by Saul Garnell
“Well, only you can really say. But let me ask you a simple question. Do you really need it?”
“We all need shelter,” Sumeet replied coolly.
Shinzou jumped out of his seat and laughed hard. “Please! We’re not talking about four walls and running water. How big is this place you’re buying? Fifty floors?”
“Forty.”
“Oh, well now, that’s modest,” Shinzou joked. “Look, I think it’s fine to have a mortgage. The question is the level to which it meets our needs. For the most part, wants are imposed upon us by society. That includes family and friends.”
“So what do you suggest? A small hut and live like a tribesman?” Sumeet hit back candidly. “It makes no sense to me. I can’t live like that. They’ll think I’m insane!”
Shinzou changed his tone to be more conciliatory. “I know. For your information, Thoreau lived in a small shed over two years to prove his point. But his message was not for us to copy him. He wanted everyone to simply challenge society. Live life showing greater fiscal restraint, without the possessions other people say you must have.”
Sumeet looked back somberly. The words began to strike him like invisible lightning. Could this be the answer he searched for?
Shinzou sighed softly. “Are you really happy with yourself in that respect?
Sumeet remained silent.
“This probably isn’t feeling like much help. But let’s do this.” Looking down, Shinzou hit some keys. “I’m forwarding you links on Thoreau, and attaching a copy of Walden.”
Sumeet looked askance at the new information. “What’s Walden?” he asked inquisitively.
“One of Thoreau’s books. His most influential. After you read a little, we can speak again. You also have my contact information bundled in there. Feel free to call me any time. I really enjoy talking about all this.”
Sumeet watched as the links appeared in his inbox. He didn’t have much time, though. His com-plex deal was closing soon. Still, he felt compelled to look at this new information before Monday. Based on Shinzou’s advice, the answers he sought could be within its virtual pages.
Sumeet smiled. “You know, I didn’t quite know what to expect when you called. But our talk has been very helpful. Somehow, I feel better. Almost upbeat.”
“That’s good,” Shinzou said, beaming. “You’ve just taken your first steps into a new world. Let’s see how far we can take you.”
Walden Pond Connecticut: 1846
Summer’s apex, and beans grew tall over Henry David Thoreau’s feral backyard. Having lunched on several handfuls, he sat restfully against the shady side of his small home. The rustling of lofty pine and oak trees filled the warm summer air, as Henry took out his notebook and contemplated something to transcribe.
Recalling his efforts to finish a manuscript about his river adventures, he considered whether he would find a publisher and interested readers. His close friend Ralph had convinced him that it would. But garnering accolades was not Henry’s primary concern. Any such advice appeared suspect. Was it not better to live an interior life, one of solitude and profound contemplation? Surely men should not be gauged by any particular success, but rather the average of their abilities.
With pencil, he jotted down an idea that quickly took shape.
“The life which men praise and regard as successful is but one kind. Why should we exaggerate any one kind at the expense of the others?”
Having finished the entry, Henry found himself drowsy. He considered a nap, but realized suddenly that he wasn’t alone. Taking interest, he eyed a young man walking up from the east side of Walden pond. Wearing grimy clothes, the man appeared not unlike many laborers. They wandered about looking for work, handouts, or other charitable acts available to those without steady income. The stranger eventually sauntered up to Henry, who unlike others didn’t make himself incommunicable.
“Hello, friend,” the stranger said in a scraggly voice. “My name is Smitty Mangel. Can you help me? I humbly beg for any charity you can afford.”
Henry thought a bit. “Normally I disdain the practice of handouts,” Henry said, pointing over to the beans growing in back. “But I’ll make an exception based on your polite nature. You can help yourself to the beans growing yonder.”
Hat in hand, Smitty bowed slightly and quietly walked over to the garden. Henry watched for a time as Smitty foraged about for the more succulent pods.
Seeing he would take only a fair share, Henry went back to writing until Smitty returned.
“Excuse me, sir,” Smitty said politely.
Henry rolled off of the soft greenery. “All done, then?”
Smitty stood by with hands clasped. “I just wanted to thank you.”
