“This is good,” I say, trying to direct their attention away from my eating. “What is it?”
“Thank you,” says Justine. “It’s a vegetarian casserole.”
“No meat,” I say. “You guys don’t eat meat?”
“No, of course not,” says Justine as if the thought of eating meat was absurd. “We don’t take in anything of lower natures.”
“So it’s some sort of soy-something,” I say, straining to keep the conversation going.
“Heaven forbid,” Justine says. “Beans are not to be eaten. They are to be revered as sacred representations of the budding of life.”
I have heard of vegetarians not eating meat out of respect for the life of animals, but I have never heard of vegetarians considering beans as sacred. Still, I’m used to the quirks of fosters. I had one guy who swore the government could see you through your TV. Consequently, he did not allow one in the house. Instead we listened to the radio. That is until I suggested that the government might be listening through the speakers, a joke I paid dearly for as I was unable to listen to music for almost a year. I take another bite of the vegetarian casserole. At least it doesn’t taste bad and I’m sure I can catch a burger somewhere in town.
“Justine,” Jeff exclaims, “where is the salt.” His tone is harsh as if the fact that there is no salt on the table is a grievous sin. “Remember, always put salt upon the table.”
“Forgive me,” Justine begs. “I don’t know where my head is. I guess I am just a little caught up in everything going on.”
“That’s no excuse,” Jeff says, sternly. “The path to Hell starts with our little indiscretions.”
“It’s just salt,” I say. This is getting to be a little absurd.
“No, he’s right,” she says. “I should have done a better job at remembering. I’ll go get it right now.” She leaps from her chair and nearly runs to the kitchen, returning only moments later with the salt. “Here it is. Everything is perfect now.”
“That’s why I love you,” says Jeff.
She sits with a bereaved smile. It is clear that she is flustered, but is not about to let that crack her perfectly pristine image. She reminds me of a porcelain doll, so perfect, yet so fragile. It seems she will shatter at any moment. And yet there is a certain beauty, something almost precious about her that makes me feel for her. Her shaking hand reaches for her napkin, knocking her dinner roll to the floor.
“I’ll get it,” I say jumping from my seat to pick up the roll off the floor.
“No,” Justine squeaks. “Pick not up what is fallen from the table.”
“It’s alright,” I say, emerging from beneath the table. “It’s still good see. Thirty second rule.” Justine looks as though she is going to have a breakdown. “I can break off the bit that landed on the floor.” I take the roll, break it in half and offer it to her.
Justine looks at the defiled roll in my hand, as if I had just pulled it from the garbage. She snatches the two halves away from me and thrusts them onto the table, her hair jostling out of place from the exertion. As if nothing has happened, she wipes the disjointed hair from her face back behind her ear and begins to smooth out her napkin on her lap. With the poise of a mad woman, she starts in on a conversation with her husband about his day at work.
I slink back to my seat, not sure what to think. The whole scene was completely insane. I look to Ethan, hoping he doesn’t subscribe to the same sort of crazy. I am relieved to see he is just as baffled as I am.
The rest of the meal is spent in a conversation about Jeff’s work. He is a math teacher and has no concept of normal conversation. But Justine soaks it in as if it were the most important thing in the world. Ethan simply listens. I think he is afraid to do anything else. I know I am.
Later, Jeff shows Ethan and me his reprint of Raphael’s painting, School of Athens, in the hall. Justine clears the table in the dining room, refusing any help. Jeff studies the painting with pride and intense interest. The teacher in him cannot resist pointing out the many mathematicians and philosophers in the painting, with a lengthy story of each: the beggar-philosopher Diogenes who sits on the steps, Plato, Aristotle, Socrates, the list seems endless. His greatest attention is given to a man in the corner writing in a book.
“And that,” says Jeff with great emphasis, “that is the great Pythagoras.”
“The triangle guy,” I say. I remember hearing about Pythagoras when I learned the Pythagorean Theorem in Geometry class.
“The triangle guy,” exclaims Jeff as if offended. “He is not just the triangle guy. He is perhaps the greatest adherent to the perfection of this world then any person in history.”
His reverence for Pythagoras is almost religious. I envision him with his other mathematical cronies, enacting sacred rites with their compasses and protractors in hand. The idea is amusing to me. After all, it’s just numbers.
“I think what Kyra means is that he is most known for his Pythagorean Theorem,” says Ethan.
“Yes, that’s it,” I say. At this point, I am just trying not to offend anyone. Usually I can read people and know what sets them off. Most of the time, I purposely try to get a rise out of them. The Gregor’s on the other hand are an entirely different breed of people that I cannot pin down.
“Yes, but Pythagoras was more than just a mathematician, he was a religious man,” says Jeff, enlightening our ignorant minds. “He was said by his teacher to be the reincarnation of Aithalides.”
