just tell me when to turns.”
They drive in silence until another light.
“So, what’s your name?” asks the driver.
“George,” he replies.
“My name’s Sam,” says the driver after a pregnant pause.
George chuckles. “Sam… Sam the good Samaritan.”
“I guess you could say that,” Same replies with a smile on his face. “Did you have trouble getting help?”
“A little,” George says.
“Then I guess this is like the parable of the good Samaritan,” Sam says.
George turns to Sam and really looks at him for the first time. “You read the Bible?”
“Sure I have. I’ve read it from Genesis to the Revelation a couple times. Every thou, every beget, every vengeful word. That’s why I know better than to believe it.”
“Then, why pick me up?” says George. “Why be a good Samaritan if you don’t believe it? In fact, aren’t you proving my belief is right?”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” Sam replies. “Just because the Bible correctly suggests a few admirable moral lessons doesn’t mean every word is valuable. The Bible models the world as flat and the sky as a solid dome that holds back the water that falls down as rain. It says everything was made in seven days.”
“It was.”
“Maybe your world. But the world I live in isn’t even done yet. Besides, if God makes everything, why did God stop creating cool animals like the platypus and giraffe, but he still has time to make stuff like AIDS, SARS, and a new cold virus every year?”
“AIDS is God’s way of punishing homosexuals and heroin addicts.”
“And haemophiliacs?” Sam asks.
“The weak should be culled from the flock.”
Sam laughs. “So… you believe in survival of the fittest, but not evolution?”
“I suppose I do,” says George.
“What about women raped by men infected with AIDS? What about innocent children born with it? Does your God punish children for the sins of their parents?”
“That’s just collateral damage,” says George.
Sam sighs. “I didn’t realize we were at war with the divine.”
They sit quietly for a while.
Sam decides to break the silence. “You know what the lesson of the Good Samaritan parable is about?”
“Be ever watchful for naked people who need a ride home?”
Sam laughs. “Maybe. But consider the context. Samaritans were a group that the Judeans were hostile with for centuries. Jesus was, as you may know, from Judea. He expected that using a Samaritan as the example of a good acting neighbor would shock those who heard the story. It loses some of its meaning with a modern audience. If you wanted to modernize it, it would be someone like, say, a Muslim or Buddhist or maybe even atheist who helps the man.”
“I can you tell without a doubt that Jesus didn’t mean that an atheist who did good works would get into heaven.”
The tires screech.
Sam stares daggers at George. “Get out of the fucking car.”
“What? Why?”
“I said get out of the fucking car. Leave the towels.”
“Please, you can’t just leave me out here naked.”
“I let you into my car and offered to drive you home. Then, you told me in so many words to go to hell. You know why your faith believes in forgiveness? Because people like you would have nothing in this world if it weren’t for all the second chances you get. My mother is dying of a disease that relies on stem-cell research for advances. I bet you voted for Bush, you Christ kissing douchebag. Get out of my fucking car.”
“But… you can’t leave me here naked,” George says, clutching the towels.
“I can,” Sam says. “There’s nothing stopping me. But you know what? I was raised to believe that even a wretch deserves mercy. Keep the towels.” Sam shifts some coins in a cup holder between the seats. “Here’s two quarters to make a pay phone call. Get the fuck out of my car.”
George takes the quarters and slowly gets out of the car, hoping Sam will change his mind. He stands outside with the door open for a few seconds. Sam sits silently staring forward. George closes the door. The white Prius hums as it drives away.
Red light. I hate these fucking things. As soon as you build up enough speed to really-
A boy jumps on the hood of his car. Standing akimbo with the glare of the early morning sun silhouetting his baggy clothing and wiry frame, the boy makes a hand gesture at him. It’s the kind of gesture George translates as, “I need to be taught a lesson.”
George puts the car in park and opens the car door. He does not see the man walk up behind him with a baseball bat. George manages to say “I bet you think you’re pretty-” before all two-hundred and forty pounds of him slump to the pavement.
When he comes to, he slowly tries to sit up, but fails. He succeeds in laying himself out in the snow-angel position. He turns his head to the left. His watch is gone. He turns his head to the right. He sees blood splattered on the concrete. He rolls onto his side and curls into the fetal position. He’s naked.
This isn’t happening.
