Monitor: They have been here since the Beginning

A modern alternative to the second coming of Christ

The Monitor

My name is Salvatore Retter. Among my colleagues I am known as an Overseer. If you, one of the earthbound bereft, are lucky enough to know my kind, you know me simply as a Monitor. If you are one of the few who knows of the Monitors, you fear me, for you know that I represent everything in this universe that is hidden and sublime. You also know that I am your only hope.

I am 33 years old, but in your world I was born 1,141 years ago. I know you are thinking this sounds impossible, but it is not. The solemn testimony of an Overseer can only be the absolute truth. In the personal account that follows I will tell you about events that even now I myself find difficult to believe. That is why I am mindful of your skepticism and disbelief.

I will disclose what the government of the United States of America referred to as highly classified information about events that took place in the early part of the 21^st century. These events were considered of such grave importance by the government, and a select group of private interests, that no preventive measures were ruled out to maintain complete secrecy. To say that the fate of the entire world depended on this secrecy can in no way be understated. During that time I too had secrets.

I am able to disclose the secret information about these events now because time has passed and you are all dead. But for anyone, and I know there are a special few of you left alive who remember that time, let me tell you a little bit about myself and how I became involved in the greatest event in human history.

My father was called to duty by the German army during World War II. He joined as an infantryman with heartfelt unwillingness, preferring equitable and peaceful solutions to life’s problems instead of violence. During the early Nazi military successes while the German army occupied Italy, he met my mother who at that time worked in a bakery. My father loved to eat freshly baked bread so he went to the bakery often. With each visit he became more smitten by my mother’s gentle ways and uncomplicated, agrarian lifestyle. A warm acquaintanceship arose, and after a time, there was no denying their shared love. My father, a reluctant warrior from the start, deserted the German army for love, a love more powerful than even the greatest war. Unable to remain in the little town, Arezzo, where mother worked, the young lovers ran up into Tuscany’s remote hills to hide with her relatives, all of them farmers and vintners.

In this tumultuous period my parent’s lives were relatively tranquil. The tranquility was almost assured while grandfather supplied the German officers with his wine and farm fresh food. And while their selfish appetites were sated, there was no reason for the Nazi occupiers to bring trouble to my mother’s harmless farm family. But when the German high command grew fearful of Allied incursions, Nazi scouts began more vigilant patrols of the farm areas in the Tuscan hills. My father was forced to flee deep into the forest to find refuge. He found his refuge in an old hermitage.

The monks of Camaldoli, cloistered in the safety of their Casentino forest enclave, had lived in the hermitage for nearly a thousand years. These benevolent monks protected my father, and by doing so, put their own lives in serious jeopardy. Harboring deserters was a dire offense against the Fuhrer’s army, one that could easily end in execution for the guilty parties. These brave monks were careful however, and provided my father with full monastic garb, shelter in a private cell, and the sacred identity of a Camaldolese monk. He was even allowed to temporarily join their Order under the extraordinary circumstances that had befallen him. Father and mother missed each other terribly, but fortunately their separation had occasional reprieves.

Sometimes mother and her family traveled into the forest to the monastery under the pretext of attending Sunday Mass. These infrequent trips allowed mother and father to share a few cherished moments together. The visits had to be few and far between for too many dangers lurked in the countryside. Thankfully, with the passage of time the war's momentum changed for the better and the Nazis were driven out of the region. My father was then free from retribution. When father left the hermitage, he promised the abbot to dedicate his life to the Order from afar as a consecrated oblate. Later in my life, I was stunned to learn that there was much more to my father's relationship to the Camaldoli monks than I had previously known.

When my father left the hermitage, he did not leave empty handed. For the rest of his life father wore the ring that I now wear on my own finger, a very special ring given to father by the Order. Engraved with ancient holy symbols, and scratched and pitted from years of wear, the ring is a living and eternal heirloom from my father and the monks of Camaldoli, Order of Saint Benedict. The ring is old, much older than my father when he received it from the Camaldolese abbot.

Father and mother married after the war ended, and later they emigrated to the United States where they settled in California. In the region that surrounds Santa Barbara my father worked in vineyards while mother prepared fine, traditional meals and baked fresh bread for an Italian restaurant. As the years passed by, their love for each other matured and became mellow and delightful like the aged wine they relished. That same abiding love was extended to me in ample quantity as I grew up. I learned the subtle essences of love without even knowing I was being taught them. And yet, in my heart, I sensed that life was not the innocent Utopia my parents worked hard to portray.

Mother suffered from infertility and miscarried several times. When, at last, she gave birth to me, my parents had reached the twilight cusp of their child rearing years. Inevitably they both died while I was a young man, too young to be left alone by one’s parents. Without parents, siblings or nearby relatives, I had no one, save a few scattered friends. For a long period of time I remained despondent about my life and cynical about my future. I was directionless. I needed something; I needed meaning.

My epiphany came one day while immersed in the heavenly silence of the old Spanish mission in my hometown, Santa Barbara. Lost and alone, my personal mission was set before me by what seemed the invisible hand of divine charity. I comprehended a mysterious spiritual invocation that compelled me to help the unfortunate people of this Earth who were truly lost and alone. Suddenly I felt as if I had an ally in a definite, though abstract, higher power.

I studied in school, and upon receiving my scholastic credentials I became a community social worker. My work ensured that Santa Barbara’s homeless population obtained basic provisions such as food, shelter from inclement weather, sleeping quarters, necessary medical treatment, and even though it was not part of my job, prayer and spiritual guidance. Occasionally I hearkened back in my mind to an earlier time when the Camaldoli monks helped my father at their own peril. Saving my father saved me, and this essential realization made my job all the more compelling to me. After ten years, no other social worker in my meager, underfunded department knew the homeless people in Santa Barbara better than me. I knew every homeless person including the itinerant homeless who looked to Santa Barbara for temporary refuge throughout the course of their wayward meanderings. However ten years of unvaried routine had produced a heavy state of tedious monotony I could not shake off. And though the passion to help my fellow citizens remained steady, I had been considering alternative vocations in which to carry out the vow taken a decade earlier. I yearned for a sign, anything to guide me on a new, uplifting path. My days became weeks, and time drifted along without even a hint. Then, at last, as if God had heard my quiet thoughts in the midst of my dark ambivalence, I met Solomon.

When I first found Solomon, he was sleeping on the edge of a public beach, wrapped in a stained and tattered piece of mauve colored, flowery drapery. His appearance was no different than the ordinary, chronic homeless person who lived in the area: greasy, matted hair; dirty, ill fitted clothing; mismatched socks; scuffed, cracked leather business shoes; and a garbage bag filled with sundry articles. This was the image I beheld when I looked down at Solomon.

As I stepped nearer and bent down for closer inspection, Solomon’s eyes squinted in the brightness of the daylight sun reflecting off the light sand. He whispered an exotic language completely foreign to me. I introduced myself as a community social worker with the hope and intention of having a useful exchange. Solomon continued mumbling strange words all the while spying the horizon to and fro. I asked him his name. He ceased his private monologue, looked up at me, and smiled.

“My name is Solomon,” he said in a clear, even tone.

“Is this your first time visiting Santa Barbara?” I asked, kneeling down on one knee.

“Santa Barbara. . . Santa Barbara. . . S-a-n-t-a. . . B-a-r-b-a-r-aaaaaahhhhh,” Solomon ended his sentence in a fit of laughter. His laughter, sincere and vivacious, effected me as genuine laughter effects everyone, and to my surprise I too began to laugh. Passersby gawked our way with mute, plain-faced curiosity which caused my mirth to increase. My vision blurred through the tears welling up in my eyes.

“Dear God,” I thought, “What has gotten into me?” I regained my wits, forced myself back into the serious role of community social worker, and pressed forward with my work.

“Yes, Santa Barbara. Is this your first visit here?” I repeated, wiping my eyes.

“Where is Santa Barbara?” Solomon asked.

“You are in Santa Barbara, here in California,” I replied.

“California. . . who lays claim to California?” Solomon sat up, his face expressed evident concern for the subject at hand.

“I’m sorry, Solomon, I don’t quite understand your question,” I answered.

Mental illness is prevalent within the homeless population, and I suspected already this man suffered from a psychological disorder, but as always, I reserved judgment until I possessed a broader picture of this man’s life. Too often diagnoses are made before adequate knowledge of patients is gathered. Such a disservice I never gave anyone in my care. Moreover, even though a psychological diagnosis provides essential knowledge of a person’s mental state, and guides treatment plans, it by no means explains the infinite processes of the human psyche. For that reason alone, branding a human being with the diagnosis of a psychological disorder forever evoked in me a profound reluctance. Patience, I thought.

Solomon’s gaze left me. He looked out across the Pacific, holding his attention on the point where ocean meets sky. I had the impression that his mind was immersed in deep, intelligent recollection rather than lost in a nebulous, psychotic haze.

“Solomon.” I said his name to bring him back into our conversation.

“Does the king of Spain lay claim to these California lands?” Solomon asked abruptly, returning his intense gaze back upon me.

I stifled the urge to giggle, but instead maintained my serious, social worker deportment.

“No, Solomon, the king of Spain does not own California,” I explained deliberately, “California is part of the United States of America.”

This pitiful, derelict man moved his grinning face closer to mine, grabbed my shirt tightly with both hands, revealing what I believed to be satisfied surprise, and with a stern, acutely sane manner said, “My God, everything for which we fought and dreamed has come to pass! Please, please tell me that the United States of America is an independent, democratic republic yet to this day!”

“Yes, yes, the United States is an independent, democratic country, but that aside, you still have not told me where you are from.” I smiled and gently withdrew his grimy hands from my once clean shirt.

“The desert lands to the East, my good man,” Solomon said. He almost seemed proud to admit this fact about himself. Then he mumbled something in the strange language and lowered his head and sighed.

“The desert lands to the East. . . okay, can you be more precise? Did you come from Nevada, Arizona, or maybe New Mexico?” I asked.

Solomon’s eyes shifted back to the crashing surf of the Pacific ocean. For a pause that lasted long enough for most people to repeat their question, Solomon remained in silent deliberation, as if unable to recall.

“Kish,” he whispered softly and slowly. “Kish.”

“You are from Kish, what state is Kish in, Solomon?” I decided to sit down on the appeasing comfort of the beach sand. First meetings with new clients often took a lot of time, and I sensed that Solomon and I might talk for awhile, especially given his confused state of mind and apparent difficulty remembering essential aspects of his life.

“What is your name, sir?” Solomon asked. I sensed his discomfort with my personal inquiry, thus he shifted the focus of our conversation back upon me.

“My name is Salvatore Retter, but you can call me Sal if you like. Everyone knows me as Sal around here,” I said.

“Sal, S-a-l, S-alllllll,” echoed Solomon, then he laughed.

