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Chapter Sixty-Seven
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Taberah walked out. It was good to be under the sky again, with a bent arm for a pillow. It felt honest. Or did it? In the year's time, Taberah realized he had grown more accustomed to luxury than he thought. There was something nagging at the back of his mind -- what? This culture was lacking in rationality, but he had to have more than rationality to give. Academic silliness was a symptom, not the problem. But what was it? He went into a store and purchased a pen and notepad; he needed time to write. He wandered about aimlessly, walking the city streets.
Taberah was snapped out of his thoughts at a sudden, jerky motion. A young man had drawn a knife; he said, "Give me your money. Now. And no quick motions -- you draw something, you're dead."
Taberah slowly reached into his pockets. "I don't have much money; only fifty bucks, plus a few coins. I know what I can give you. I have a nice, thick Swiss Army knife that my mentor gave me. It's quite useful. Would you like that?" He had fished out a fifty dollar bill, plus four quarters, one dime, and a nickel.
"Drop it on the ground," the robber said.
"Certainly. Why are you afraid?" Taberah asked, dropping his pocketknife on the ground.
"I'm not afraid," the robber said, and saw that his lie would not be believed. It could not. Taberah was relaxed; he carried a peace about him, and there was something about him over which the knife held no power.
"Why are you afraid?" Taberah repeated. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"Why aren't you afraid?" the robber said. "I could kill you right where you stand."
"That is the worst you could do. Then I would be with my friends in Heaven. And there are some saints whom I'd be really happy to see."
"You wouldn't even try to defend yourself?" the robber said, puzzled.
"I love to spar. I --"
"Then defend yourself against this!" The robber swung his knife to slash
Taberah across the face. Taberah seemed suddenly distant; the knife flew
through the air, and then the robber felt a fist between his eyes --
he would be reeling. Then he felt a sledgehammer blow to his stomach,
far more powerful than he would have imagined such a scrawny body capable
of delivering
struggled to regain his balance
fell
realized he was in a full Nelson
felt himself retching
felt himself pulled back, so that the vomit didn't touch him.
Taberah released his arms, and then pulled back, crouched. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I have learned that violence does not accomplish much, but my hands are not in on the knowing. I should not have pretended that I was sparring with my weapons master. I should--"
The robber cussed him out, and said, "Who are you, and where are you from?"
Taberah was very still for a moment, and said, "My name is Taberah. It means 'burning' in Hebrew."
"Are you a Jew?"
"I am a Catholic. That comes from Judaism."
"So where are you from?"
Taberah paused, and then, against his better judgment, said, "I can give you a short answer that won't tell you anything, or I can give you the real answer, which I won't blame you if you find impossible to believe."
"Give me the real answer."
"I'm from the Middle Ages, Provençe in Southern France. I've traveled a bit. An angel took me to this place. I --"
The robber said, "Ok; you don't have to tell me if you don't want to." Taberah did not argue; instead, he asked, "What is your name?"
The robber shook, and then began to cry, trying to conceal it. "You really care about me, don't you?"
Taberah said, "Look at me."
The man brushed his arm across his face and looked at him, startled. Taberah's eyes were glistening, too. He said, "It looks as if you've never had anyone who cared about you. I care about you."
The man wiped his mouth, spat, and then sat up, uncertain whether to glare or to quiver. Finally, he said, "My name is Elika. Don't know what it means. Don't have nobody to care about me. Don't understand you."
Taberah said, "Do you want to understand me?"
Elika said, "Maybe. No. Yes. Why? Are you going to talk about Middle Ages stuff?"
Taberah said, "I don't want to talk about the Middle Ages now. Maybe later, if you're interested. Are you confused about why I care about you? Would you like me to explain that?"
Elika said, "How did you know that?"
Taberah did not answer the question. He said, "Let me ask you another question. What do you think religion is about?"
Elika said, "Religion? That's not for me. It's about rules and feeling guilty and memorizing the Bible. It's impossible; it doesn't work for someone like me who has a tough life."
Taberah said, "Would you like to know what religion is for me?"
"Something you're good at?"
"Um, I don't know if I'm good at it, but it's something important to me, and something very different than what you have said. It's not about rules, or feeling guilty, or memorizing the Bible."
"Then what is it about?"
"One thing: love. God loves you. He loves me. We should love God and other people. Everything else is just details. It's about love; that's why I care about you."
"Look, I don't know why you are telling this to me; maybe it's something you can do, but I can't. Here's your money and your knife; I need to go."
Taberah said, "I gave you the money and the knife; they aren't mine any more. They're yours. But if you want to give me something -- $50 is enough to buy some bread, some meat, and a bottle of cider. I'm hungry, and you just threw up. Maybe we could meet and talk -- or not. You are free to leave, but I'd like to get to know you better."
This time, Elika made no attempt to conceal his tears, and Taberah softly asked, "May I give you a hug?" It had been ages since anybody had touched Elika, and he listened with interest as Taberah shared what was on his heart. "Why do you dare to keep company with me?" Elika asked. "My Master," Taberah answered, "kept company with all kinds of people, from the most respected to the least. His heart has room for me, for you. I want you to share in his joy."
They ate in a park, and talked long into the night.
Jonathan's Corner
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Firestorm 2034 >
Chapter Sixty-Seven
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