He hears giggling. He cranes his neck back and sees five black children, three boys and two girls, looking at him. He can’t tell how far away they are, but they are hunched over to get a closer look. “Man, you got fucked up,” says one of the boys. He looks about the same age as George’s eight year old son. After some growls and coughs, they scream in mock terror which fades into laughter as they scatter.
He slowly climbs to one knee, then his bare feet. One hand cups his genitals, the other steadies himself on a telephone poll.
Where am I?
It’s not the best neighborhood. He is at least a fifteen minute drive away from his home. He doesn’t have a stitch of clothing, and his car is gone.
Panicked, George runs in front of the first vehicle that passes: a black Cadillac with a cross hanging from the rearview mirror. The ashen haired man behind the wheel stops just in time. It’s the priest from his local parish. Using both hands to shield his privates, George walks to the passenger side of the vehicle. The window cracks slightly, barely an inch.
“Sir, you got to help me. I was carjacked and they stole my clothes. I gotta get out of here.”
The priest scans him sidelong, mouth slightly agape. After an uncomfortable few seconds of silence, the priest replies: “I really would, but I’m already late for services and, well, frankly, the car is brand new and I… um… couldn’t help but notice that you soiled yourself.”
George hadn’t even realized the thick, brown feces caked between his thighs.
“I’ll pray for you, son. Maybe you should lay off the booze.”
The priest doesn’t even wait for George to step away before accelerating down the road.
Going the other way, he sees a silver SUV. He recognizes the man as someone from his church. He saw him at the fish fry last week, and he plays softball in the same league. The SUV doesn’t even slow down.
Not long after, a red pick-up truck playing Lynyrd Skynyrd approaches and stops. The driver has aviator sunglasses and sports a wicked mullet.
“What in the hell do we have here?” he shouts out the passenger window.
“Some kids, they took my car-”
“Niggers?”
“Huh?” replies George, shocked.
“I said: niggers take your car?”
“Um, I didn’t really get a good look at them. The kid who jumped on my car was black, but the person who hit me from behind-”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” says the driver in the truck. “I ain’t talkin’ to no faggot with no clothes on, covered in shit, who gets hit from behind for the viewing pleasure of nigglets.”
“Wait, what? No, see, I never saw the guy’s face-”
“Look queer, I just pulled over to find out what gay-ass, butt-fucker quarrel you got into to be in this situation. I heard you pillow biters were into playing with shit, but goddamn! You don’t believe it ‘til you see it.”
The truck peels out, leaving black skids on the pavement. The truck has two bumper stickers: “Abortion stops a beating heart” and “Bush/Cheney ’04.”
Standing alone in the street, George is torn between screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs and bursting out into tears. Before he has to decide, a white Prius drives up. It stops, and the driver gets out of the car. He has several ear piercings and tattoos scattered along his arms. His Pearl Jam t-shirt is torn and stained.
“Hey man, you need some help?” the driver calls out.
George licks his lips and seems to genuinely ponder the question, “Yeah, my car and clothes were stolen.”
“Do you want to go to the police? Or home, to get dressed or something?”
“Home,” says George. “I want to go home.”
“Okay.” The driver looks the man up and down, squinting. He walks to his trunk, opens it, and pulls out some towels. “Here,” he says. “You can cover up and maybe wipe yourself off a bit.”
George takes them and promptly wraps one around his waist, and drapes the other over his shoulders like a shawl. The driver gets back into his car and motions George to the passenger seat.
“Yeah,” the driver says as he buckles up. “I keep those towels back there just in case. Shit happens when you party hard.”
“I wasn’t partying, I was carjacked,” George says. The driver pushes a button and the car turns on.
“Yeah, you mentioned that. That’s a bummer, dude.”
Great, he’s a fucking moron…
They sit in silence for a minute before the driver turns to George and says, “So, where’s home?”
“Oh right,” George says. “It’s just twelve blocks up this street, then a couple turns and you’re there.”
“Cool,” says the driver, putting the car into drive with a little joystick near the power button. “Just tell me when to turns.”
They drive in silence until another light.
“So, what’s your name?” asks the driver.
“George,” he replies.
“My name’s Sam,” says the driver after a pregnant pause.
George chuckles. “Sam… Sam the good Samaritan.”
“I guess you could say that,” Same replies with a smile on his face. “Did you have trouble getting help?”
“A little,” George says.
“Then I guess this is like the parable of the good Samaritan,” Sam says.