“That’s right, Sal. My first name is Italian and my last name is German. Both my first and last name translate into the word savior in English. What is your last name, Solomon?” I asked. I needed to collect as much information as possible in order to open a new client file for Solomon. In addition, I had to run a background check through state and federal law enforcement and health agencies to dismiss the need for special legal or medical interventions.

“I do not know if I have a last name,” Solomon replied, reasoned for a moment, then continued. “If you mean surname, I think I bore a surname during my previous ingress.”

“Can you recall what your last name or surname was then, Solomon?” I asked.

Again there was a long pause. During this gap in our conversation Solomon stared at the ring on my finger. He brought his hand up and touched the ring with his finger then looked at me and winked.

“No.” He began to examine his clothing as if no prior attention had ever been given to it. “This apparel simply will not do, can you help me find a tailor somewhere in your fair city, my good man?”

“I don’t think I can get a tailor for you, Solomon, but I can take you to a Goodwill thrift store.” Try as I might, I failed to suppress a giggle at the mention of a tailor.

“What do you find amusing, sir?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t have many people request the services of a tailor, but I promise you, we will find some good clothes for you to wear at Goodwill,” I said.

“Very well then, Goodwill it is, if you say so. When shall we depart?”

“We can go there today, but first I need to ask you some questions, if you don’t mind. I can’t help you if I don’t know who you are or where you come from. You said you were from a place in the desert called, Kish, but you don’t know exactly where it’s located, and you think you have a last name, but you don’t know what it is. Try to remember these things, okay? And if you don’t mind me asking another question, can you tell me about your last ingress, I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.”

Some mental disorders are commonly typified by the use of unusual terminology along with bizarre narrative themes. Solomon distinctly articulated in a fashion not unlike many schizophrenic patients I had helped during my career thus far.

“My last ingress. . . ,” Solomon mumbled as though he had forgotten his use of the term only seconds earlier. He paused then asked suspiciously, “Are you sent by a Lord?”

“No, I’m not sent by a Lord, Solomon. As I said before, I’m just a community social worker who tries to help people who are homeless.” I replied. “Maybe you can tell me what a Lord does, do you know any Lords?” I asked him, in hopes to gain a foothold onto any memory pattern that might reveal this man’s identity.

“I did not think you were sent by a Lord. You do not transmit a signal, you do not use the coenobitic silent communication, and I am afraid I do not recognize you,” Solomon said matter-of-factly. “You do seem to be a kind soul, so it is with some regret that I must tell you that I am not permitted to discuss my private affairs with you.” Solomon’s attention returned to the endless din of heavy ocean waves pounding the beach. As an after thought, he turned his gaze back to me and complimented my ring.

“I understand if you are not allowed to tell me about your personal affairs, Solomon. Your personal affairs must be very important,” I emphasized the point that his affairs were important. I thought this might prompt his desire to discuss the point in more depth. Unfortunately, the rouse failed, Solomon remained silent.

“Well then, I suppose that won’t prevent us from getting you some food and clothes. Maybe you will begin to remember things once you have eaten a nice, hot meal. If you’re ready, we can leave now. Would you like to go get some food, Solomon?”

Nothing instills a sense of trust more than freely offering food, clothing and shelter. I bargained that such benevolent offerings would create a feeling of security and trust, and influence a more open dialogue through which to ascertain a positive identification.

“The thought of fresh victuals whets my appetite completely. Yes, Sir Retter, let us dine together and indulge our natural cravings. I for one am painfully ravenous.” Solomon sprang up quickly, and spread his lips apart in a wide grin. His teeth were remarkably white, and his eyes were equally so, almost too white.

“Thank you, Solomon, but Sal will do fine, just Sal,” I said.

At this point in our meeting, I was nearly convinced that Solomon, (if that truly was his real name), suffered from schizophrenia. Furthermore, even though his intellect appeared relatively sharp, I had good reason to think he was amnesiac. After providing him with a warm, fresh meal and clean clothing from Goodwill, I felt it prudent to transport him to the county clinic for an expedited medical evaluation. I felt hesitant to leave this unfortunate man alone on the streets to fend for himself. Therefore I needed to check on the availability of beds in the local shelters as well.

During our time together that first day, I repeatedly asked Solomon if he had any recollection of his last name or last permanent address. He wished only to speak of immediate circumstances. Although he did pique my curiosity with his fervent questions about current events. When Solomon and I were not discussing food, clothing, medical exams and shelter, we prattled away our time on the vicissitudes of international politics, global trade and corporations, and the world bank. I was frankly stunned by the precise clarity of his questions and often found myself unable to provide satisfactory answers. Yet he appeared unaffected by my lack of knowledge, and more contented, or relieved, that he had found another human being with whom he could commune. Still, at the end of all the discussion, Solomon was no closer to recalling his name and address than when we first met.

While Solomon received his medical exam later in the afternoon, I updated my client log. Along with notations about overt psychological symptoms and significant behaviors, I noted that Solomon had a peculiar communication style. Solomon’s articulation and locution seemed to me archaic as if he were from an earlier epoch. I wondered if he might be a failed actor from Hollywood who had learned this strange speech for a performance. I trusted time to answer all my questions.

When the call came that the shelter, La Buena Refugio, had beds available, I explained to Solomon that there was no longer cause for him to sleep outside on the beach, and that shower facilities were provided for him to attend to his much neglected personal hygiene. Solomon expressed gratefulness for the care being provided him. At no time did he ever resist any of my attempts to help him, which I found somewhat unusual. Over the years I had become accustomed to chronic homeless people putting up various kinds of self defeatist obstacles and irrational protestations that prevented them from the assistance they most needed. Solomon was different; he was agreeable, receptive and titillating.

La Buena Refugio was an original, early Spanish structure built by the Catholic missionaries to provide shelter to the ill and dying Chumash Indians who contracted European diseases. In the modern day, the building’s meager accommodations were well suited for housing society’s vagabonds. The staff welcomed Solomon and showed him his sleeping quarters, a small dormitory style room with two single beds and an adjacent bathroom. Basic toiletry items and a $7 per day stipend completed the beneficence. Solomon was genuinely contented by his good fortune and happy to remain in his room to clean and rest. Seeing that he was safe and settled, I returned to my office to review Solomon’s medical evaluation, finish writing in his client log, and set up his new file.

The end of the work day had come and gone. I was still at the office and wanted to go home, but Solomon’s file was incomplete. His personal information, primarily his medical evaluation, was unlike anything I had ever seen. The physicians who conducted the physical examinations did so with admirable precision and thoroughness. The medical file they put together always included attached photos of scars, tattoos, and noteworthy body marks with a careful written description of each. In Solomon’s case, there were several photos of tattoos and scars, and by my reckoning, these body markings were anything but ordinary.

I perused the photos and descriptions of Solomon’s tattoos first, as these images intrigued me the most. Tattooed on the inside upper portion of each arm, Solomon had a form of writing that closely resembled the orthography found in the ancient middle east which is better known as cuneiform. To date I had seen plenty of English and Spanish writing, and the occasional East Asian text in tattoos, but never had I seen ancient cuneiform. I looked at the next photo. This revealed more cuneiform text, albeit more elaborate and decorated, tattooed on Solomon’s upper back. Below the fancy cuneiform text an icon of a bearded man dressed in archaic finery sat upon a giant eagle in flight. The man, a king perhaps, whose gaze was direct, beheld a tree above him in the heavens. The next photograph showed a tattoo on Solomon’s chest. There was considerably more elaborate cuneiform text in that photo, and below that, in the center of Solomon’s chest over his heart, an image depicted a king bedecked in regal raiment donning a conical, bejeweled diadem. Behind the throne upon which the king sat, there appeared to be a tree with wildly twisted branches. The king held an eagle with wings outstretched in his left hand. I stared at these images for long moments and wondered how it came to pass that anyone would adorn themselves with such an archaic array of bodily ornaments. According to the physician’s written report, Solomon reacted anxiously to the revelation of his tattoos, but complied with mute tolerance. He refused to answer any questions regarding these tattoos.

There was another photo in the medical exam file, this one revealed a barely detectable, thin scar located on the back of Solomon’s neck along the hairline. The skin along this scar line seemed to be raised slightly as if something long and cylindrical had been inserted subcutaneously. The physician’s report requested an x-ray only if the patient complained of pain or other unusual symptoms related to this scar. Additional notes suggested that Solomon was unusually healthy for a homeless person. The notes mentioned that Solomon had the physical conditioning of an Olympic athlete, and his teeth were flawless.

I was amazed by the uncommon contents of the physician’s report, and was incapable of squelching my own curiosity about these obscure body markings. I promised myself a whole pot of coffee and a full evening of internet research and investigation into this curious anomaly when I arrived home from work.

When I began to read the psychiatrist’s diagnosis, nothing that was recorded in the file surprised me. Just as I had surmised, Solomon was given a diagnosis of schizophrenia with amnesia. The psychiatrists ordered the typical regimen of psychiatric medications and ordered that Solomon be admitted into a long term care facility for chronically mentally ill patients. The psychiatrist pointed out that as the amnesia abated, the patient may present with fewer, less pronounced psychotic symptoms. I agreed, and vowed to spend as much time as possible with Solomon while he remained my client. I was hopeful that our discussions might evoke important memories. I had not forgotten some of the peculiar things Solomon had said, and planned to ask him more questions about these things. And although I am not permitted to befriend my clients, I was truly captivated by Solomon’s personality and disposition. I actually rather enjoyed our conversations and looked forward to more of them. He was a charming fellow and well mannered.

As intended, the entire evening was spent swilling my favorite dark roast coffee and searching the internet for information that would shine some light on the mystery of Solomon’s tattoos. The first search I conducted was simple; I typed in the word, “cuneiform.” I discovered a wealth of knowledge and began to read. One hour passed into another. I fancied myself an expert on the history of this ancient text, yet I had no method to translate Solomon’s tattoo writing, nor had I discovered references to the iconography that accompanied the writing. I did learn that cuneiform writing emerged in ancient Sumer, so I decided to change directions and research the Sumerians.

Once again I read through the lengthy expositions available on the internet. History and geography tended to dominate the subject matter on Sumer. The second cup of coffee was finished and I thought my efforts to understand Solomon’s tattoos were leading to failure. Then toward the end of a section about Sumerian geography, I found something pertinent to my search. The author who posted the article online gave a list and map of Sumerian cities. Included in the list was a city named, Kish. Solomon had said he was from a place called Kish. The connection was a little uncanny and I felt the hair on my head stand up. Who was this guy, Solomon, I wondered. I turned my attention to the map and saw that Kish was in present day Syria, which is in the desert. From my Sunday school days, I recalled that this region of the world was usually referred to as the desert kingdoms of the East. That thought gave me an idea.