“To tell you quite straight,” Henry said, while brushing himself off, “I don’t mind sharing what little I’ve got. Nature provides more than enough. What did you say your name was?”
“Smitty Mangel, sir.”
They shook hands.
“Well, Smitty, most people call me Henry. Where are you from? You live around these parts?”
“Well,” Smitty said hesitantly, “considering how kind you are, I must be honest. I don’t really have a proper home. Was working at the mill till May. The one over in Lowell. I’ve been struggling to get by since then.”
“I see,” Henry said, looking down the path Smitty had walked on earlier. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’m going to stroll around the shady side of the pond. I’d be happy for some company.
Smitty smiled and nodded his approval. As the two sojourned, Henry contemplated a bit on his own. Then, without warning, he blurted out with renewed curiosity.
“Worked at the mill, eh?” Henry asked.
“Yes, sir. Seems now they’d rather employ Lowell mill girls and steam engines these days,” Smitty explained somberly. “Better than a strong set of hands, they say.”
Smitty held out his hand for Henry to gaze upon. Without close examination, Henry noted Smitty’s callused palms. The signs of hard labor were plain to see.
“Of course, my misfortunes were aggravated by missing church now and then. Seems the boss didn’t favor that.”
“I see,” Henry said nodding.
“Imagine I’ll find employment one day, when I’ve some better luck.”
“Luck?” Henry said with surprise. “Is that what men require these days to make a living?”
Smitty shrugged. “Can’t say rightly. Don’t know about the others. But it seems to me some luck is necessary during harsh times.”
“I see. Harsh times, is that it?” Henry said, while kicking a few stones along the leafy ground. “Though I’m not one to deny luck’s utility, I believe man’s fortunes depend mostly upon his general intelligence.”
Smitty looked back at Henry with interest. He smiled through several missing teeth, and nodded with agreement.
Henry said, “Nature of course provides an abundance of things to live comfortably. But it’s our own responsibility to take fair advantage of what’s presented.”
Stopping to check the path along which they’d come, Henry looked around to find his bearing. Getting Smitty’s attention, he gesticulated off toward the nearby hills.
“Tell me,” Henry asked. “While you walked up the main road, did you notice any of the plants? Mind you, the ones on the hummocks along the public road.”
Smitty looked back at Henry inquisitively, and then peered about trying to envisage any familiar greenery he might recall.
“I can’t rightly say. I’m not all that familiar.”
Henry raised his head. “If you were to take a rightful gander on your next walk through, you’d probably find many a huckleberry bush. All provide good eating this time of year.”
Smitty nodded. “I’ll keep an eye out.”
Henry sauntered close to the water’s edge. “And if you look around any pond in these parts, you might find leftover fish-line useful for a good catch.”
Henry’s keen eye picked up the t
elltale signs. Bending down, he scrounged up some old lines and a rusty hook. Smiling broadly, he displayed to Smitty the seemingly useless trash.
“Let’s you and I get some bait and see what ‘chance’ might afford us today,” Henry said.
Both men spent some time digging for angleworms, during which Henry continued to educate Smitty on the best place to acquire the wriggly prey. Dirt needs to have just the right consistency, Henry pointed out.
Soon, the two sat quietly waiting for a fish. With time on their hands, Henry showed more interest in Smitty’s situation.
“You say the mill employs steam engines these days?”
“Yep,” Smitty said, while looking blankly over the water. “One engine provides the strength of many. They tell me this is good for the company’s health, and the nation’s. Like the railroad, steam engines created many a job, though that’s hard to see from where I stand.”
Henry became agitated. “I’ve noticed that most folks lay great stress on the invention of the steam engines these days. Quite proud of man’s inventiveness. Everyone boards the train without looking below the surface of things. When the smoke is blown away and the vapor condensed, it will be perceived that few are riding, but the rest are run over. This will be called, progress!”
Smitty chuckled.
“And the work progress brings does not impress me greatly.”
“No?”