George turns to Sam and really looks at him for the first time. “You read the Bible?”
“Sure I have. I’ve read it from Genesis to the Revelation a couple times. Every thou, every beget, every vengeful word. That’s why I know better than to believe it.”
“Then, why pick me up?” says George. “Why be a good Samaritan if you don’t believe it? In fact, aren’t you proving my belief is right?”
“Even a broken clock is right twice a day,” Sam replies. “Just because the Bible correctly suggests a few admirable moral lessons doesn’t mean every word is valuable. The Bible models the world as flat and the sky as a solid dome that holds back the water that falls down as rain. It says everything was made in seven days.”
“It was.”
“Maybe your world. But the world I live in isn’t even done yet. Besides, if God makes everything, why did God stop creating cool animals like the platypus and giraffe, but he still has time to make stuff like AIDS, SARS, and a new cold virus every year?”
“AIDS is God’s way of punishing homosexuals and heroin addicts.”
“And haemophiliacs?” Sam asks.
“The weak should be culled from the flock.”
Sam laughs. “So… you believe in survival of the fittest, but not evolution?”
“I suppose I do,” says George.
“What about women raped by men infected with AIDS? What about innocent children born with it? Does your God punish children for the sins of their parents?”
“That’s just collateral damage,” says George.
Sam sighs. “I didn’t realize we were at war with the divine.”
They sit quietly for a while.
Sam decides to break the silence. “You know what the lesson of the Good Samaritan parable is about?”
“Be ever watchful for naked people who need a ride home?”
Sam laughs. “Maybe. But consider the context. Samaritans were a group that the Judeans were hostile with for centuries. Jesus was, as you may know, from Judea. He expected that using a Samaritan as the example of a good acting neighbor would shock those who heard the story. It loses some of its meaning with a modern audience. If you wanted to modernize it, it would be someone like, say, a Muslim or Buddhist or maybe even atheist who helps the man.”
“I can you tell without a doubt that Jesus didn’t mean that an atheist who did good works would get into heaven.”
The tires screech.
Sam stares daggers at George. “Get out of the fucking car.”
“What? Why?”
“I said get out of the fucking car. Leave the towels.”
“Please, you can’t just leave me out here naked.”
“I let you into my car and offered to drive you home. Then, you told me in so many words to go to hell. You know why your faith believes in forgiveness? Because people like you would have nothing in this world if it weren’t for all the second chances you get. My mother is dying of a disease that relies on stem-cell research for advances. I bet you voted for Bush, you Christ kissing douchebag. Get out of my fucking car.”
“But… you can’t leave me here naked,” George says, clutching the towels.
“I can,” Sam says. “There’s nothing stopping me. But you know what? I was raised to believe that even a wretch deserves mercy. Keep the towels.” Sam shifts some coins in a cup holder between the seats. “Here’s two quarters to make a pay phone call. Get the fuck out of my car.”
George takes the quarters and slowly gets out of the car, hoping Sam will change his mind. He stands outside with the door open for a few seconds. Sam sits silently staring forward. George closes the door. The white Prius hums as it drives away.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
How Things Have Changed
CHARACTERS
Raef ....................................Elder priestess of the tribe
Nam ....................................The tribe’s chieftain
Oge .....................................The tribe’s top hunter, advisor to Nam
The Time: 1,001,494 BCE
The Place: 50 kilometers northwest of modern Johannesburg, South Africa
(RAEF runs up to NAM and OGE, who are both leaning against the entrance to a limestone cave)
RAEF: (out of breath from a long sprint) Nam, I demand that we stop using fire immediately.
NAM: (sigh) What is it now?
RAEF: Another hut burned to the ground today. That’s seven this season. Four people have died.
OGE: Did any die this time?
RAEF: No, but three are homeless!
NAM: I’ll consider your proposal, Raef.
RAEF: You don’t have time; the Gods are punishing us already.
OGE: There are no Gods.
RAEF: (gasp)
NAM: (to OGE) Please, let me handle this.
RAEF: Blasphemy! Throw him into the river!
NAM: No one’s being thrown in the river.
RAEF: Look, fire is unnatural. It spits in the eye of the Sun God.
OGE: And yet the sun still rises.
RAEF: (annoyed) It is the responsibility of the Sun to provide light and warmth. Fire is beyond the control of man. Look at all the trouble it brings.
NAM: I’m aware there are dangers. I trust the tribe to practice responsible use.