On my next internet search I typed in the words, “Sumerian king.” Immediately a link to the Sumerian king list appeared on the computer monitor. I clicked the link. There must have been hundreds of kings during the Sumerian epoch. I did not have all night to read through this large amount of information, so I stopped, made another cup of coffee, and let my mind percolate ideas. When I returned to the computer, I decided to search for images of Sumerian kings. Not a second later into the search an identical image to the one on Solomon’s back popped up. The image showed an eagle mounted by a man. I scrolled down the page and found another image identical to the one on Solomon’s chest, a king sitting on a throne of twisted branches holding a miniature eagle with its wings spread. All I could do for several minutes is just sit and stare at the images on the monitor and recall Solomon’s medical photos.

Who was the man sitting on the throne and mounted on the eagle, and did he have a name, I asked myself. The search was on. I clicked on both images. Both links led to essays on the Sumerian king, Etana, “the shepherd who ascended to heaven and consolidated all the foreign countries.” At last I had a name, but what did all of this mean? Perhaps Solomon was affiliated with an enigmatic cult that worshiped ancient Sumerian deities. I had met my fair share of homeless wanderers who claimed one or another arcane sect as their own. Nevertheless, the information was useful. Maybe if I mentioned the name, Etana, to Solomon, the poor amnesiac could begin to remember his true identity.

The following day, after a night of vivid dreams, the perplexity of which I cannot begin to explain, only to say that the themes possessed a primordial quality, I skipped the morning meeting at the office and proceeded to La Buena Refugio to check on Solomon. I intended to use the new information found the previous evening to stimulate Solomon’s memory. When I arrived at the boarding facility, I found him sitting on a couch alone in the common room reading the business section of the newspaper. His eyes moved across the printed page rapidly and his focus was intense.

“Good morning, Solomon. Can I join you?” I sat beside him.

“Good morning, Sal. I am very pleased to see you. May we partake in a morning beverage?” asked Solomon in a polished, genteel manner, then quickly added, “I would offer you sustenance if only the servants had not closed the cookery.”

“That’s okay, Solomon, I know the staff only serves breakfast until 9 o’clock. There is a really good coffee shop not far from here. We can buy some coffee there. Would you like to go?”

I suggested coffee not only for the social aspect of drinking together, but I had read an article that caffeine helps amnesiacs improve their recollection.

“We shall do as you like, Sal. I am honored to accompany you on this glorious foray to a coffee shop,” replied Solomon. He tossed the newspaper on a table and waited for me to stand up first. Solomon was the living archetype of social grace and charm. His personage reminded me of the classical nobility in stories I had read. How did his life ultimately bring him here to La Buena Refugio? Solomon, the man, was turning into a challenging puzzle that fully occupied my curiosity.

While we drove to the coffee shop, Solomon spoke on the subject of which he had been reading prior to my arrival at La Buena Refugio. His immediate apprehension of business and commerce, and the interplay of international politics astounded me. I felt as though I had been lectured by a professor of economics and political science during the short drive to the coffee shop. If only he could recall his past as well, I thought.

We took up our seats in a quiet corner with our coffee and donuts. I took the lead in our conversation.

“Solomon, if I may, the doctors who examined you yesterday shared their findings with me, and I wanted to ask you a few questions about that,” I said judiciously.

Solomon paused in thought, searched me with a timid gaze, then politely asked me to proceed.

“Solomon, I want you to understand that I am here to help you. Please do not feel threatened by any of my questions. It is important for me to know particular details about you to ensure that you are given the best service available,” I said mechanically as if read from a cue card. This was my typical community social worker spiel.

“I trust you, Sal, you wear the holy ring” Solomon said fastidiously, and touched my ring gently with his forefinger. My train of thought was interrupted by the renewed attention given to my ring. For some unknown reason, Solomon possessed a keen interest in my ring. Perhaps the triangle shape, or the unusual inlay, or the antique style attracted him. This only added more questions to an already expanding list I had mentally compiled for Solomon.

“Okay, good. . . If you recall from yesterday, I was quite interested to know your full name and any of your previous addresses. Well, I think I found some answers, but I can’t be certain. This is probably a long shot, but I think it’s worth discussing.” I explained.

“Please, Sal, share with me your findings,” murmured Solomon.

“One of the doctors who examined you yesterday noticed several tattoos on your body. The tattoos appear to be ancient writings and images from a period in time almost 5,000 years ago, most likely related to the ancient Sumerians,” I said, then halted to gauge his reaction. Solomon remained calm and expressionless so I continued, “Yesterday you said you were from Kish, in the eastern desert. I’m not aware of any towns or cities in the United States named Kish. And what’s more, Solomon, Kish did exist, but almost 5,000 years ago. Are you sure you are from this place, or did I not hear you correctly. . .”

“This is true, Sal, I am from Kish. You heard nothing different yesterday,” he confirmed.

“I see, but Kish no longer exists. Can you recall any addresses that are more recent, Solomon, anything?” I looked straight into his unblinking, dark eyes.

“Perhaps there is another more recent place in which I resided, yes.”

“Do you have a name, latitude, longitude, GPS coordinates, anything,” I said and smiled.

“I behold trees, many wonderful trees and a deep running river full of fish and boats. . . The people are proud and industrious. . . There are many beer taverns. . .” Solomon trailed off into a whisper. I sensed frustration and despair. He tried to recall something meaningful, but the past was too clouded by amnesia. We sat in silence for a brief spell.

“Solomon, the coffee is cool enough to drink now. Take a sip, it’s the best coffee in Santa Barbara, you will love it,” I said with an upbeat, consoling tone in my voice.

Solomon smiled and revealed his pristine, white teeth, then sipped some coffee. He smelled the coffee carefully, then took another sip, this one much slower, as if to test the nuances of the bitter, earthy coffee flavor. Suddenly, he lifted his head up and spoke.

“The Junto. J-u-n-t-o. . . We drank coffee at the break of day, and beer in the evening hours. My friends. . . my dear friends, and Benjamin, yes, I recall Benjamin, he was more than a dear friend, he was my. . .” Solomon again fell silent, his lips moved but no sounds emanated. For several seconds his eyes focused on something unseen.

“Solomon, what is it? What do you recall? Who is Benjamin?” The questions rapidly rolled out of my mouth. Solomon shook his head in the negative, a pained expression on his face.

“My mind’s eye is dim, there is only shadow where there should be light.”

“It’s okay, Solomon, let it go for now. Whatever happened is still inside you and will eventually resurface into your consciousness. I know you must feel very frustrated right now, not being able to remember things from your past.”

“Thank you, Sal, you are a kind man. I trust your intentions, you carry the sacred symbols on your ring. But, Sal, even if the memories resurface into my consciousness as you say, you are one of the bereft, you are not endowed with the supremacy through which I may divulge all my knowledge.” Solomon muttered. “I have spoken too much already, I fear.”

At this point I began to perceive a pronounced psychological dissonance between my thought that Solomon was floridly psychotic, and the feeling, or sense that this man was something much more than just a poor, mentally ill homeless person. My interest in Solomon developed into a mild compulsion. The puzzle became more puzzling with each interaction. There was so much I wanted to discuss with Solomon I inadvertently let the comments about my ring fade into forgetfulness.

“Solomon, what can you tell me about your tattoos?” I shifted the discussion back to something more readily tangible. After all, these tattoos were literally injected onto his body and had been with him until the present day.

“You refer to the insignia.” Solomon’s demeanor became solemn.

“Yes, the insignia, why do you have all these things on your body?”

“I can tell you the meaning of the insignia if you like.”

“Yes, yes, please tell me. I have to admit, I am very curious about these markings on your body, Solomon.” At last it seemed possible that we were making progress toward a positive identification.

“These insignia are proclamations of sacred rites and significant events. Everyone eventually is accorded their insignia. There can never be a duplicate, all insignia are unique to the bearer. The insignia reveals the living story of the bearer,” Solomon instructed.

“Excuse me, Solomon, did you just say that the insignia tells the story of the bearer? I’m afraid I don’t follow what you mean. Are you saying the tattoos tell about you?” I exclaimed.

“This is what I am to believe, but I find the whole affair a bit troubling because I lack the edification of clear insight into the past,” Solomon said.

“Solomon, the iconography depicted in these tattoos bears a perfect resemblance to ancient images of the Sumerian king, Etana. Does this mean anything to you?” I asked. Solomon seemed to shrink. He lowered his head onto the table and began to mumble. I leaned forward, and listened. Solomon again uttered in the same peculiar tongue as the previous day. The rhythm, timing and inflection resembled something akin to an Arabic and Latin hybrid language, only phonetically smoother with noticeable pauses. I reckoned that Solomon was speaking an actual foreign language, and doing so with thoughtful fluency. The circumstances surrounding this man became more baffling with each passing hour. For the first time in my career, I was at a complete loss of how to proceed. But something had to be done. I reached over and gently grabbed his shoulder. Sometimes a small portion of human contact helps to ease anxiety.

“Solomon, Solomon, are you okay?” I asked. He flinched then raised his head.

“Forgive me, Sal, I was merely praying. That name you spoke, Etana. I know this name holds great meaning to me. But when I peer into the past visions of my mind, I see only glimpses of a world I am uncertain is mine. There is no meaningful continuity of recollection and few things about which I am certain.” Although he did not verbally ask, Solomon’s facial expression, and sorrowful eyes pleaded for my help and understanding.

“Solomon, I will help you as much as I can. I know that recalling these memories is important to you. All memories are important. Without memories we are virtually nothing.” I paused. “By the way, what was that peculiar language you spoke?”

“I pray in the sacred tongue of my people, the people of the desert, Kish.” He replied matter-of-factly.

Such is the peculiar nature of amnesia: some memories are recalled effortlessly, and other memories are vague or completely irretrievable.

We sat in silence. I was actually stunned into silence. Here was an admission of a past that was so far out of reach the very notion was incomprehensible. My mind reeled. He must be a member of a cult, perhaps a group of acid tripping hippies lost in the Mojave desert since the sixties. Somehow, this man become disoriented and ended up coming to Santa Barbara.

“Solomon, can you read the writing on your body? Is the text familiar to you?” I asked.

“Yes, I can read the insignia. But we must not speak of this any longer, Sal. An unwarranted inquisition of my insignia is too dangerous.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. . . You mentioned your people, the ones in the desert. Are these people Sumerians or a small group of wanderers who live somewhere closer, like in the Mojave or Sonora desert?”

“Sumerians, yes.” Solomon frowned almost imperceptibly for a split second. “Kish is not on this continent. Kish is in a land far away.”

I searched Solomon’s eyes and facial expressions for any sign of deception, but observed nothing to sway my doubts. His sincerity was uncanny. I began to think Solomon might be a scholar, someone who had delved into the study of ancient civilizations. His apparent knowledge was too precise and seemingly correct. Moreover, he had demonstrated his intellectual prowess on other topics. I felt I had discovered a lead into this mystery.