“Who’s that?” Ethan asks.
I’m glad he asked because I was not sure if I should know who he is. I’m not much for academics. School for me was usually spent in finding ways of not being in school. It’s not that I had anything against learning or thought that I couldn’t learn. I saw many who hated school because of that. I just had so much going on in my life that the idea of learning about theorems and equations did not seem to be the most pertinent things. I’m sure if my life was more together, I would have a greater interest. But it’s hard to be up all night with someone’s drunken rampage and to be expected to function as if nothing existed outside of school. But that’s exactly what the teachers always wanted from me. Needless to say, I wasn’t that cooperative.
“He’s the son of Hermes,” answers Jeff.
This name I did know. He was the Greek guy with the wings on his feet that could zip around really fast. I think I remember there being some relation between him and the marathon. In my head, I can vaguely recall a picture of him carrying a rod or something, but any details of him have been wiped clean with time and so the only response I can give is, “He’s a Greek god, right.”
“Messenger of the gods,” Jeff adds. “A very important station. In fact, he was the one who gave Pandora the jar.”
“Don’t you mean box,” says Ethan. He seems way too interested in this. Of course, it could be that he is trying to be polite, a good listener.
“Many think incorrectly that it was a box, but in actuality, it was a jar,” says Jeff, looming in close to me. “A jar filled with all the malice and evil that now pervades our world.” He is obviously trying to get a reaction out of me, but the only reaction I am getting to the conversation is the beginnings of a yawn. There is a reason that these types become math teachers. They need a place to keep them so they don’t disrupt normal conversations.
“And hope,” adds Ethan.
“What?” Jeff turns to him.
“Hope,” says Ethan again. “That was at the bottom of the jar. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes. Of course.” Jeff seems less impressed by this aspect of the story. My interest, on the other hand, is peaked. It might be because Ethan is speaking and I find his voice intoxicating. If he had been my math teacher, I would have gone to class more often.
“Prometheus,” continues Jeff, “out of mercy, decided to place hope at the bottom of it all. He being the god of foresight, he blinded our ability to see what was to come. Thus allowing us…hope. Something that we needed after the misery and imp
erfections were left to run rampant in the world.”
“So all those gods knew that there were bad things in the jar,” I say, quite distraught by the story. “And they still gave it to her.”
“The gods were the ones that put them in the jar,” Jeff says.
“But why? That’s an awful thing to do.” This story has not raised my opinion of gods by any degree. Not that it was that high to begin with. As far as I am concerned, if there is a God, I want nothing to do with him. Especially, not ones that send misery and pain upon the world. Man does a good enough job messing things up on his own, we don’t need God adding his hand to it.
“Who knows why they did it,” Jeff replies. “Perhaps jealousy. Perhaps revenge.” He shakes his head. “Yes that’s probably it, revenge. What else drives the greatest of men to do evil acts?”
Ethan suddenly seems uneasy. “Well, even God must enact his revenge on those who do evil.”
“Why should he? What right does he have to give us such miseries in this life?” I ask, allowing my anger to invade the conversation.
“It is just a myth,” Ethan says, confused by my sudden anger. “No one believes that a group of gods put misery in a bottle to give to man. God is not at fault for the miseries of man.”
“Well he hasn’t done much to alleviate them,” I exclaim. Ethan says nothing. “We do the best we can without him and instead of helping us, he enacts his revenge on us.”
“His revenge is upon those that make misery for man,” Ethan replies sternly. “And if he doesn’t, then we must. We must be God’s vengeance.” He says these words as if he has his own anger issues to deal with that make mine pale in comparison.
By this time, Jeff is getting uneasy with where the conversation is heading. “Wrath,” he says, “not revenge. Wrath is about judgment. And judgment is best given to God’s wisdom, not man’s.”
“Yes, of course,” Ethan concedes, once again calm and in complete control of his emotions.
Tired of the discussion of God, my attention retreats into the painting. My eyes rest on a figure standing next to Pythagoras. It is that of a woman holding what looks like a chalk tablet with strange markings on it. One of them seems quite familiar, but I am not sure where I have seen it. It is ten straight lines like tick marks arranged in a triangle. “What is that?” I ask, interrupting the uneasy silence that has developed. “It seems familiar.”
Jeff moves in close to the painting, adjusting his bifocals and squinting. “Ah now, that is a very important symbol to the Pythagorean Brotherhood.”
“The what?”
“The followers of Pythagoras,” he says. “The symbol is called the tetractys or ‘mystic tetrad’. It represented the elements of creation: earth, fire, water and air. It also shows the 3 dimensions of space.”
“What about the curvy things above it?” I ask.
