Time Odyssey: The Soul's Memory; Part I, Dreamtime

by J. F. Weckesser

  Ketzah pinched a tiny weed and uprooted it. “Well, right now you’re working on the Monument of Light. You translate knowledge into mathematical equations, correct?” 

  Falima nodded. 

  “So you work with numbers right now. Use that talent to pass the knowledge on. That’s duty enough, isn’t it? But why do that forever? When you’re finished, learn to heal.” 

  “That’s true, I can do that.” She thought a moment. “But will we have the use of the Crystals forever?” She shrugged. “I’ll change direction only if the need arises.” 

  She looked around. No one could see them behind the orange tree, thick with blossoms and glossy leaves. Her eyes had an impish sparkle and she boldly took Ketzah’s hand. They stood silently for just a moment, cherishing the sweet thrill it brought.

  Then Falima shook her head slightly and clasped her hands together determinably. Ketzah forced sensuous thoughts from his mind.

  “I can’t stay,” said Falima. “The reason I came out here is because Mot told me you’re working on the Records now, too. Is that right?” 

  “I begin tomorrow. But, I’ll be writing them in Atlantean, not numbers. The Monument will take so much time and labor to build, so the priests are planning only the one you’re working on in Khemet. The rest of us will engrave our history on gold pages.” 

  “Gold—they’ll be beautiful.” 

  “Beautiful, yes, and practical,” said Ketzah. “Gold doesn’t corrode or decompose in time, so it seems the best choice. If we make a number of them to hide all over the world, one or more might survive whatever the future brings.” 

  “But...they’ll be written in a language that may be forgotten.”

  “Yes,” said Ketzah. “But Hara is working on a key to aid translation, to be placed in each book. I don’t know how he’ll do it, but he’s good at that sort of thing.” 

  Falima squeezed Ketzah’s hand, then let go. “Master Shu will be expecting me. I must go.” She hurried toward the entranceway. “We’ll talk more on the way home,” she called back. 

  Ketzah waved and watched her leave, then returned to his knees and his weeds. He dug and pulled, careful to protect the baby cucumbers as he worked, all the while entertaining delicious thoughts of Falima...Falima...Falima. At last he could take it no longer. He sweated profusely and his loins ached. 

  If I’m to withstand this, he reasoned, I must do as Mot says: Channel my carnal desires to a higher plane. The Work. All my energies must go toward the Work. 

  He thought again of Falima, but this time as a healer, using the Crystals for the good of people everywhere. 

  He had seen the Firestone only a few times on outings with the priests and other students to learn of Atlan’s power. Nestled in an enormous building not too far from the temple, the huge gem took up most of the vast room. A movable roof allowed the sun to shine through, illuminating the Crystals, which magnified and intensified as they ricocheted off its carefully cut facets, finally channeling into several storage cells, which in turn gave power to the entire country. 

  From this source came all energy for ships—on the sea and in the air—land vehicles, heating, manufacturing—and lately, warfare. How sad, thought Ketzah, that something so good could be changed to such evil. 

  Rumors sometimes passed around the city that in secluded lower levels of the building, the government used the Crystals for torture, coercion and punishment. Perversions so horrible, only a few brave souls dared whisper of them. Criminals were driven mad with pain, enemies of the state destroyed—slowly, always slowly, the better to entertain their sadistic captors.

  Ketzah knelt motionless, his digging tool lying by his side. Could it be true? Would this great Atlantean government permit such atrocities in its own ranks? Or is it only that—rumor, spread by idle minds?

  Again, Falima entered his thoughts. Would she get her chance to cure by this magnificent power? Or would Atlan have destroyed everything before that time? 

  He took up his digging tool and worked intensely. There may not be much time left.

  * * * *

  Chapter 12

  Aryaz—what an incredible place! In every direction there was noise, color, busyness—the vitality of Atlan, people called it.

  Edak had come to love it here. He was never bored and he not only learned facts and figures, but how to think, reason, debate and choose. He was free to pursue subjects he liked, and also learned the self-discipline to study hard at subjects he wasn’t interested in. Whatever he was to become, it was important to be knowledgeable in all things, and so he tackled all subjects with all his attention.