“No sir!” Henry yelped. “Good men spend their life earning money to enjoy a questionable liberty during the least valuable part of it. Railroads are built with the toil and blood of a million Irishmen, all hollering from the shanties in the land, ‘Is not this railroad which we have built a good thing?’ Yes, I say. But I wish as brothers of mine that you could have spent your time better than slaving in the dirt.
With sullen expression, Smitty nodded. “I’ve been to church only now and then, but I’ve never heard anyone in the pulpit speak good sense like yourself. Can I ask your faith?”
Henry just smiled. “I follow all faiths that deliver man from narrowness, exaggeration and bigotry. Varied religions swarm like insects, though historians strive to make them memorable. Don’t be distracted! Lest one forget that even within swarms, each insect displays the beauty of a painted butterfly!”
“I suppose you’re right,” Smitty eagerly replied.
“Think for yourself! This world is made of individuals. And individuals can decide their fate, breaking fetters and destroying the machines of enslavement.”
Smitty assimilated Henry’s words. The message was clear, but he would need to think about how to act upon such good advice. For the moment, it didn’t matter. The two fished quietly for some time, and within the hour a few good-sized perch were caught. Henry donated his share to Smitty, who gladly accepted the extra kindness.
“Well, I think our adventures today have afforded you an opportunity to consider a life less dependent upon luck and the will of others,” Henry said.
Smitty nodded ardently and shook hands. “You’ve been a great boon to me. I don’t know quite how to repay you.”
Henry smiled. “Just keep your eyes open and your mind sharp. If men enlightened each other thus, I imagine the future would be greatly improved.”
Smitty said goodbye and walked away as Henry watched him slowly fade through shady patches of leaves and vegetation. Having satisfied himself with a good deed, he returned to his small home and found the same shady spot to write. He inhaled air laced with the smells of grass and honeysuckle, odors that imbued him with fresh ideas. Henry was reinvigorated, and decided there was more writing to do before the day was finished. Time well spent he thought to himself.
Time well spent.
Shiro sat part cross-legged on tatami mats, their pungent grassy odor filling his lungs as he contemplated in silence. Characteristically dressed in a Japanese yukata, he sipped tea and looked upon the ocean through large bulbous windows. Alone within a huge meditation dojo, he gazed upon the panorama in awe. A cerulean expanse assailed his vision, one long accustomed to desert and scrub.
There was no escaping the ocean’s mesmerizing vista. Tensho Island was surrounded by it on all sides. Artificially constructed some decades before, the island had grown over the years and now measured over twenty square kilometers. Its pentagon-shaped floating segments subtly adjusted themselves in the Japanese ocean currents. By design it avoided all lateral forces brought in by waves, and the island simply bobbed in the water, much like an enormous cruise ship.
It was time. Chimes rung out as the windows darkened, and Flip slowly entered the room. Dressed in a white Kimono, he walked awkwardly toward Shiro’s location, and sat down on the real floor. Looking around anxiously, Flip noted the flexi’s artificial continuation of the room: golden brown fibers of tatami, stretching out to an indeterminable horizon.
“Hello, Flip,” Shiro declared. “Welcome to your new home.”
Flip tried to sit Japanese style. It was difficult for him without furniture, and he struggled to mimic Shiro’s strict posture.
“Sorry,” he said, jostling his legs. “Very happy to be here.”
“I suppose you’re anxious to get to work,” Shiro offered.
“Well, until I saw the ocean all around. It’s had quite an effect upon me.”
“A common phenomenon,” Shiro said, laughing. “Most of our guests are struck by an elemental vitality, sparked by our close proximity to nature and juxtaposition to city life.”
Flip smiled broadly. “Funny thing. After seeing this place only a short time, I wonder who would go back. It’s like a paradise here. Makes any city seem like a curse.”
Shiro smiled and looked on thoughtfully. Taking a sip of tea, he leaned back on his heels and nodded with satisfaction.
“How apt of you. If our plans continue successfully, you’ll never need to. Tell me, you saw the news about the Martin Luther King Junior?”
“How could I miss it? The whole world is in an uproar.”