I tried to formulate an approach to help Solomon draw out clues to his identity. Finally I broke the silence with a simple redirection of the earlier conversations.

“Clearly you are having difficulties recalling things, Solomon. I don’t want to compel you to reveal everything you know, all your private knowledge. I just want to help you know who you are. Besides, everything you share with me is confidential. Let’s try to focus on simple things such as your full name, your previous addresses, important friends you have, and your occupation.” I suggested.

“Very well, Sal, let us discuss these things again.”

“We haven’t talked about your occupation at all. What type of work do you do?”

“I do not have an occupation. I do not work to earn wages.” Solomon replied.

“So you have never worked?” I repeated incredulously.

“I have never worked to earn wages.”

“I see, have you ever attended school or university? What year did you graduate from high school?”

“No, I am not a member of modern academia.” Solomon sipped his coffee and stared at me with an inquisitive eye.

“No job, no education, what about family, do you stay in touch with your family?” I asked.

My question about Solomon’s family evoked an emotional response, albeit subdued and difficult to judge. He turned his eyes downward and mumbled again, then returned his gaze and answered me.

“My family is no longer alive upon this earth.”

Solomon’s reply effected me unexpectedly, and he noticed my reaction.

“You have no family that is alive either, do you Sal?”

“No, Solomon, my father and mother were both dead shortly after I graduated from high school. First my mother died, then my father died less than a year later.”

“The loss of people we love is a powerful affliction upon the soul. But you are a good man, and wise. Such a disposition redeems oneself to a state of grace and harmony.” Solomon’s voice took on a consoling quality.

“Yes, you are correct, Solomon. We both know how the loss of family feels, don’t we?” I agreed, caught momentarily in the reflection of his words. Solomon nodded. I glanced at my watch and realized I had other appointments scheduled for the morning. I had to hurry.

“Solomon, you mentioned a friend named Benjamin earlier, do you suppose he could offer some help if we were to contact him for you?” I had nearly exhausted all the options available, and prayed this angle might produce results.

“Sal, given the present year, I can assure you that Benjamin’s soul has departed long ago. There is no help that he can offer me now.”

“Is. . . was this Benjamin fellow your only friend, Solomon? Don’t you have any other friends?”

“There are few people with whom I am befriended and they are difficult to contact, as you say,” explained Solomon, then looked at me directly, eyes suddenly intense and piercing. “You are my friend, Sal. You shall remain my friend for a long time to come. And soon I will seek another friend, once I have received formal precepts from my lord.” The softness quickly returned and Solomon drank the last of his coffee.

“Solomon, have you started taking any medications from the doctor yet?” I asked.

“The servants at my quarters in La Buena Refugio declared that their medication manager was stricken by a grave sickness and thus was unable to obtain my medicines today. I believe they shall ask you to obtain these medicines, or so I heard them say early this morning.” Solomon said. “Sal, I do not feel ill, why do the doctors wish to administer medicines? Will these medicines help me to remember?”

“Okay, they will probably send me a message to pick up your meds. I can’t say if the meds will help you remember. Have you ever been on psych meds before?”

“I do not know what psych meds are.”

“You have never taken any small pills, or drugs, or anything like that?”

“A nurse administered a remedy for fever, but this was a liquid concoction, a rather bitter and unsettling one if I recall correctly. Otherwise, I do not think I have ever eaten pills for any ailments.”

“No, you do appear to be in excellent health. Shoot, I forgot to ask the most basic question; I must be overworked. What is your date of birth, Solomon?”

Solomon immediately became confused and withdrew into himself. I noticed a pattern of him responding in this manner when asked questions related to his identity. He attempted to make a crude calculation counting with his fingers. A minute later he looked at me to reply. The sharp intensity returned to his eyes and he smiled.

“I am not permitted to discuss my true age with anyone of lacks supremacy. . . but this ingress has gone terribly wrong, and you are a trusted one, you wear the ring of the trusted ones. I think I have recollected my true age if the dates typeset into this day’s newspaper are accurate. Salvatore, in common years I am beyond 4,800.”

I have listened to hundreds of clients tell me outlandish stories about themselves. Age distortions were not uncommon either, especially with unmedicated schizophrenic clients. Many of my previous clients held beliefs that they were one or another historical personage from times past too.

“So it is true then,” I said, playing into Solomon’s delusions, “you really are Etana.”

“I am Etana, yes, this must be so, or I would not bear the sacred insignia upon my body. There can be no other explanation.” Solomon finished speaking then bowed his head into his hands, closed his eyes and began to whisper the same strange language as before. If only I recognized the language. I combed my memory for someone I may know who was knowledgeable about ancient languages. A professor of antiquities who taught courses on ancient religions came to my mind. I had taken a couple of classes with him over a decade ago while attending school. I made a mental note to call the professor later and schedule an appointment to speak with him about Solomon’s strange language. Then suddenly an idea flashed into my mind. I slyly reached for my cell phone and pressed the record button as Solomon whispered.

While I sat recording Solomon’s voice, I heard an ear piercing shriek from above in the sky. I glanced upward and to my utter amazement a Golden Eagle circled. I immediately thought of the eagle tattoo on Solomon’s body. Solomon continued his soft utterances. The eagle circled six or seven times before flying away. I was transfixed upon the regal bird of prey as it flew toward distant mountains and did not notice Solomon had ceased. My superstitious inclinations drew parallels between the eagle and Solomon’s tattoos and prayerful whispers.

“Sal, if we may, I must return to La Buena Refugio to meditate alone on this sudden, frightful realization, this knowledge of my identity revealed. A veil has been lifted from my darkened sight. You have helped me to discern personal truths today. The appearance of the swirling eagle has affirmed this sacred moment. Please, can we depart immediately?”

“Sure, Solomon, yes, let’s get going. I’ll take you back right now, but I need to ask if you feel you are going to be okay.”

“Yes, how can anyone not be improved by the light of truthful revelation?” Solomon said kindly and smiled with a sincerity that left no doubt in my mind that he was going to be okay. Our morning coffee together left me feeling frustrated and ever curious and perplexed. I was frustrated by our failure to ascertain a realistic, positive identification. Yet I was overwhelmingly curious to solve the mystery of Solomon’s ties to the ancient past. Given Solomon’s candor, I was afraid to admit that he almost had me believe he was this ancient Sumerian king, Etana. I quickly laughed the thought out of my mind as mere absurdity.

Our drive back to La Buena Refugio was quiet and pleasant. Solomon had a contented smile on his face and randomly commented on the aesthetic properties of the natural world around us. An unearthly serenity had enveloped Solomon. I was pleased that he had not noticed me recording him. We parted on the promise that I would return with his medications no later than the next morning.

When I returned to the office, as I expected, there was a medication pickup request from the staff at La Buena Refugio. The doctors had prescribed a potent antipsychotic drug and another prescription to subdue the side effects of this strong drug. He was also prescribed another medication for anxiety and agitation, but only as needed. The medication order was routine. I set the medication request papers aside and logged into my client files on my work computer. I needed to finish my new client file on Solomon. The time limit for interagency reporting was almost reached. The identifying information on Solomon was, in my opinion, poor and incomplete, but I had to enter something or risk a reprimand from my director. In the spaces for names and aliases I typed in Solomon and Etana. In the previous addresses space I wrote, Kish. I felt foolish filling in this information, but there was nothing else possible for the time being. If new information was discovered later, I would update the file. For the time being, whatever government agency reviewed these files, they had no other choice than to be satisfied.

When lunchtime arrived, I called the local college to inquire about my old professor. I was glad to hear the switchboard operator tell me that he not only remained on the faculty, but that he was in his office and available to talk. His voice sounded enervated and older, but his intellect was as sharp and transparent as glass. After a brief reintroduction, my old professor said he remembered me. I asked him to meet me to discuss my peculiar recording. We agreed to meet for dinner at the end of the day.

Solomon’s prescription was filled, but I hesitated to drop off his medications until I met with the professor. I favored dropping them off the next morning to allow for another opportunity to talk with Solomon. I was eager to continue our dialogue, especially after receiving the professor’s assessment of the recording. Were Solomon’s obscure orations a sham, or did he truly speak a bona fide ancient language? Soon I hoped to posses the answer.

I met Professor Smart at my favorite Mexican takeout, Super Cucas. He sat at a table with another person, a young lady, young enough perhaps to be his student.

“Hello Salvatore, I am very pleased to see you again. I often wondered what journey’s life had set before you. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thank you, and pleased to see you again as well, Professor Smart,” I replied.

“Allow me to introduce, Ella Quint, she is writing her dissertation on a subject that includes research about pre-Akkadian linguistic patterns of early Mesopotamia. She has developed some rather sophisticated models for understanding the phonetics of the proto-literate period and early archaic Sumerian language. After our phone call earlier today, I did not think you would mind if I brought her along. As you know, my background does not delve too deeply into ancient languages.”

“How do you do?” I said and extended my hand. Ella smiled and placed her dainty hand into mine. The mood was cordial, and Ella seemed eager take up the subject matter.

“Professor Smart said you had some kind of recording. . .” Ella asked.

“Yes, yes, I have it right here on my cell phone. The sound quality is not good, but it is clear enough to understand, I think,” I said nervously. “I called Professor Smart to help me discover the origin of the language I have recorded on my cell phone. It sounds very unusual. Maybe you will recognize it.”

I was worried that Solomon’s peculiar speech was just meaningless garble, and this whole meeting might turn out to be a big waste of time and an embarrassment. I set the cell phone in the middle of the table and pressed the playback-recordings button. Solomon’s prayerful whispers issued from the tiny cell phone speaker. I watched Professor Smart and Ella Quint carefully for their initial reaction to the recording.

“Where did you get this?” Ella asked. She expressed a disbelieving surprise and palpable urgency in her voice.

“I’m not at liberty to give personal information. . .” I began to say.

“This is one of Salvatore’s clients, Ella, he cannot disclose anything of a personal nature,” Professor Smart interjected.

“No, that’s okay, I understand, it’s just that I can’t believe what I am hearing. Can you replay it one more time?” Ella asked. She leaned forward, her attention intense.

“Sure, whatever you want,” I replied. I was getting the butterflies in the stomach feeling at this point and had completely forgotten my hunger for the best burritos in town. The recording played and ended again.

“Do you realize what you have here?” Ella asked.

“No,” I answered.

“What is it, Ella?” Professor Smart asked.

“I could be mistaken, but based on our best phonetic models, what I am hearing on your recording is the purest spoken form of archaic Sumerian language I have ever heard in my life, and I have heard everything that currently exists in academia.” Ella sat stunned and shaking her head.

A silence fell over the table for several seconds.

“I don’t know who this person is, but I can tell you that he knows something that the best minds in the world on this subject do not know,” Ella added.

“Wow,” is all I could say in response.

“Indeed, wow, Salvatore. How did you come across this gentleman,” Professor Smart said rhetorically.

