understand prophets like you and Enoch. Why can’t you just speak plainly instead of using songs and poems?”
Merlin chuckled. “Sometimes we don’t even understand the verses ourselves. We frequently offer our own reasoned soliloquies, but once in a while we speak exactly that which God bids us speak, word for word. Occasionally he reveals his thoughts in riddles and parables so that those who earnestly want to know the truth will seek it with all their hearts, even if it means struggling through dangerous journeys.” He tightened his grip on Elam and gave him the gentlest of shakes. “This is how we prove the confessions of our lips.”
Elam sighed, warmth flooding his cheeks. He let a timid smile break through. “I’ll take that spiritual slap on the hand and get on my way.”
“And I never saw him again,” Elam whispered to himself.
While it was in reality only a few days ago, it now seemed like months had passed since that meeting. Time in the Circles of Seven was confusing at best, sometimes so sluggish even seeds from the heads of grass stalks seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion, while at other times life zoomed at a frenetic pace. Wildflowers sprouted, grew, and blossomed in seconds, and the sun raced the clouds across the sky.
Today seemed long. The warm sun perched at the zenith and stared at him like a big orange eye that refused to blink. Still, a cool breeze blew across the field, drying the sweat on his brow and making the grass wave and the flowers nod their colorful heads.
Rising to his feet with his cloak over one shoulder and his bag over the other, Elam pulled out Enoch’s spyglass and pointed it toward the field for the hundredth time. Still nothing but grass and flowers, grass and flowers, and more grass and flowers.
He glanced down at the abrupt end of the path of red and muttered, “Should I just go in the exact direction the path is pointing?”
A deep voice replied. “That would make the most sense, son of Shem.”
“Who said that?” Elam swiveled his head, searching for the source of the voice. “Where are you? How do you know me?”
No one answered.
He gazed up at the sun, avoiding a direct stare, then swept his foot across the grass, searching for any odd creature that might have spoken. Finally, he wiped his brow. “I must be going nuts!”
He glared at the last red flower on the path. “Okay,” he said, reaching down and plucking it, stem and all, “I don’t know if you’re the one who spoke or if you’re just the victim of my newfound insanity, but you’re coming with me.” He marched forward, his eyes picking out one of the taller blades of grass and, once fixed on it, he watched its waving head of seeds as the breeze continued to blow. When he reached it, he locked his gaze on another seedpod farther ahead, then another, as he kept to a straight line.
After a few hours, the sun broke free from its lazy perch and began drifting toward the horizon. He laid the flower on his ear, drew out the spyglass again, and searched ahead. A low dark rise loomed in the distance. Finally! Could it be a line of trees? The Forest of Molech?
He stuffed the glass into the bag and clutched the flower. “I’d better get there before dark,” he said, breaking into a jog.
The sun slid down the sky, and evening draped itself across the field, but not before the forest came into view of Elam’s naked eye. Minutes later, just as darkness began settling over the land, he arrived within a few yards of the edge. The grass ended abruptly, giving way to damp black dirt, pockmarked with squatty orange toadstools. The soil reeked of decay—rotted leaves and mold, and maybe even carrion mixed in somewhere.
He peered into the forest. With only a few stars twinkling above, he couldn’t even distinguish one tree from another. As he continued to stare, tiny red lights blinked on and off deep within the woods.
“Eyes!” Elam said out loud. The pairs of red points gathered
Merlin chuckled. “Sometimes we don’t even understand the verses ourselves. We frequently offer our own reasoned soliloquies, but once in a while we speak exactly that which God bids us speak, word for word. Occasionally he reveals his thoughts in riddles and parables so that those who earnestly want to know the truth will seek it with all their hearts, even if it means struggling through dangerous journeys.” He tightened his grip on Elam and gave him the gentlest of shakes. “This is how we prove the confessions of our lips.”
Elam sighed, warmth flooding his cheeks. He let a timid smile break through. “I’ll take that spiritual slap on the hand and get on my way.”
“And I never saw him again,” Elam whispered to himself.
While it was in reality only a few days ago, it now seemed like months had passed since that meeting. Time in the Circles of Seven was confusing at best, sometimes so sluggish even seeds from the heads of grass stalks seemed to fall to the ground in slow motion, while at other times life zoomed at a frenetic pace. Wildflowers sprouted, grew, and blossomed in seconds, and the sun raced the clouds across the sky.
Today seemed long. The warm sun perched at the zenith and stared at him like a big orange eye that refused to blink. Still, a cool breeze blew across the field, drying the sweat on his brow and making the grass wave and the flowers nod their colorful heads.
Rising to his feet with his cloak over one shoulder and his bag over the other, Elam pulled out Enoch’s spyglass and pointed it toward the field for the hundredth time. Still nothing but grass and flowers, grass and flowers, and more grass and flowers.
He glanced down at the abrupt end of the path of red and muttered, “Should I just go in the exact direction the path is pointing?”
A deep voice replied. “That would make the most sense, son of Shem.”
“Who said that?” Elam swiveled his head, searching for the source of the voice. “Where are you? How do you know me?”
No one answered.
He gazed up at the sun, avoiding a direct stare, then swept his foot across the grass, searching for any odd creature that might have spoken. Finally, he wiped his brow. “I must be going nuts!”
He glared at the last red flower on the path. “Okay,” he said, reaching down and plucking it, stem and all, “I don’t know if you’re the one who spoke or if you’re just the victim of my newfound insanity, but you’re coming with me.” He marched forward, his eyes picking out one of the taller blades of grass and, once fixed on it, he watched its waving head of seeds as the breeze continued to blow. When he reached it, he locked his gaze on another seedpod farther ahead, then another, as he kept to a straight line.
After a few hours, the sun broke free from its lazy perch and began drifting toward the horizon. He laid the flower on his ear, drew out the spyglass again, and searched ahead. A low dark rise loomed in the distance. Finally! Could it be a line of trees? The Forest of Molech?
He stuffed the glass into the bag and clutched the flower. “I’d better get there before dark,” he said, breaking into a jog.
The sun slid down the sky, and evening draped itself across the field, but not before the forest came into view of Elam’s naked eye. Minutes later, just as darkness began settling over the land, he arrived within a few yards of the edge. The grass ended abruptly, giving way to damp black dirt, pockmarked with squatty orange toadstools. The soil reeked of decay—rotted leaves and mold, and maybe even carrion mixed in somewhere.
He peered into the forest. With only a few stars twinkling above, he couldn’t even distinguish one tree from another. As he continued to stare, tiny red lights blinked on and off deep within the woods.
“Eyes!” Elam said out loud. The pairs of red points gathered
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