  For four years Seratl Ti watched with wonderment as Edak grew physically and mentally. Such a powerful mind he has, he thought this particular day as he sat at his table observing Edak grinding and mixing dried herbs together. Even now this man-child seeks cures for bodily disorders. Noble work for such a young man. 

  “Be careful, Edak, that you do not use too much of this plant,” he admonished. “You want to heal the patient, not kill him.” 

  Edak looked up, startled. Seratl Ti’s smile told him his error wasn’t as grave as the teacher’s words. “I would give no medicine that I have not first tried on myself,” he said.

  Seratl Ti patted the lad’s shoulder. “A wise decision.” 

  When studying numbers, Edak usually had the answers first. After showing Seratl Ti his clay tablet, he would go to help the other boys, sometimes explaining in a different way what the teacher had taught, which often helped to shed new light on the problem. This tutoring was repaid at reading time. Many of the older Atlantean stories had words and phrases unfamiliar to Edak. The others then taught him. 

  Seratl Ti sometimes wrote to Ogra of his fondness for her son, keeping her up to date on his development. If only Rehm were alive to know of his son’s deeds, he mused. He thought back to the tragic death, and its effect on Edak. 

  Rehm died soon after Edak’s arrival in Atlan. He had stumbled in from the docks one night. Covered red with rash, he mumbled incoherently. Ogra stayed at his bedside night and day while Klad brought water from the well and fresh cloths to help cool his burning forehead and body. Despite all the care and love they could give, he succumbed three nights later. 

  Edak had been at the well drinking water when it happened. He was suddenly overwhelmed with a cold feeling of emptiness followed by a deep, nameless grief. Someone dear had been torn from him, he knew. Yet, it was over a moon’s time before he received a letter from Ogra with the details, and also her advice:

  “…I know the pain and sorrow you are feeling, dear son. I sense that you will want to return home. 

  But you must remember how very proud your father was of you, until the moment he left us. You must stay there and be educated, for coming home will not breathe life back into his lungs. Your schooling was his dream, as well as mine and yours. 

  Klad and I share your grief, more than you can know, but we must remain separated at this time.” 

  Devastated, Edak took to his bed. He did not speak nor cry, but lay in silence, staring at nothing. Seratl Ti found the crumpled letter and read, then did all he could to console, but the young boy would not be comforted. After two days and nights without food or drink, Seratl Ti said gently, “Edak, you must write your mother. Your pain is searing, yet how much more so must your mother feel his absence. Don’t you abandon her, too.” 

  Edak blinked, then stared at Seratl Ti a long moment. At last he broke into sobs and clutched his teacher with profound desperation. Seratl Ti held his young charge lovingly, trying to soothe, until finally his weeping subsided. With aching heart, Edak dragged himself to the table and wrote to Ogra:

  “Dearest Mother, 

  I received your letter two days ago and immediately took sick. The thought of never seeing Father again seems more than I can bear. 

  My heart tears apart even now as I write this, for I do not wish to remain here another moment. I belong at hom
e by your side, for you have no one now to help you with Klad and the crops. 

  Yet, you tell me I must stay here, and so I shall, but only because I would not disobey the dearest woman who lives. But I promise you, Mother, that I shall learn all I can of the healing art and will do what I can to cure and to teach. 

  People as good as Father must not be cut down by disease. That is my vow, made in honor of Father’s memory.” 

  Seratl Ti thought of this now as he watched the lad, busy at work in the garden tending to a plot of medicinal plants. All along the house and in every part of the yard that was not used, Edak had planted herbs. It was a delight to the eye to see how he had used the sunny and shady spots, even making a small pond for any water-loving growth. Visitors remarked on the vast array of nightshade, agrimony, crocus, morning glory, aloe, dock, castor, yarrow, thyme, mustard, tarragon, skullcap, rosemary, sundew, raspberry, thistle, plantain, garlic, mint, fern—and plants Seratl Ti did not yet know the names of. 

  How I have enjoyed this young man, he thought. Yet, I cannot hold him forever. He is seventeen years old now, a man. It is time for him to meet the world. 