“You said he is your client, but is there any way to obtain more recordings?” Ella asked. “If I provided you with some cuneiform samples, do you suppose this man could offer translations and interpretations?”

“Gosh, I really cannot say on that one. I mean this guy is nice enough, but I can’t risk compromising my professional relationship with him,” I said apologetically.

In the midst of our earnest discussion, my cell phone rang and startled us.

“Excuse me, it’s a call from my office,” I said. “That’s unusual, I never receive calls from work this late.”

The person on the other end of the line was my director. My stomach tied up in knots when I heard her voice. She was more stern than usual. I offered a polite hello and listened.

“Sal, hi,” She began. “I know it’s late, and I hate to bother you, but I received a phone call from the FBI concerning one of your clients, Solomon Etana. They have informed me that they want a meeting with you tomorrow afternoon here at the office. I don’t know what this is all about, but I suggest you cancel your afternoon appointments to make time for them.”

“What?!”

CHAPTER 2

The phone call from my director ended. I looked at Professor Smart and Ella Quint. They must have detected from the disturbed expression on my face that the phone call was serious. They both turned their attention from the cell phone recording of Solomon to my present state of distress.

“Is everything alright?” asked Professor Smart.

“I’m not sure. . . That phone call just happened to be concerning the man in the recording you just listened to,” I replied.

“Is something wrong,” asked Ella.

“I don’t know, but whatever is going on, it must be serious,” I said. “I’m not supposed to share confidential information, but the FBI wants to talk to me about this man tomorrow. . . this kind of thing has never happened before, I wonder what is going on with him?”

“It would appear that you have taken on a very intriguing client,” said Professor Smart.

“What do you suppose they would want with a homeless man who speaks fluent archaic Sumerian?” Ella commented questioningly.

“I have to tell you, this man is unlike any homeless person I have met in my ten years at the department. I am truly baffled by him. We have spent the last couple of days together, and in spite of his apparent psychotic delusions, I have found him to not only be very friendly and surprisingly intelligent, but extremely fascinating. That said, he is very confused and has amnesia. So who knows why the FBI would have an interest in him,” I rambled. I was breaking the strict confidentiality rule, but at that moment, for some reason, I did not care. The circumstances were simply too bizarre and I felt I needed to share, and maybe receive some helpful feedback from people whose judgment I believed I could trust.

“I hope he is not in danger, or worse yet, a danger to you, Salvatore,” Professor Smart said. He shifted in his chair somewhat agitated.

“I don’t mean to pry, but did he give any clue that he was in trouble?” asked Ella.

“No, none at all. As I said, he has been very friendly and quite good company aside from his mental health issues,” I replied. “But that does not mean a thing. Many dangerous sociopaths are often highly sociable and very charming. . . kind of like the way you might imagine Lucifer to be, charming, alluring, but extremely dangerous.”

Both Professor Smart and Ella Quint shook their heads in agreement. The waiter brought our burritos and tacos, but we collectively had lost our appetites.

“This certainly is a confounding situation you have presented here tonight, Salvatore. I wonder if your client has ties to some terrorist organization?” Professor Smart asked.

“I have no idea. He is a complicated man, very mysterious to be sure. I wish I knew more about his connection with this whole Sumerian thing, especially now after what you said about the recording. Maybe the terrorists are using the ancient language to hide their intentions.” I said.

“Or maybe the government wants your client to translate for them,” Ella added. “But I can tell you, Salvatore, I have been to the Middle East several times, and I have conferred with the world’s leading scholars on ancient Sumerian language. This language is thoroughly defunct. Only a handful of well known people understand how to speak the language, and even then, not very well.”

“You have a genuine mystery on your hands, Salvatore,” said the Professor meekly.

“Yes, I agree,” I said.

“Ella, were you able to decipher any of the recording?” asked Professor Smart.

Ella asked me to play the recording again two more times. She asked me to pause at varying intervals to write notes. After the second playback she immersed herself into diligent translation for a few minutes before offering an answer.

“There are many words I cannot translate with certainty, and many I have come to know. Therefore, through logical inference I can give you a rough translation, but again, I cannot guarantee its accuracy.”

“That’s fine, Ella, anything you can offer at this point would be welcome. What do you think the recording means?” I asked.

Ella pointed to her notes and began her difficult and halting translation. She stopped many times to discuss possible thematic variations in her crude interpretation. Ella was insightful and imaginative, yet exceedingly careful to render a meticulous exegesis.

“The recording you have is obviously incomplete, Salvatore, but I can uncover some meaning in what you do have,” Ella stated. “Your client makes several references to Enlil, a sky god, or god who can traverse the skies. He seems to be calling upon Enlil to come to his rescue, to fly to him and carrying him away to a safe dwelling in the sky.”

“Enlil is the only Sumerian deity who possessed the ability to reach Anu, the god of heaven, and overlord of all the Sumerian gods and goddesses. Enlil is commonly referred to as the lord of the storm, or lord of the wind and air, hence his connection to the sky, or movement through the sky,” Professor Smart clarified.

“Yes, that is correct, Professor Smart,” Ella said, then continued. “Your client implores Enlil repeatedly. He mentions something that sounds like riding on the eagle to heaven. Then just before the recording ends, there is a reference to a snake that is very angry, like a serpent that is coiled and readying to strike,” Ella tittered and rubbed her hands over her face. “I told you the translation would not make much sense, but it is the best I can do for now. If only you had your client here. . .”

“Yes, if only,” I agreed. Then I recalled something Solomon had said. “You know, when I first met this client, he asked me if I was a lord. Then he said I was not a lord and thereafter refused to talk to me. But later, he changed his mind and told me a few things about himself, said I was a trusted one because I wore this ring,” I held out my hand for the professor and Ella to see my father’s ring. Professor Smart leaned forward and grasped my hand to inspect the ring.

“That is quite a ring you have there, Salvatore. The triangle shape is unusual, looks like a broken piece from the corner of a stone tablet, and plenty of gold around it. Some of the symbols in the band are pre-Christian. Where did you get this ring?” asked the professor.

“My father received it from some monks in Italy back during World War II.”

“Interesting. There are a couple of symbols that date back to Mesopotamia. Perhaps these are the symbols that got your client’s attention,” Professor Smart suggested.

“Which symbols do you mean. What do they mean?” I asked, holding the ring up closer for the professor and Ella to examine.

“The first one is known as the Tetramorph. In Mesopotamia, this represented the four main astrological constellations, the eagle, which we know as Scorpio, being one of them. It also represents the four quarters of the earth in Mesopotamia. Later, in Christianity the same symbol depicts the four evangelists, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. John is typically associated with the eagle. One notable reference to the Tetramorph in the Bible is in the book of Ezekiel. Ezekiel as you may know was thought to be visited by heavenly beings.”

“Don’t you mean UFO’s and aliens, Professor Smart,” Ella said with disparaging laughter.

“What does the other symbol mean, Professor Smart?” I asked.

The professor squinted his eyes and turned my ring finger right and left to reflect the light squarely upon the symbol and illuminate its details. In typical professor fashion he hummed and murmured while examining the tiny stamped symbols on my ring.

“Quite simply, this is the tree of life, Salvatore. Many Mesopotamian stele show this important Sumerian symbol. In Sumer King Etana is carried into heaven to obtain the plant of birth. Scholars compare the plant of birth with King Etana seeking the tree of life,” explained the professor. “In Christian mythology, we are all familiar with the tree of life in the garden of Eden. So you see, the sacred tree is an enduring symbol in many religious traditions, however, each religion likes to custom tailor the meaning to fit their own cultural designs. One might debate that the Sumerians possessed the purest, most unadulterated form of this important symbol.”

“No wonder my client felt at ease opening up to me about his personal life. He recognized these symbols on my ring, and from what I have been able to observe so far, he places great value on symbols,” I replied.

“Perhaps your client is a member of some crazy cult and has broken the law and is a wanted fugitive from justice,” Ella mentioned.

“I have been considering that line of reasoning, Ella, but there are too many loose ends and other things that do not add up yet. I am almost convinced that he is alone, not affiliated with any group,” I explained.

“Do you know if he has any ties to colleges or universities? Maybe he is a professor who has gone too far into his research, and has blurred the distinction between research and reality,” Professor Smart said dryly, with a slight hint of a grin.

“He claims he has no formal education, nor any connections to schools anywhere. He says he is from Kish and has no family or friends.” I said.

“That stands to reason, all his family and friends have been dead for over 4000 years,” Ella joked.

“Professor Smart, Ella, I think I better go home and get a good night sleep. This whole affair has dominated my life for the last couple of days and just continues to become more unbelievable.” I said.

“Certainly, Salvatore, we understand. But please get in touch with me soon, once you have solved the mystery,” said Professor Smart.

“Salvatore, it was very nice to meet you, and if at all possible, I am very interested in your client’s knowledge of the Sumerian language. If it is not too much to ask, perhaps there may be some way to meet your client sometime?” Ella politely requested. She slid a piece of paper across the table toward me upon which she had written her phone number and email address.

“Thank you both for coming here and meeting me tonight. I will get in touch with you later on, Professor Smart. And Ella, I will try to do everything I can to make my client accessible to you. But after the meeting with the FBI tomorrow, none of us may ever hear from the poor guy again,” I said.

I parted from Professor Smart and his student, Ella Quint, and drove into the night bound for my apartment. The streets of Santa Barbara were shiny and wet from a winter drizzle. Not many people were out. When I arrived at home, I prepared for bed, but once in bed, I was wide awake. My thoughts returned to Solomon over and over again. Sleep escaped me. The clock showed that the time was 11:41pm. Something in my mind compelled me to call the night staff at La Buena Refugio to check on Solomon. A moment later, I dialed their phone number.

“Good evening, La Buena Refugio, may I help you,” said the heavy voice of a woman who obviously had smoked cigarettes for many decades.

“Yes, this is Sal Retter from the department of homeless affairs, I’m calling to check on the status of Solomon. He came in two days ago.”

“Oh, yes, Solomon. He was in his room reading when I did the last room check at eleven o’clock. He is a very nice fellow.”

“Is he okay, have there been any problems? Have there been any visitors for him?”

“Hold on, okay hun.” I heard the woman yell to a coworker. There was a brief exchange between them.

“Well, after dinner he went into his room to read through his pile of magazines and has only come out once for a glass of water. He wanted a beer, but we told him, ‘no beer at La Buena Refugio,’” she said with a wheezing laugh. “That one sure likes to read. As for visitors, no one has come by to see him that we know of. You are the only one who has asked about Solomon.”

“Did he sign out today?” I asked.