“That, my dear, is a diagram of the consonances of music. It is said that Pythagoras discovered the origins of music theory while passing by a blacksmith and listening to his hammer strike on the anvil. Interestingly, others attribute the discovery of music to Hermes who fashioned the first instrument, the lyre. Also a very sacred symbol. In any case, Pythagoras felt that his geometry of music could be transferred to everything in the cosmos, even the movements of the planets. A sort of ‘harmony of the spheres’, if you will.”
None of this, of course, sinks in. Perhaps Jeff forgot that he is talking to a teenager in public education. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” I say.
Jeff thinks for a moment, most likely trying to find some way to bring it down to my IQ level. “Think of it as if the entire universe was nothing more than the expression of musical notes, as if God himself were playing a tune and poof here we are.”
“Pythagoras thought the universe was created out of one of God’s little ditties?” I ask. The image of God sitting at a baby-grand, plunking out show tunes, sporting Elton John glasses is amusing and better than any other image I have had of him.
“Maybe that’s a little too over-simplified,” Jeff says. “The point is that he saw close ties between music and the motion of all things in the cosmos. It is not an uncommon thing for people to believe that the Universe was created and is maintained by a song or words from God.”
“Hmmm.” I’m not sure what else to say to this. My curiosity has long since been spent. And I don’t care to go into anymore details of Pythagoras and his brotherhood. From what it sounds like, they’re just a bunch of kooks who read too much into things. Unfortunately, Ethan’s interests are not quite satiated.
“What do you know about this Pythagorean brotherhood?” he asks.
Jeff seems uncomfortable with the question. “Why do you ask?”
“Just curiosity’s sake.”
“The brotherhood was very guarded as to who they divulged information to,” Jeff said, almost annoyed. “While they accepted outsiders, they were very particular about who they trusted with their most sacred secrets.”
“What secrets could a mathematician possibly have?” I ask, skeptical. “I mean they’re just dealing with numbers.”
“To the Pythagoreans and many other ancients, numbers were considered mystical. Akin to magic. Their secrets required great devotion. You see, mathematics represents a higher order of perfection separate from the rest of the world. That is something of great worth to a lot of people.”
“Worth killing for,” Ethan interjects.
“There is a story of one of Pythagoras’ students who threatened to divulge the long kept secret of irrational numbers. He was taken out on a boat with some of Pythagoras’ followers and drown at sea. All in the name of maintaining perfect order.”
“What are…” I’m about to ask what irrational numbers are, but decide that I don’t really care to have another long drawn out Math lesson. “Never mind.”
“People will do many things that seem extreme for what they believe,” Jeff continues, staring intently at Ethan. “Especially to those who meddle in sacred things.”
There is a slight pause as the somberness of the mood sets in, followed by Jeff’s light hearted interruption. “But that’s just a story. I don’t believe Pythagoras would have allowed killing, he was a great lover of life in all its forms. Far ahead of his time he was.” Jeff smiles broadly, seemingly satisfied with the attention that Ethan and I have given him. He stretches out his arms scooping us both up like a hawk guiding its young with its wings. “Well I have a meeting to go to and have to be on my way. Perhaps you and Kyra can chat some more on the porch swing. But not too late.”
Chapter 4
On the porch, Ethan and I sit on opposite sides of the swing, leaving a foot between us. It’s clear he’s the old fashioned type, which is fine. I have no desire to get into a relationship. They always spell trouble in the end. Besides, I am still uneasy about his comments on God’s revenge. He’s probably just some religious nut who sees me as nothing more than a hell bent sinner.
He is the first to strike at the wall of silence between us. “I’m sorry about getting a little…stirred up in there.”
“You were stirred up alright,” I say, making my annoyance apparent.
“I can be a hot head at times,” he says, leaning in a little closer. “I don’t mean to come off so strong. I just get passionate about things.”
“Like revenge,” I say bluntly.
He smiles like one who is disarmed and has no retreat. Sighing a moment, he then continues, “I grew up far from here.” He speaks as though he is older than he is. “There we were poor. Still we loved each other. My family and I. That is until one day a man came into our village and murdered them brutally.”
“Your whole family? That’s awful,” I say with anguish. I have heard of people from small villages in Bosnia or places like that who have their families killed in times of war. However, up until now, I had never spoken to anyone who had gone through it. “What did you do?”
“What could I do,” he says solemnly. “I tri
ed to find the man who did it, but by the time I recovered, he was long gone.”
“What about the authorities?”
“Where I came from, there were no authorities.”
“So you came here?” Not exactly the place I would pick.
“After much time wandering alone,” Ethan replies, “I came here.”
I relax a bit, allowing myself to lean closer to him. “So you’re on your own, without a family. I guess that makes us both alone,” I say, glancing into his dark eyes.
Angel Realms 01 The Dawn of Angels Page 3