RAEF: The tribe is too stupid! They can’t be trusted with anything! Even the eldest cooks in the tribe still burn themselves occasionally. And need I mention what might happen if we start a fire so big it burns the entire world?
NAM: I am concerned, I assure you. I want the best for the tribe.
RAEF: The Gods command it, Nam. It’s not what I want. You know I enjoy my meat cooked, but the Gods are very clear. The weather has been worsening and –
OGE: Of course it’s worsening, winter is almost here.
RAEF: This has been a particularly harsh fall, even you know that.
OGE: The leaves changed and the birds flew off. It seems like a perfectly normal autumn to me.
RAEF: Nam, surely you won’t sit idly by as the tribe descends from the grace of the Gods?
NAM: What if fire is a gift from the Gods?
RAEF: Outrageous! The Gods don’t need help from lowly humans.
OGE: They just need our offerings in front of the prayer cave?
RAEF: Those are sacrifices to honor Gods. They are a sign of respect, something you wouldn’t know anything about.
OGE: How do the Gods enjoy our choicest meats, grains, berries and nuts?
NAM: Enough. We will continue to use fire.
RAEF: You have placed a death sentence on the tribe!
NAM: Maybe, but I believe the Gods gave us the ability to make fire.
RAEF: And what would you say to countless hundreds who will be injured by fire?
OGE: Be more careful.
RAEF: But we can’t expect the tribe to be responsible; we should at least restrict the use of fire.
NAM: I’ll think about it.
RAEF: (walks away) What next? The wheel?
Raef ....................................Elder priestess of the tribe
Nam ....................................The tribe’s chieftain
Oge .....................................The tribe’s top hunter, advisor to Nam
The Time: 1,001,494 BCE
The Place: 50 kilometers northwest of modern Johannesburg, South Africa
(RAEF runs up to NAM and OGE, who are both leaning against the entrance to a limestone cave)
RAEF: (out of breath from a long sprint) Nam, I demand that we stop using fire immediately.
NAM: (sigh) What is it now?
RAEF: Another hut burned to the ground today. That’s seven this season. Four people have died.
OGE: Did any die this time?
RAEF: No, but three are homeless!
NAM: I’ll consider your proposal, Raef.
RAEF: You don’t have time; the Gods are punishing us already.
OGE: There are no Gods.
RAEF: (gasp)
NAM: (to OGE) Please, let me handle this.
RAEF: Blasphemy! Throw him into the river!
NAM: No one’s being thrown in the river.
RAEF: Look, fire is unnatural. It spits in the eye of the Sun God.
OGE: And yet the sun still rises.
RAEF: (annoyed) It is the responsibility of the Sun to provide light and warmth. Fire is beyond the control of man. Look at all the trouble it brings.
NAM: I’m aware there are dangers. I trust the tribe to practice responsible use.
RAEF: The tribe is too stupid! They can’t be trusted with anything! Even the eldest cooks in the tribe still burn themselves occasionally. And need I mention what might happen if we start a fire so big it burns the entire world?
NAM: I am concerned, I assure you. I want the best for the tribe.
RAEF: The Gods command it, Nam. It’s not what I want. You know I enjoy my meat cooked, but the Gods are very clear. The weather has been worsening and –
OGE: Of course it’s worsening, winter is almost here.
RAEF: This has been a particularly harsh fall, even you know that.
OGE: The leaves changed and the birds flew off. It seems like a perfectly normal autumn to me.
RAEF: Nam, surely you won’t sit idly by as the tribe descends from the grace of the Gods?
NAM: What if fire is a gift from the Gods?
RAEF: Outrageous! The Gods don’t need help from lowly humans.
OGE: They just need our offerings in front of the prayer cave?
RAEF: Those are sacrifices to honor Gods. They are a sign of respect, something you wouldn’t know anything about.
OGE: How do the Gods enjoy our choicest meats, grains, berries and nuts?
NAM: Enough. We will continue to use fire.
RAEF: You have placed a death sentence on the tribe!
NAM: Maybe, but I believe the Gods gave us the ability to make fire.
RAEF: And what would you say to countless hundreds who will be injured by fire?
OGE: Be more careful.
RAEF: But we can’t expect the tribe to be responsible; we should at least restrict the use of fire.
NAM: I’ll think about it.
RAEF: (walks away) What next? The wheel?
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