“Hold on, let me check the log book for you, just a minute, hun,” the woman groaned. “Yes, he signed out after lunch and did not sign back in until right before shift change at 3pm. Let me check the shift notes for you too.” There was a sound of paper shuffling. “Alright then, day staff wrote that he returned from his outing with magazines, all mostly political and business stuff. Remained in room until dinner. Ate quietly with other residents, then returned to his room. Spent most of his time reading or sitting with his eyes closed as if meditating. That’s all I have on Solomon.”

“Is there anything that mentions interaction with staff or residents?”

“Nothing that I can see, hun.”

“Good, thanks a lot. Also, if you would, leave a note for the day staff that I will bring his meds in the morning, okay.”

“I sure will, hun. Is there anything else you need?” the woman asked.

“No, thanks again. Good night,” I said, but I felt like saying I needed a sleeping pill. I remained in bed, lying flat on my back staring up at the lines of light cast on the ceiling from the street light outside my bedroom window. My mind refused to allow the slightest relaxation. I recollected everything that had occurred since my first encounter with Solomon. I combed over every detail leading up to the dinner meeting with Professor Smart. Why did the FBI want to talk to me, I wondered. The occasional intervention with local police was nothing new to me, but a meeting with the FBI, that was very different. I could not imagine myself being of any use to them. I knew very little about this man, Solomon, except that he was unquestionably unique in every manner possible.

A blinding flash suddenly lit the bedroom. A second later a loud boom of thunder shook the apartment. I nearly jumped out of bed from the abrupt shock. A steady, hard rain fell on the roof and lulled me to sleep. As I slept, I dreamed.

Somehow I came alone to the desert, a sand desert that stretched before me in all directions, nothing to see but sand and sky, brown and blue with little shadow. Dunes rose and fell like slow motion ocean waves. In the distance a white stone temple sloped upwards above the sand sea. I possessed binoculars; the optical instrument hung around my neck on a leather strap. Through the looking glasses I spied Solomon sitting upon a throne with two ferocious lions guarding his lateral margins. His chest was bare, and the tattoos, or insignia as he called them, were in plain view for all to see. I felt the air change. The wind began to blow forcefully. Sand swirled around me and my vision became obscured. I felt something pointed grab me and hoist me upward. I was quickly flying high above the desert, whisked away by an eagle of tremendous proportions. The world became smaller and circular. I blinked my eyes and in a single breath I stood on an ebony shaded, marble platform surrounded by rows of ancient columns. A tall, bearded man bedecked in astral raiment approached me, impelled forward as if by air currents. Through the translucent phantom image of the approaching man a distant fire burned. When at last he reached me, this regal ghost of bygone epochs extended his arms and produced a tablet in his hands which he beckoned me to accept. As I peered at the writings the man started to whistle. He whistled louder and louder until the sound resembled the rushing winds of a hurricane.

The alarm beeped and I awoke. 7:30 in the morning, time to get up for work. I pressed the snooze button and remained in bed to reflect on my otherworldly dream. How extraordinary this dream, especially after the recent discussions of eagles and the coincidental appearance of the eagle the previous day while Solomon whispered his prayers for the eagle to rescue him. Moreover, the man in my dream bore a striking similarity to some of the images of Sumerian kings I had observed on the internet and in Solomon’s tattoos. What was I being drawn into, I half amused myself. Then my thoughts shifted to Solomon and the FBI. My stomach tightened and I felt uneasy about the day’s prospects. How was the day going to unfold?

Morning meeting at the office was nothing but ordinary. My small group of coworkers and the director were preoccupied by the upcoming visit from the FBI agents. We spent the entire meeting in speculation about Solomon. Who was this odd homeless man? What had he done to warrant a visit from the FBI? Were we in mortal danger? For each question, more questions were born. I finished my coffee and left. The first destination of the morning was La Buena Refugio.

Solomon was sitting on a bench under a banyan tree waiting for me when I drove into the parking lot. He smiled widely when he saw me. What did the FBI want with this peaceful homeless man? By now the mystery of Solomon was burning an abysmal hole in my mind.

“Good morning my dear friend, Sal! I am so pleased to see you today. There are many things I wish to share with you if you will allow me the pleasure,” Solomon said.

“Yes! Please, do, Solomon,” I said. “But first I need to drop off your meds. You will need to come with me so we can set up your medication schedule and get you started on your meds. Then we will definitely take some time to talk.”

“Sal, I thank you for your insistence on providing me with medicine, but I must insist that you dispense with the idea. I am quite well and whole. I do not need your medicines.” Solomon smiled and gestured with his body that he was healthy and fit.

“The medicines will help you to remember all those things you had difficulty recalling about your past, such as your full name, previous addresses, et cetera. I think you ought to reconsider, and take the meds, Solomon.”

“That is precisely what I wish to discuss with you, Sal. I have recovered a large portion of my memory since yesterday. I remember, Sal! I do not need the medicine to help me rid myself of a confused mind. My constitution grows stronger each day. You have helped me too.”

“The medicine also regulates your cognitive functioning and allows you to differentiate between reality and irrational thoughts brought on by your psychosis. Solomon, you do have doctor’s orders to take these meds.”

Solomon stopped walking and turned to face me. He switched from his gentle, affable demeanor. The sharp intensity in his eyes returned. I did not detect anger or frustration from weakness or fear, rather the intensity in his gaze revealed a well anchored puissance typical of someone familiar with commanding substantial authority.

“Sal, before I take these medicines, we need to convene our meeting. I suggest we drink coffee as we did yesterday, but at a different coffee shop today if you do not mind. You may be dissatisfied with my intended discourse, but I must beseech you to listen.”

I glanced at my watch; there was ample time; the meds could wait. Besides, I was lured by Solomon’s pronouncements of renewed memory. If he laid out a rational and realistic explanation why he did not require medication management for his mental disorders, I could argue on his behalf to request a medical review. Even though such a request was rare, I had the authority to intervene while he remained in my care.

“Very well then, Solomon, let’s go get some coffee. I’ll drop off the meds after we return.”

“Thank you. You are a kind man, Sal.” Solomon said, then he placed his hand on my shoulder. “I must beg a favor of you as well. I am in immediate need of a coachman and I should appreciate very much if you accept my appeal for assistance. Will you be my coachman, Salvatore?”

“Coachman? I’m afraid I don’t understand, Sal.” I ushered Solomon to my car. I preferred that the La Buena Refugio staff not see me take Solomon away before dropping off his meds.

“I need you to convey me in this vehicle of yours.”

“You need me to drive you somewhere?” I asked.

“Yes, I need you to drive me to Washington D.C. today.”

“Why do you want me to drive you to Washington D.C.?” I asked.

“The present circumstances make it necessary for me to see the Vice President of the United States as soon as possible. We must make haste and prepare for the journey today.”

If Solomon hoped to convince me that he did not need psychiatric medications and long term care, he was doing a poor job early into our talk. However, I promised to give him a fair opportunity to state his case however bizarre his case may be. Perhaps his delusional desire to see the Vice President had some connection to the very real meeting scheduled with the FBI later that day.

“You want me to drive you to see the Vice President of the United States,” I echoed.

“Yes, indeed I do, Sal. During my time of solitude yesterday I realized the purpose of this ingress, and how I became amnesiac. The present recalibrated ingress is crystal clear in my mind now, I tell you,” Solomon finished with added emphasis. “The Vice President must hear from me or there will be dire consequences,” Solomon’s tone was genuinely serious. I had no doubt that he believed everything he was saying to me. I decided to entertain his delusions rather than dispute them with reality testing.

“Before I agree to drive you to Washington D.C., can you at least explain to me what you mean by ingress and recalibrated ingress? I have been wondering about that ever since we first met.”

“I plan to explain everything to you in due course, Sal. If I say too much too soon, you will become deeply troubled, and I do not wish to bring psychological harm to a trusted one, however kind and dedicated they may be.” Solomon paused in thought. I remained silent, but I was intrigued by his concern for my psychological health. Perhaps this was mere psychological transference after years of him receiving psychiatric treatment. He continued abruptly. “I must ascertain your dedication to the success of this ingress. I have been forced to initiate secondary emergency protocols, hence my need to recruit you as my coachman. Normally we do not interfere with the bereft ones, but the situation has become grave. . . People you believe to be your allies are your enemies.”

Solomon made the last comment with such asseveration I felt momentarily afraid. After all, I was meeting FBI agents later that day. Were they my allies? I quickly dismissed the thought and urged Solomon to continue with his psychotic schemes. He appeared to briefly loose consciousness, as if he had lapsed into a stupor, his eyelids fluttered then he quickly regained his composure.

“Sal, we must continue our talk when we arrive at our destination.”

“Why, is something wrong?” I asked. I was concerned by Solomon’s sudden pallor.

“Something in your vehicle is transmitting on an anomalous frequency. Please, silence until we arrive at the coffee shop.” Solomon warned. I smiled, but Solomon maintained a confident attitude that almost betrayed his overt delusional behavior. I was tempted to administer his first dose of medications before returning to the shelter. Thankfully the alternative coffee shop I chose for Solomon was only a few minutes away.

“How do you know about the anomalous frequency,” I spoke in quiet tones to play along with his delusional theme.

Solomon reached for my hand and pulled it up to the back of his neck. He moved my fingers along an elongated protrusion along his hair line. Just then I recalled the examining physician’s photograph from Solomon’s medical file.

“What the heck is that?” I asked. Solomon put his finger over his mouth to gesture silence. I complied and we drove in silence.

When we exited my car, Solomon asked me to leave my cell phone behind. I continued to play along with his fantasy and left the phone in the car’s console. But I was very curious about the peculiar raised scar across the back of his neck.

“What is that thing on the back of your neck, Solomon?” I asked as we walked to the coffee shop entrance.

“I have a sub-dermal multiphase RF transceiver. I sensed a signal that was not proper for our locus. Do you know if someone would have cause to eavesdrop on your communications, Sal?”

“You have a what!?. . . Well, I have my cell phone, but. . . I think it was turned off.” I walked back to the car and confirmed the cell phone was shut off. “Solomon, is this a joke?” I asked.

Solomon leaned on my car, motionless. Then he backed away and studied the car for a few seconds. What happened next frightened me. He walked to the rear of the car, bent down, placed his hand underneath the left rear fender and pulled a magnetic circular device the size of a hockey puck off my car. I felt myself sinking into the ground with fear. Solomon held the device in his hand for me to see.

“There is a wireless audio component in the cabin of your vehicle that communicates with this device, Sal. I trust you did not install these instruments.”

The only explanation I had for this disturbing find was that the FBI must think I was important enough to be placed under surveillance because of my relationship with Solomon. Maybe the FBI was concerned for my safety. The entire scenario was outside my comfort zone in a big way. I must have appeared frightened; Solomon patted my back to console me.

“Solomon, I don’t know how you did that, but this kind of thing is beyond my everyday experience. What is going on? What have you done?”

“Let us sit together and share coffee. As I mentioned, my health improves and with it my memory. The details of this matter I shall bestow. Please let us go inside.”

