“Of course, you know that nothing he tells you is true,
right?”
He had arrived on time.
He was always on time because, like me, he was very precise. He was a man interested in formulas and
organization and Divine Law.
“I know.”
“But you’re going anyway, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“You could come with me,” he said bitterly.
“I know, and someday I will, but there is still work for
me to do.”
“Work?”
“Yes. The people
are lost.”
“The people are always lost!” Now he was angry, but I am used to that.
It’s a funny thing.
The game masters try to plan for everything, but somehow there’s always
a weak link in the system, a spot that has been overlooked. They never thought the mirror would
crack. Every time the people had looked
into the mirror and inquired, “Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest
one of all,” the mirror had always responded, “You are.” Then it would pull them in further and fill
their minds with fear, terrorizing them in their stupor. Fear of illness, fear of death, fear of life,
fear of others . . . constant fear paralyzing them. But now the mirror had unexpectedly cracked.
Of course, most people would remain oblivious: Sweet mirror, pretty mirror, pet the mirror,
kiss the mirror. Whisper to the mirror, “I
love you.” And the cracked mirror
whispers back, “You are, you are, you are,” like a broken record. Over and over, a broken response. A weak link in the system, a glitch in the
programming. We now return you to your regularly scheduled program . . .
But there are some who have awoken from a deep and
drugged slumber. They are shaking their
heads and rubbing their eyes, confused at the cracked black mirror before them. They wonder to themselves, how long have I been here? Nothing looks familiar. They put the mirror down. They are looking beyond it now, and like the
woman in the house in our previous story, they balk at the crumbling foundation
of their existence.
Hollywood is dead.
The tinsel is all rusted. Its
clowns have lost their makeup and shown their ugly faces. But still their broken record repeats, Step right up to the greatest show on Earth,
folks! And the moths fly to the
flame because that is their nature, to burn.
They fight in line for their chance to burn. Who is
the fairest one of all?
“So you would throw all of my gifts away?” he asked,
bitter again.
“Not throw away.
Just delay.”
“Pah!” he spat.
“The sun grows stronger,” I said, “It’s time to try
again.” His eyes were murderous. We had agreed never to speak of the Sun King,
but some things cannot be helped.
“The people need him now more than ever,” I said.
“Go and help then,” he said with stone cold eyes, “But
remember our agreement. I will see you
back here when your Sun King fails and the world turns to ice again.”
“I will be here when the Shadow of Death returns,” I said
simply.
I stood up and left.
I did not turn around, but I could feel his eyes boring a hole through
me as I walked. The season of light
returns with a new shadowy player, courtesy of the game masters.
The mirror has been cracked. The secrets have poured out into broad
daylight, into the sunshine. The
foundations of our homes, of our nations have crumbled but are not yet in
complete ruin. We can pick up the plow,
the hoe, the seed, and the scythe, and we can start again. That’s the thing about living outside of the
black mirror with its shiny distracting lights and dark poison, we can always start again
because hope truly does spring eternal.
Now we say goodbye to March and warily welcome in a most
uncertain April. Revolution is
afoot. There is always a weak spot in
the force field.