  He walked out to Edak’s side. “A splendid day to be working outside, Edak. May I join you?” 

  Edak stood in respect to his teacher’s arrival. He was fully a head and a hand taller than Seratl Ti, slender and delicate-looking. He still wore his long, nearly black hair fastened in the back. Large deep-brown eyes gazed gently from his handsome face. His voice was deep and soft. “You are always welcome to join me,” he said. “Where are the younger boys?” 

  Seratl Ti squatted by the garden and picked a mint leaf. Edak joined him. “They’re inside, still sweating over the composition I’ve asked them to write.” He chuckled. “Such an exercise is good for their mental development, and a rest for me.” He chewed the leaf for a moment. “Have you decided what your plans are, now that you’ve grown?” 

  Edak hesitated, then he, too, broke off a leaf and bit a section. “Yes,” he said, nibbling at the bit in his mouth. “I will return to Mu. I have not seen my mother and brother in four years—except in my mind-travels, of course. I know I can use my knowledge and skill to be of benefit there.” 

  Seratl Ti sighed and spat out the mint. “I had hoped you would remain in Aryaz. Atlan can always use another doctor. Would you not consider it?”  

  “I have considered it, many times. I have lived here long enough to know that I would miss Atlan if I lived in Mu, and I would miss Mu if I lived in Atlan.” He paused and chewed slowly. “So, as I am Murian by birth and my family remains in Mu, I belong there.” 

  Seratl Ti stood, as then did Edak. Seratl Ti shrugged his shoulders. “You must do what is best for you.” He put his hand on Edak’s forearm. “I shall miss you very much. You now carry all my knowledge of academics and the healing arts. In fact, you have taught me as well. I will miss your sharp mind. When will you be going?”

  “I plan to harvest these herbs to sell, which should earn enough for the voyage back home. Until then, I hope you will allow me to stay.”

  “Allow you? You are always welcome here. I so appreciate your help with these new students.” They both laughed, for Seratl Ti had four young boys, all lively and mischievous. “Are you sure you cannot stay here?” he asked wistfully.

  Edak smiled and shook his head. “I am sure. My future is in Mu.”

  * *

  Weeks passed. The herbs were harvested and sold. Edak packed his belongings. Most painful were the goodbyes given to the boys, the many promises to send letters, and the last few glances at his surroundings. And now it was time to leave this school-home forever. 

  Seratl Ti walked with him to the bay where the large old ship he was to take sat lazily at the pier.

  The too-familiar pain of parting ached in his chest. “I shall write to you the day I arrive in Mu.” Seratl Ti held open his arms and the two hugged tightly a few moments.

  “Farewell, good teacher and dear friend,” he said.

  Seratl Ti’s face was tight, but he attempted a smile. “Goodbye, Edak. May the gods smile always upon you.”

  “And also you.” 

  Edak walked up the ramp to the ship and refused to look back. No more goodbyes, he silently vowed. My life will be peaceful and serene from this time on.

  * *

  The voyage was smooth and Edak had lots of time to think, so different from his trip to Atlan four years previously. By the time the vessel had crossed the sea, gone up the river and docked at his village in Mu, he had planned precisely where his herb garden would be, in a place near his mother’s house. Swampy in places, stony in others, it would be a perfect place to grow his strange assortment. He would infringe on no one’s food crops.

  But now his dreams and plans waited for another time. Familiar sights, sounds and smells at the dock bombarded him—unchanged, yet somehow different. Had it always been this still and plain and humble? But how wonderful to behold! He swung his sack of possessions up over his shoulder, a parcel no bigger than what he had brought to Atlan, but for a few extra items: herb seeds, a yellow silk tunic for Ogra, an ivory flute for Klad, and a brass bell for Ropl Du Meh to call his students.

  Amid the noise of the docks he studied the sea of faces for someone familiar, wanting—almost expecting—to see Rehm sweating with a load of cargo on his shoulders. There was no one he recognized. Had his community disappeared, to be replaced by strangers?

  Ah, but wait—here now was Rupek, a friend of his father. Edak called and waved. He started over to speak to him but a new, cherished sound warmed his ears: “Edak!”

