Lay your hand upon me, stranger, and hear what I would say. I have watched you from afar, heard you call when no one else would listen. I know who it is you are seeking. I had hoped you would find me.
Who are you? What… are you?
Who am I? I am the same as you – an abberation in the system of life. I breathe the cool air, feed upon the products of the earth, and the sun warms and sustains me. I am no more, and no less, significant than any other creature. I have walked beneath the aging trees. I have sung songs and foretold the future. I have laughed, I have danced, screamed, cried, shouted in fury and sighed in joy. I have loved and been loved in return. I think that I have experienced every known feeling. But for all this – I am dead. Much like you. As to what I am – well. Look at me. Can you honestly say you have never seen anything like me? Your eyes are not blind. I am what I appear to be.
But who and what are you, silver-haired stranger? Are you my first pilgrim? Missionary Woman once foretold that I would be a Prophetess, even an Oracle. Somehow I don’t think my current state is how she imagined my life. I’m dead, after all. But Missionary Woman always says that death doesn’t exist the way we think it does. I don’t know what she means by that. I’ve never known what she meant. Sometimes I think she’s so full of odd sayings she ran out of space for common sense.
Still. You came this way seeking answers. I don’t have all the answers, but I know the ones to the questions you seek. You are looking for a man named Kunze. I know where he is and I shall tell you where to find him. But I have a price for my knowledge, pilgrim.
What is it that you want?
Your ears. I require you to listen to me and remember what I tell you. You see, stories are intriguing things. People can create a hundred different versions of the same story, I’ve noticed. And there have been many, many different stories told about me. But none of them have been my own version. I have never told anyone my full story. But I shall tell you, for two reasons: first, because you have a sharper mind than anyone I have ever before encountered and you are not likely to forget my story. And second – because you are my first pilgrim. It’s been years since I died and became what I am. Years. You are the first pilgrim. The first to come to me in all that time. Who knows when the next pilgrim will arrive? I cannot afford to be too picky.
Besides – regardless of whether you remember my story or not, the point is that my version of the story will have been told and shall exist in some sort of formless way. Perhaps you have heard of the Realm of Thought? Philosophers like to argue about the nature of its existence. The story shall live there, forever, for anyone who wishes to hear it.
You are in a hurry to leave. Time is pressing. Your companions are missing, dead, or dying. You cannot afford to stop and listen to the ramblings of a mad thing. I understand. But look up at the branches above you. Do they sway and murmur in the breeze or are they as still and silent as death? You are right, they do not move. But, ah, you think. Perhaps there is no wind here? A logical assumption. Turn your head to the left. A moth rests upon thin air. Its wings do not flutter and yet it does not fall. To the right, the stream ceases its tumbling over rocks; frozen water that is not ice. Even your heart does not beat. Nothing is moving.
Your thought is faster than time. Our minds are joined. You wish to know, and swiftly. I wish to tell, equally as swiftly. Time is subjective to our desires. While we speak an outsider looking in might almost have just enough time to sneeze or scratch his bum. So you see – no harm can come of your lingering to listen.
So, pilgrim. Do you agree to hear my story?
Yes. But you must tell me where Kunze is.
Of course. But the story must come first. Else you shall have no reason to stay and listen to me.
Very well. Tell.
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