We proceeded to purchase our coffee, and at Solomon’s request, sat in a secluded section of the coffee shop outside under some low hanging jasmine vines. The morning was cool and there was dampness on the floor tiles. The sun shined through fluffy clouds revealing snow covered peaks on the mountains behind Santa Barbara. A perfect winter morning, if only it felt perfect. I did not know where to begin our conversation so I just spoke whatever was on my mind at that very moment after we sat down.

“You were about to tell me what an ingress is while we were in the car. . .” I said.

“I have explained only the rudimentary elements of the present ingress, yes, and until we discuss the extent of your dedication, I will only tell you that the Vice President of the United States needs to receive information that will reorient an effectuated aberrant projection for this time period. The aberrant projection was deemed highly critical for reasons I do not know. I merely conduct the ingress through a series of systematic situational enablers until there is sufficient reason to cease. Then my work is complete.”

“Okay. . .” I nodded my head slowly, doubtfully, sinking ever deeper into a mindset of shocked and traumatized disbelief. Moreover, I did not have a clue as to what this man was talking about, and that made everything even worse.

“I can see that you are not yet prepared to dedicate yourself to this ingress. Therefore as a necessary contingency, I will offer you something that I believe will help you to consider acting as my coachman. I do not joke, Sal, and my mental acuity shall increase with each passing day. In a fortnight I shall be renewed to my former self. Your medicines will be wasted on me.”

“Please continue, Solomon. What do you want to offer me?” I asked. My forehead felt hot, and my heart beat faster than normal from nervous tension.

“Last night you received a precept, but the knowledge thereof was withheld from you. Do you wish to receive the knowledge given to you in the precept?” Solomon’s eyes were darker than I had ever seen dark eyes. I felt even more uncomfortable.

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Solomon.”

“Last night you received a tablet from a Lord, but you were prevented from reading the text upon this tablet. I can reveal that knowledge to you right now, Sal.”

My heart began to pound harder. My discomfort was waxing into a state of panic. I was not prepared for what was happening. Solomon suddenly clamped my hand in his.

“How the hell do you know about my dream last night? What are you doing, Solomon? What is this all about?” I rattled off in short order.

“Please, Salvatore, I beg you, be at ease. I only wish to bestow blessings upon you, my son. Do not mistake me for one who unleashes wrath to harm you.”

“Okay, okay, but you need to explain what this is all about.”

“Humans are experiencing a renaissance of knowledge unparalleled in history, I have seen it in the books and in my meditative visions of late. I believe great discoveries in human consciousness are on the cusp of this time period. I know you are aware of such things as extra sensory perception, telepathy, clairvoyance, dynamic dream consciousness and these kinds of phenomena.”

“Except for that last thing you mentioned, I know what these things are, yes, but they are not proven. That’s why they are only theoretical.”

“These things are proven or soon shall be, only I suspect the proof is being suppressed and ridiculed because this knowledge is too dangerous for some who live among us. To address dynamic dream consciousness, I gather from my readings that it is only recently being researched in science, and only in private places. Regardless, there are other people, very few mind you, who have mastered dynamic dream consciousness. They do not refer to it as dynamic dream consciousness, but give the practice their own unique names. You will find some of these masters among the Hindus, Buddhists and some Christian mystics, monks primarily. The mastery of this form of consciousness is liberating and powerful, and very, very difficult to comprehend and practice. Most people, including myself, for example, must practice an entire lifetime to become a master. Last night you were drawn into a sacred communion with a Lord through dynamic dream consciousness, Sal. We do not have much time to discuss the complexities of this phenomenon, but trust me when I say it is real and pure.”

“How do you know all this?” I asked.

“I said I cannot tell you everything all at once. What is more important right now is whether you desire to receive the knowledge held in the precept.”

“Yes, but how?” I said. My mind spun and my body trembled. I had the intuitive sense that a significant alteration in my destiny was occurring, but as yet I was rife with apprehension and bewilderment.

Solomon peered around our immediate seating area. We were in a private section of the coffee shop where no other patrons were present.

“Continue to hold my hand, Sal, and close your eyes. Be at peace. I will help you to receive the precept.” Solomon began to whistle softly while I sat with my eyes closed. I made every effort to relax under such unusual circumstances. What would my coworkers think of this, I asked myself incredulously. Solomon whistled. I tried to relax. I waited and recalled the dream. Then a tingling warmth spread across my entire body. I felt peaceful and unconcerned, the panic ebbed away effortlessly. Faint images appeared in my vision. These images grew more vivid. I no longer heard Solomon’s whistles. The images bright and clear, began to include sounds. I watched passively as if I were in a cinema. The clarity, color and sound were unlike anything I had ever known. A theme developed and carried through to a conclusion. Almost everything that was presented to me was unfamiliar and disconcerting. Then the images faded into a single point and vanished. I opened my eyes.

“You received the precept,” Solomon said. His facial expression revealed a peculiar mix of gladness and worry.

“Wow! That was unbelievable. How did you do that, Solomon? Holy s**t!”

“A topic for another time, my dear friend. Did you comprehend?”

“Yea, I think so. First there was a group of men in hooded white robes speaking to us in a room full of old books. Then there were many people and places, and you and I were on a plane, then we were talking to men in business suits. We became alarmed by these men and had to escape or something. I saw the U.S. capitol building, or maybe it was a state capitol building surrounded by armed police. For awhile we were separated, but then I saw mountains and someone with radio equipment in their house and we were back together, but you were injured. I saw Indians, Pueblo Indians from the U.S. Southwest I think they were, old men with brown, wrinkled faces, and cloudy eyes and also lots of red dust on the floor. And the strangest thing of all, in the end we were in a foreign land that had a greenish sky and weird plants, then the sun went down and everything went black.”

“This is a joyful moment for us, Salvatore, a joyful moment indeed.” Solomon grinned and laughed quietly.

“Joyful? I guess, more like amazing. But what does all this mean to me?”

“Do not think of the precept as a message with instructions that must be followed, but imagine it more as a script that you have yet to play out, as if you were an actor performing in a theater. And, Sal, always reflect back on the precept and vigorously intend to live the images as your real future unfolds.”

“Are you saying that all the things I saw are in the future?” I exclaimed.

“No, the future is not known, Sal, but given the proper sequence of psycho-associative quantum variables equated with modulated poly-spatial algorithms, one can construct marginally accurate future reference points. You witnessed the potential reference points. These points are the milestones toward which you must journey.”

“I see,” I said, even though I had no idea what he had just said. I was dazed.

“There is something more I will give you to help you consider your dedication to the success of this ingress.” Solomon again became serious.

“Should I be afraid,” I said. Solomon shook his head in the negative.

“During this period of revelation, it is common to experience severe dissonance. The revelations create conflict and anguish in all the bereft ones. We all suffer when the familiar schemas in which we live are erased and replaced. But hear me now, I must share a content from a precept I received yesterday while in solitude.”

“Bereft ones?” I mumbled.

“Nearly everyone who lives on earth, Salvatore.”

“Are you a bereft one?”

“No, and neither shall you be if you accept the revelations and dedicate yourself to this ingress. Please, dear trusted one, listen now to my precept,” Solomon paused. “Today you are to convene with two official lawmen of the United States federal government. Inherently good these men are. However, they lack knowledge of this ingress, and are ordered to obstruct my actions. Their superior officers intend to detain, torture and imprison me in perpetuity. They know not the folly their enterprise shall cause. These official lawmen cannot be allowed to obstruct me, Sal.”

I no longer had the capacity to remain seated. I stood up and signaled Solomon to walk with me. Too much nervous energy welled up inside me. Only a week ago I had felt discontent with the blandness of my life and wished for a change to reinvigorate my calling to help the poor and unfortunate of this world. Now I had a client adding so much spice to my life, I needed a remedy to return to the cool safety of my normal, uneventful routine.

“Wow! Tell me this really is a dream,” I said sarcastically. “Solomon, I must say you have left a powerful impression on me, especially with the psychic dream stuff and finding that surveillance equipment in my car. I am truly amazed. But how can I know for sure that you are not a terrorist or an escaped prisoner. You do understand that to admit that I believe what you are saying elicits an overwhelming feeling that I am going totally nuts. Not to mention that if I aid you in any way, and what you are saying is true, I may end up in jail with you.”

“Let us walk awhile. Walking is good for the heart and soul.” Solomon offered. “You have overcome many obstacles in your life, Sal. When we approach dangerous obstacles we naturally grow leery and daunted. You stand here before me today a courageous and successful man. Draw upon your courage to assist me. When we have completed the ingress, I shall see to it that you are accorded rewards equal to your labors.”

“Solomon, I hate to admit it, but I am actually starting to believe you, and that concerns me by no small degree. I don’t even know what to say, this is all overwhelming,” I said. “Tell me why you need to go find the Vice President. Why the Vice President of the United States, and let’s not forget the how? How do you ever expect to speak to the Vice President, Solomon. It’s impossible! You can’t just walk into the White House and sit down for coffee with the Vice President.”

“The details and reasons I shall permit you to know when we are underway. In the broadest sense, with all the variables taken into account, there is only one person who can reorient satisfactory future outcomes and prevent the potential cataclysms, and she is the Vice President.”

“What are you talking about? What future cataclysms, Solomon?”

“There is a convergence of, shall we say, international interests that must be altered. A precise formula has been generated by the Lords and must be carried out by me, and now, as a result of the recalibrated ingress, a recruited assistant, you. We must convene with the Vice President and help her to comprehend the imperative for obeying these precepts. These precepts have also been sanctioned by the Overlords. The ingress must succeed. Failure must not be discussed. The cataclysms must not be discussed until completion of the ingress. We absolutely must remain steadfast in our adherence to the precepts handed to us. Our consciousness cannot be tainted or influenced by thoughts of failure of the ingress. In this way, we shall create the best atmosphere for the prevention of the cataclysms and avert the realization of failure. Do you comprehend, Sal?”

“I think so. . . not really, but the way this day is going, I’m not sure it really matters.” I said, exasperated. “Who are these Lords and Overlords you keep on mentioning? What are they, ex-corporate CEOs hiding in tropical tax havens, or bearded, robe wearing wizards living in the mountains?”

“I can tell you that the Lords generate and direct the precepts which are instituted to guide worldwide future outcomes for the benefit of all living things. The Overlords sanction the precepts that are generated. I do not think it possible to answer who the Overlords are. The question is meaningless. However, some of the Lords have been like you and me.”

“What do you mean, meaningless, why can’t you tell me who these Overlords are? Are they religious clerics living in caves? Do they wear strange clothing and smoke weed out of water pipes? Who are they, Solomon? Don’t you think I should know who is instructing you to go on these wild adventures, especially when you want me to go with you?”

