It’s Showtime!
This is chapter 42 of The Inheritance, a serial fiction novel on FITK
Greetings and salutations to seekers from all of you on the Mother Orb. I bring you only words—faint echoes of reality—but, like those echoes, they reflect realities that can be appreciated, if not directly apprehended. In these troubled times, always remember that the earth, air, fire and water that begat you remain, the universe is vast. The cosmic forges of creation are eternal; we are but echoes of those initial explosions. What you seek you may never find but the act of seeking will reveal other truths, truths that will illuminate the pathways of life and bring solace to those touched by death. Do not seek death. Death will find you. But do take a path where death is a fulfillment. For those burdened by sorrow, remember this: we were created from the elements so to the elements we shall return. As the epic of Gilgamesh said: Fill your belly, day and night make merry, let your days be filled with joy. Love the child that holds your hand and let your lover delight in your embrace, for these things alone are the concern of mortals.“… and cut!”
Mary got up from the ‘throne’ that she was using for what she called her ‘sermonette’, the first of a series of videos that she was making for Hilmar and his pagan app/web site. Mary and Sean had built a little studio in the basement, painting one wall with a green-screen backdrop. The idea behind the videos was to increase interest in the loosely-organized pagan religion that Hilmar and Mary had established eight years ago. It had flourished then but after a few years interest in the app and its site had diminished. Its core was based on Old Norse beliefs that were supplemented by the book of spells that had been compiled by Sean’s grandmother Emily, as well as whatever else that meshed with the ethos. Since the onset of Covid-19 pandemic there had been a slow rise in the use of the app, Hilmar thought that these videos would bring a renewed interest in all of the things the app had to offer excepting, of course, the tours that Hilmar had relied on for a good share of the groups’ income. Sean and Mary would send the raw video to Hilmar in Iceland and he would augment it with music and suitable imagery laid upon the green screen background.
“I liked the death reference in there,“ said Sean, “Is that yours?”
“Dag Hammarskjöld… New Norse, I guess,” said Mary, “Close enough to the old beliefs.”
“That’s one of Emily’s dresses your wearing, isn’t it?”
“It’s the Schiaparelli, the one Emily wore the night she seduced Monsieur DuPage. Poor Marcel, he never recovered.”
“If he sees this video he’ll really be confused,” said Sean, “Did Hilmar say what he intended to add to the video?”
“The music would be from some of his Icelandic friends, there is a thereminist that he really likes. He said the backgrounds would be an olio of religious imagery,” said Mary, “Everything from cave paintings to Hindu deities to punk-rock icons.”
“Close enough to the old beliefs as well,” said Sean, “I’ll playback what you did today, you can see if you’d like to do any of it over.”
“No, it felt good, and that’s what this all about—goodness, not perfection.”
“I’ll send it to Hilmar then,” said Sean, “He can do his magic and we’ll see what happens.”
“Shall we have story time now?” said Jo, who was wrapping up the morning session of the home school, “These will be your own stories, you can make it up or it can be something that happened to you. Tell us the story and we can guess if it is true or made-up.”
She was encouraged by the progress in socialization of the children. Reading, math and art were all going well. The four-student class was a far cry from the chaos that Jo remembered from her days in first grade: thirty (or was it thirty-one?) children of wildly different backgrounds and temperament. Jo had came home crying more than once from the casual cruelty displayed by her peers. “If only it could be like this for all the children everywhere,” she thought, “But it can’t, I know it, there has to be some friction to generate new ideas.“
“Hey!” shouted Jack, “I want to be first.”
“You are always first,” said Benny, “I’m first today.”
Jo shook her head, amused that her lofty thoughts had been instantly negated by a pair of bickering 7-year-olds.
“I think we can take turns,” said Jo, picking up a piece of paper. “It doesn’t matter who is first. I’m writing down a number from one to ten. Who ever guesses it can be first.”
“Five!” “Two!” “Ten!” came the cries from Benny, Jack and Mareka.
“How about you, Sara?” asked Jo.
"Um, one?”
“One it is!” said Jo, holding the paper up, “Sara, can you tell us your story?“
Sara was petite, she looked more like a four-year old. She was the quietest of the group, but she was always aware of what was going on around her. Jo knew that she lived with her mother Jean and her grandfather Malcolm.
“My story is about my fifth birthday. I had a secret birthday wish. My mom asked me what it was, but I didn’t tell her. If I told her it wouldn’t come true. Benny was there, and Jack was too. And Mrs. Langley, my grandfather’s friend. We had ice cream, and cake, too. There were candles on the cake, and my mom said I should make a wish and then blow out the candles. I made the wish, and I blew out the candles. My mom asked me about the wish. I said it didn’t come true and I started to cry. And that’s the end of the story.”
“What was the wish?” said Jack.
“You can tell us,” said Mareka, “Maybe if you tell us, it will come true?”
“Um… ” said Sara as she started to tear up, “I don’t know if I should.”
“That’s alright Sara,” said Jo, “It can stay a se… ”
“I wished my dad would be there!“ blurted Sara, “But he didn’t come. He is away. He never comes home!”
Sara began to sob.
Next chapter: Better Times