“And your resolve is still firm? You remain committed to the destruction of Moloch and the disease which infests this world?”
“Of course.”
Momentary silence followed as Shiro eyed Flip to detect any lingering doubts he might still harbor. Seeing none, he put down his cup and began to explain.
“Thus we begin,” Shiro said. “Now I can reveal more details of our next phase. Please look at this.”
Shiro brought up a virtual pad and tapped on a few chiming keys. A magnified holographic image of one Takahana microbivore appeared between them. Shaped like a hollowed-out oblate spheroid, it hung in mid air, rotating before Flip’s eyes in stunning detail. Glowing incandescent bronze and maroon, it appeared quite harmless. Like a child’s toy really. But nothing could have been farther from the truth.
“You mentioned before that city life was a curse,” Shiro said.
Flip nodded. “For me, anyhow.”
“Not just you. All mankind. This modified nanite will help us finally remedy the situation, one that has afflicted mankind since the time of Adam and Eve.”
“Moloch?”
“Yes, Moloch,” Shiro agreed. “I see you’ve taken Ginsberg to heart. Very good! But we cannot hope to resolve anything by quoting verse. To destroy Moloch, we must hunt him down. Not an easy thing. He is everywhere, but can’t be chained nor imprisoned. Like a spirit he passes through our minds, our hands, and takes form in all our creations.”
“Everything?” Flip asked.
“From the most primitive stone tool to the most sophisticated techniques, Moloch’s curse encapsulates the entire planet.”
Flip looked perplexed momentarily. “But if Moloch is everywhere, how can we destroy him without destroying ourselves?”
Flip’s question was excellent. This, Shiro knew, would lead them down an interesting path of enlightenment. However, Shiro was unsure if Flip would see it that way. Could he handle the truth? Cautiously, he began his oration, which he knew would change their relationship foreve
r.
“A dilemma,” Shiro said wryly. “Moloch is ubiquitous, but he has weaknesses. To see them, one must study the Bible, and fathom its wisdom.”
Shiro put down his cup and folded his arms within the sleeves of his Kimono. He looked intently at Flip, who displayed a solicitous desire to hear every word.
Shiro said, “Are you familiar with the story of Cain?”
Flip scratched his head. “Uhm, yeah, he killed Abel right? And then lied about it to God.”
“Exactly, but one must pay attention to God’s punishment and Cain’s response. God condemned Cain to wander the earth as a nomad. But Cain would defy God!” Shiro took another sip of tea. “And do you know what he did, Flip?”
Flip shrugged, childlike.
“By settling down and building a city. It was the first city of man, named Enoch. This is significant. The Bible tells us that the creation of a city, the first city, was an unnatural act built in defiance of God’s will. This has great meaning that one must understand.”
“Go on,” Flip urged.
Shiro stood up and waved his arms in godlike motions. The microbivore broke into millions of pieces, which began rearranging themselves into something new. Before Flip’s eyes grew a small holographic model of an ancient Middle Eastern city. Made of mud brick and other natural materials, it teemed with life and perfectly demonstrated a simulation of the past, a point in time when man was first beginning to reproduce in large numbers. As the model finished its instantiation, Shiro walked slowly around its circumference, gesturing toward the center with his open hand to make his point.
“Enoch was not the only city built by man in defiance. There was also the kingdom of Nimrod, the mighty warrior who created cities built on the foundation of plunder, slavery, and war. And then there was Babylon, whose builders brought upon themselves God’s wrath by constructing an enormous tower. An assault upon heaven itself.”
Flip was agog. “Okay, I get your point that building cities is an affront to God. But why? Why would ancient man do that?”
“Precisely!” Shiro said with excitement. “And the answer comes when one considers what cities represent, their true meaning in relation to the word of God. Think about it. Cast out of the Garden, we search for a home, one satisfying our gregarious nature and reminiscent of our forlorn utopia. An artificial womb where man pretends God is unnecessary. In this way, cities are unnatural. Artificial if you like, created by man under the premise that he’ll be happy and free. Instead, they’re constructed on the backs of slaves and seethe with iniquity.”