  Mother! He turned and scanned the busy populace. Over there, waving and smiling and crying, the same—but different—Mother! By her side, nearly as tall as Ogra, stood Klad. 

  Edak nearly pushed a man in his rush to her arms. He was taller than her now, and he felt awkward, for he was used to reaching up for her enveloping love. He looked into her face. Tiny lines had etched themselves into her once-flawless complexion. A few gray lines streaked her dark hair. Where once she protected him, he now felt like protector. He held her close and whispered, “Mother.”

  A young hand tapped Edak’s shoulder. “Remember me?” A lad the height of Ogra’s nose stood before them, muscular and stocky, his face chiseled with the handsome features of Rehm. 

  “Klad! Do I remember you? Every day of my life I’ve thought of you!” He swung his younger brother around as he had always done, but the package was much heavier than before. “Ay! You’ll soon be swinging me,” he laughed. 

  He opened his sack and pulled out the flute and robe. “Treats from Atlan, to celebrate the festivals.” 

  Klad ran his fingers over the smooth white ivory. He placed it to his mouth, and a few notes warbled out. “I love it, Edak! I really do!”

  Ogra caressed the silk and held it to her cheek. “It is so elegant, so very beautiful—as light as a breath!” Her smile faded slightly, and her eyes looked at an inner scene. “But I have no one to celebrate with at festivals.” 

  Edak thought of his parents dancing and laughing together. “No one could ever replace Father, I know. But remember, you have two young men who love you very much. Would you not honor us with your dances?” 

  Ogra brightened. “Who better, but the sons of Rehm to dance with? I will wear this robe proudly.” 

  On the walk home, Klad skipped about them, non-melodies tweedling from the flute. Ogra and Edak walked arm in arm, pausing here and there to wave or chat a bit with old friends and neighbors who recognized him. The streets and houses were smaller than Edak remembered. Compared to Aryaz, Mu was colorless, quiet, even drab. Would he fit in again? Certainly he didn’t belong in the extroverted life of Atlan. “Mother, do you think I’ve changed?” 

  Ogra stopped and studied him awhile before resuming her pace. “You’ve grown into a handsome man. Certainly you are more knowledgeable and worldly. But where it matters, deep within, you are the same. Perhaps you
feel like an outsider, but wait a few days. Mu will become your home once more.”

  And of course, she was right. Within days, Mu was comfortable and sweet again. While Ogra kept busy making pottery, which she sold for items she didn’t grow, Klad worked in the garden and milked the three goats, for the table and for income. 

  Edak busied himself clearing the land he had chosen to grow pharmaceutical herbs. Two willow trees sheltered the ground where his shade-loving plants would be. Away from the trees, he struggled—with Klad’s help—to remove large stones, allowing space for sun-loving plants. In and near the swampy areas, herbs that needed moisture would grow. And at last, after many days of preparation, he planted the first seeds. 

  Now he could call himself an herbalist and healing advisor, and it felt natural and good.

  * * * *

  Chapter 13

  Gentle rains misted the land of Mu and the fertile soil stayed moist. Seeds germinated quickly and tiny green sprouts arose out of the warm earth. Dozens of varieties of medicinal herbs poked out like tiny fingers, pointing up toward the blazing sun. Some carried fragrance: sweet or spicy or sharp or putrid; others had no odor at all. Many were flowered, some were not, but all carried healing potential in one way or another. Edak tended each plant carefully, noting which were the strongest. Of these his medicines were made. 

  Neighbors watched him in his gardens and came to him with headaches, cramps, fevers, infections, edema, coughs, catarrh, or just for a general tonic. His manner was caring and gentle, his advice was good and his herbs were effective. Before two years had passed, the community called him the healer. 

  But of course, not everyone could be cured. How this frustrated him! Often at night, he awoke pondering and thrashing, finally sitting up to wait out the night until dawn, wondering how he could improve his work. 

  After several months, an idea came one night. He would experiment with the plants, improve their effectiveness and perhaps even change their nature. He collected pollens from plants that were similar, yet different in effectiveness. These he mixed up before distributing onto target plants. He grafted stalks of one plant to roots of others. Some failed, some survived—with strange results. Absorbed in this study, the summer passed.