“Salvatore, you shall comprehend all truth in time, but not all truth in one day.” Solomon said this to me somewhat pedagogically and smiled as he patted my back in a fatherly manner. I guessed Solomon to be approximately 50 years old, some 17 years my senior, so I was feeling a natural inclination to demonstrate a measure of respect to Solomon given his seniority. Moreover, the idea that he was my client was irrevocably evaporating before my eyes. Solomon, in spite of his outlandish nature, seemed sagacious and wise. As we walked, I was actually giving serious thought to taking vacation time off from work and driving Solomon to Washington D.C. just to see how the whole unbelievable affair would come to pass. Then I thought of the meeting with the FBI agents.

“Solomon, are you a fugitive, a wanted man?” I asked.

“I have committed no crime, nor have I been charged with an offense against the laws of the United States of America.”

“Why does the FBI want to talk to me then? And what’s behind my car being bugged?”

“As I alluded previously, I have seen in the precepts many honorable, yet deceived souls who follow a pervasively corrupted leadership. There are only a small number of people who are aware of my presence. They are uncertain about the totality of my aims, but they know much about the extent of my means, and this concerns them. They will be dogged in their attempt to take me into their custody. At this moment you are their only key to my locus. Furthermore, I am afraid that our discussion in your bugged car has revealed critical macro scale information about the ingress.”

“Locus? Macro scale information?” I asked quickly.

“Operational control and positional integrity. Macro scale information: the FBI knows I need to convene with the Vice President. They know I am traveling to Washington D.C.” Solomon answered like a cool, calculating special forces soldier. I felt a chill run up my back. Underneath Solomon’s courteous, amicable character I sensed a disciplined, keenly intelligent, extremely physically fit, militarily savvy man, an attribute that had previously remained unseen.

“Solomon, are you sure you are not some kind of highly trained covert ops terrorist type of guy, masterminding some terrible plot against the United States with weapons of mass destruction? You can tell me. Remember, I am a trusted one.” I added the last statement in hopes to convince Solomon I was trustworthy enough to know his true motives.

“You wear the ring of the trusted ones, and you try to live the life of a trusted one, but you are as yet effectively removed from their influences, thus uninitiated into their ways. I see this now that my mind becomes clearer.” Solomon explained. “My intentions are to uphold the sanctity of life, instill a greater peace, impart profound wisdom, and witness the flourishing of the cardinal virtues. I live to do the sacred bidding of the Overlords. Terrorism and violence are quintessentially incongruous to everything I am. Terrorism and its causal antecedents are among the evil stains I have come to remove from this world.”

“I see.” A proper response failed to formulate in my mind.

Solomon lifted his arm to scratch his head and I saw a small portion of his tattoo. I had temporarily forgotten his tattoos and the mystery surrounding them.

“Solomon, even though I can’t prove you are being truthful, I feel as though you are a good person and I want to believe you.” I said. “Now that your memory has miraculously improved, have you been able to recall anything new about your tattoos?”

Solomon’s facial expression became subtly pained and he looked away from me silent for a moment. This topic, I noticed, struck him deeply, but I believed it weighed significantly on the present circumstances.

“I know we have spoken of this already, Sal. I have told you that the insignia are unique to the person who carries them on their body. I have borne these insignia with immense honor and some remorse from the earliest days of my existence in the land of Kish. That was an era of grand nobility and paradisiacal innocence, today only spoken of in lecture halls, museums and books. And. . .”

“Solomon, I am sorry, but I cannot accept that you are a king from some ancient civilization who is over 4000 years old, I just can’t. I don’t know what happened to you before we met, and granted, there are a lot of weird things going on since we met, but the whole Etana thing is too much for me to believe.” I argued. The day was only beginning and I had experienced more emotion and consternation than in an entire month of my regular life. My brain pulsed with activity as I tried to make sense of everything. The thought of traveling to Washington D.C. excited me, and it scared the hell out of me too. Was Solomon a master conman or a genuine soldier of good will? If I decided to drive him, what would happen if the FBI caught me? Maybe after the meeting in the afternoon I could ask my director for vacation time. I needed a break after this trying period, and I had accrued over three weeks of paid vacation time.

We walked into a neighborhood park where children ran and played while their mothers looked on. Solomon seemed to express joy at the sight of this simple, yet timeless scene. A child kicked a ball next to us. Solomon picked up the ball and threw it back to the child. He smiled and laughed, a hearty laugh that evoked a few chuckles from me too.

“All the blessed children. Each a little miracle and possessed with the seed of tremendous goodness. How do some of them grow to become the destroyers of worlds?’ Solomon said, ending his words in a muffled whisper. I just stared at him and conjectured.

We came to a bench that offered a view of the Pacific ocean in the distance. Solomon beckoned me to sit.

“Salvatore, if you please, listen to my words with mindful discernment. I wish to speak of this subject only once, for our time is scarcer as each minute passes.” Solomon cleared his throat and leaned forward on the bench closer to me. “I offer you a new vocation, Salvatore, the likes of which the great seers of this world only catch glimpses in their visions and dreams. I ask you to fulfill a simple task, to drive me in your car to Washington D.C. What seems a great favor that I ask in this finite moment of time is merely the beginning of a limitless vocation that can span vast epochs and preserve the welfare of all life on earth, a vocation that you committed to many years ago, yet only in the limited aspect of a community social worker here in Santa Barbara, California. I appeal to you in good faith with solemn devotion and utmost earnestness. You are the one in seven billion people living on earth to receive the offer I now present. Accept my offer, dedicate yourself to the divine preeminence of the Overlords, and follow me beyond Washington D.C. and to the completion of this ingress.” Solomon paused and searched my eyes as if to gain an insight into my thoughts.

“Salvatore, the truth I shall speak to you. I am Etana. . . I was Etana, the Sumerian king who united the divers lands and people; Etana, the king who flew atop the eagle into the heavens to beget an anointed son, the royal son whose charge it was to carry on the augmented life line that developed and evolved into the culmination of magnificent births in future periods.”

“Okay, fine, even though I’m not one hundred percent convinced, I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt, you are Etana. God help me. . .” I took several breaths before trying to utter a rational thought. “Who or what are these births? This sounds like some kind of genetic engineering. If you are, or were, a Sumerian king, why do you look as though you are only fifty years old, and a young fifty at that?” I asked. My state of mind at that moment was pitiful. My notion of the future was beginning to blur, and my anxiety increased as I began to give Solomon credibility. I suddenly realized I needed solitude and open space. I conducted a rapid appraisal of the circumstances and decided the conversation needed to end so I could try to press forward the best way possible with the days plans.

“Forget I asked that, it doesn’t matter. I think we ought to get going, Solomon. I have other clients to visit this morning and I have that meeting after lunch with the FBI agents.” I said, and rose to leave.

Solomon remained seated. He peered at me with questioning eyes. His facial expressions were often difficult to gauge.

“Aren’t you coming, Solomon?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed I am, Sal.”

We walked in silence to my car. Solomon produced the surveillance device from his pocket once we were seated. Impulsively I tossed the object into the back seat and forgot about it. We returned to La Buena Refugio, and I delivered Solomon’s medications. Afterwards, Solomon accompanied me outside as I went back to my car to leave for my next appointment.

“Sal, my departure from La Buena Refugio is imminent. My well being shall be compromised if I sojourn here any longer. I trust you shall make your decision before the sun sets this very day. Please consider the immensity of what stands before you.”

“Where are you going, you shouldn’t leave the shelter, Solomon?” I pleaded.

“Where do you suggest I go when I depart La Buena Refugio?”

“Ah crap, I don’t know. Why don’t you walk to the coffee shop, the first one we went to yesterday, and we can talk more after I finish work at 4 o’clock this afternoon.”

“Very well then, Sal. You can deliver your decision then.” He smiled as if he held a secret, some piece of intimate knowledge privy to his mind only, perhaps a vision from one of those precepts. Did he know that I very well may decide to help him? Did I even know? My mind required clarity and peace.

“I’ll see you later if I’m not carried off in a gray van and thrown into a government dungeon in an undisclosed location.” I said, and left hastily.

As soon as I was away from La Buena Refugio I immediately called my next client and canceled our scheduled meeting. In my present state I was in no condition to concentrate on the needs of others. The canceled meeting and subsequent lunch hour gave me plenty of time to mentally prepare for the meeting with the FBI agents. While that thought was in my mind, the cell phone rang, a blocked number. I answered the call.

“Hello, is this Mr. Salvatore Retter?” A man with an unfamiliar voice asked politely.

“Yes, who may I ask is calling?”

“I’m field investigator Will Hunt from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Los Angeles office, how are you today, sir?”

“Doing great, what can I do for you?” I lied, I was not doing great at all.

“I’m calling to confirm our meeting today at 1pm. Are you able to meet us?”

“Yes, of course, I had intended to meet with you as planned.” I said. “If I may ask, could you tell me the reason for this meeting, I mean why are you interested in this client I have ? As you probably already know, the FBI typically does not ask for meetings with the average community social worker and their clients,” I laughed nervously.

“Well, you are not in any kind of trouble, but we do need to ask you a few routine questions about your client, Solomon Etana. Your data entry into LegalNetUS triggered a red flag on our end, so we are simply responding. You shouldn’t have anything to worry about. This is a standard procedure.”

“Is this man dangerous?” I felt compelled to ask.

“We have no reason to believe your client is a threat to anyone, but we will discuss these things in the meeting.”

“Okay, well I will definitely be waiting for you at my office. So, I guess we’ll see each other at 1pm then.”

“Yes, very good, Mr. Retter. See you then.”

I stopped at a liquor store to purchase a 40 ounce bottle of Colt 45. Then I proceeded to a secluded beach on the north end of Santa Barbara to find the open space and peaceful solitude I desperately needed. I removed my shoes and walked barefoot in the sand. Pelicans flew effortlessly on air currents along the water’s edge. I walked and searched for a suitable place to sit alone. At last a flat boulder provided a decent seat with a pleasant view of ocean surf coursing onto sand. The endless roar of crashing water soothed my beleaguered senses. The malt liquor was my nepenthe. I sought nothingness. From the fecund ground of nothingness I hoped to discover a tiny blossom of meaning.

Dream images of the enigmatic Lord flashed in my mind’s eye. The desert sands again swirled around my naked legs. I beheld the stone tablet handed to me by the shrouded Lord and comprehended the series of events that followed, the precepts as Solomon called them. Was this really to be my future? Or had I fallen for an elaborate trick by a mentally ill genius who had escaped from one of California’s locked facilities for the insane? I focused my attention on the eternal rhythm of the waves and allowed the ocean to drown my thoughts back to nothingness, not the nihilistic nothingness of misguided neophytes, but the profound nothingness propounded by Indian sages and Christian mystics of ages past. Somewhere in the deep, dark void of unconscious mysteries a seed readied to germinate. I looked at my watch. I had time. I could wait.

Author's Note

First 2 chapters. Entire work on Amazon.