The Revolutions of Time Read online

  Produced by Jonathan Dunn

  THEREVOLUTIONSOFTIME

  By Jonathan Dunn

  Note to the reader: The manuscript for this book was found in aweather-beaten stone box on an island in the Pacific Ocean. Its contentswere written in an ancient form of Latin, which was translated andedited by Jonathan Dunn.

  Dedicated to Bernibus,amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.

  Table of Contents:Chapter 1: Past and PresentChapter 2: Predestined Deja VuChapter 3: Zards and CanitaursChapter 4: Onan, Lord of the PastChapter 5: The TreewayChapter 6: The Fiery LakeChapter 7: Down to NunamiChapter 8: The Temple of TimeChapter 9: Mutually Assured DeceptionChapter 10: DevolutionChapter 11: The Land Across the SeaChapter 12: The White EagleChapter 13: The Big BangChapter 14: Past and Future

  ...The very men who claimed mental superiority because they were freefrom superstitions and divine disillusionment were themselves victims oftheir own sophism, and while they thought themselves crowned withenlightenment, it was naught but the Phrygian caps of their prejudicestoward the material state.

  --Jehu, the Kinsman Redeemer

  The physical manifestation of the spiritual force is not the spiritualforce at all, only a bland deception. If you only focus on what you cansee directly, than you chase after only the representation and not theobject desired. If a bird is flying through the sky at noontime, castinga shadow on the ground below him, and a man comes along, and in the hopeof catching the bird chases after its shadow, it is evident that he willnever catch it, for when he does reach it, he will find that there isnothing there at all, only the shadow of what it was he desired. So itis with the spiritual!

  --Onan, Lord of the Past

  Chapter 1: Past and Present

  My name is Jehu. Most probably it sounds foreign and unfamiliar to you,devoid of the qualities of affection and personality which givecharacter to a name. It is a harsh name, cold and inhuman, likesomething out of the night, an unwelcome intruder into the warmth offamiliarity. It inspires no blissful memories, nor does it kindle fondfeelings in the bosom of the hearer, instead the heart is hardened to itlike the feathers of a duck to water, repulsing it, leaving it to runoff into the ditches and by-ways of the long forgotten past, to trickledejectedly into those stagnant ponds where so many words of wisdom areimprisoned: out of sight, out of mind, out of heart, out of history. Yetwhile history is forgotten and misconstrued, it is repeated, for what islife without water, which nourishes and sustains it, and what is lifewithout wisdom, which protects and cultivates it?

  Jehu is my name, though it no longer brings the quickened pulse and keenanticipation of happiness to the hearts of any, not even my own. Forwhat deference can be given to a name, though not in itself a thing ofdishonor, which represents the failure to derail the evitable fate whichwrecks the race of man again and again. Not that I myself embody such afailure, nor even that I gave birth to the dreaded fate's latestmomentum, but as is seen time and again throughout history, one name isbrought to represent the tide of change, for better or worse, the doerof deeds which were done not by him, but by a mass of independent doers,yet it is written in the annals of history as the deeds of but one man.

  While I had little to do, consciously, with the doom of the earth, Iwill always be fingered as the villain, as the ambitious Napoleon or thebarbaric Atilla, the arrogant Augustus or the fearful Cyrus. Someone hasto bear the burden of shame on the pages of history for the people ofhis time, and in that sense, maybe I truly can be called their kinsmanredeemer. Perhaps it is my fate to bear witness to the wrongs of apeople, of which even you are not wholly innocent.

  And yet can an individual be blamed for the faults of a society, canpersonal responsibility be extended to the members of an unknownmultitude? How the enjoined conscience of one longs to say no, but ingood faith it cannot be said, for in this case the mask of ignorancecannot supersede the face of guilt. Indeed, ignorance in this case onlyadds to the shame of the guilty, this being a crime not of misdeeds butof negligence, twisted together with the vices of humanity into a thickand sturdy cord, a rope that cannot be pulled apart and individuallyexamined, yet must be taken as a whole. Insularly, the strand ofignorance could be easily snapped, remedied by but a little education,yet when woven together by one's own hands with prides and prejudices,it forms an unbreakable rope, which is placed about our neck to hang us:through means of our own doing is our fate foretold. If but one or twoof the strands were omitted, the result would be a feeble rope, easilybroken, and we would live. But by our own vices is our mortality mademanifest, by our own wrongs are we wronged.

  By now you may be beginning to feel the impulses of indignation arisingin your breast, for who am I, the admittedly despicable Jehu, to groupyou as my fellow convicts, my co-conspirators, in a sense? And you areright, for I am not your judge and neither do I wish to be.

  Having said that, I now request of you to put down the book anddiscontinue reading.

  "Surely," you say to yourself, "He is mentally deranged, for what authorin his right mind would encourage his readers to disperse, what writerdoes not thrive on the digestion of his words by an eager audience?"

  Here I must make a revelation to you: if my manuscript has indeed beenfound, then I have long since been dead; and I assure you that inwhatever form my existence takes in the present, I have little desirefor your intrigue or goodwill. Do you think Melville is consoled indeath of his miserable life by the vainglorious praises of the living?Or do you think that Poe is comforted by such avid attentions in hispresent abode? In truth, Melville's only rivalry is now within, andPoe's only raven that daunting memory of those truths which had escapedhim in life, but which now are opened to you.

  More importantly, if this manuscript has been found, it proves that whatis contained herein is the unerring truth. I do not write this toexonerate myself, however let me say here that I am more the Andre' thanthe Arnold, for I was but the emissary of history, not the traitor tohumanity, and if not me then some other would have filled the void. Letit be remembered that it was Andre' who gave his life for his deeds, andyet it is Andre' who is recollected with a sweet sorrow, and thoughArnold lived, he had no peace. Yet while history is vivid andencyclopedic, in itself a living organism, it can speak only through themouths of men, who often misrepresent it for their own partisan andprejudiced plans. It is strong and steadfast, though, and in time isalways victorious over its menial opposition, for what is history butthe past tense of truth, and it is justly said that veritas numquamperit, truth never dies.

  Going back to what I said before, namely that at my manuscript'sdiscovery my demise will itself be history: I am assured that such istrue, for even now as I write this my death is near at hand. How widethe abyss of time that separates us is I cannot tell, but I do know thatit is beyond the reckoning of men, such an unknown barrage of hollow,formless years. Yet as you read this it is as if I were speakingdirectly to you, despite all of the desolation between our times. Thatis what makes history an organic being, and by history I mean all of thepast, or all of the future, depending on your viewpoint.

  A book is a connection between times and peoples, more so than any othermedium. As I put these words down in writing, it is as if I am impartingmy very self into the pages. And as you read them, the name Jehu slowlyforms into an image, into a personality, and from the empty word Jehucomes the great well of affection springing from a personal intimacy. Abook is an enigma in which no time exists, and as it is read it bringsthe reader into its eternal being, for while it sits closed on a shelfit is no more than a forgotten memory, yet when it is opened itscontents come to life and its characters and locations are once moreexistent in the same state as when they were written, the story becomesonce more reality.

  While
I have long been deceased, when you read this I am brought to lifeonce more, and with my rebirth I tell you my story, and make known toyou the truths contained therein. The words of this book are a runegate, a portal to the past, and as you read them, your present fadesaway and you are drawn into my present, this very moment in which I nowwrite. Then you connect with me intimately, and for a brief time thegulf of mortality is transcended and the depths of my being are laidopen to you. We commune together and you eat of my flesh and drink of myblood, merging your existence with mine.

  Come to me now, my friend, come to me across the gulf of mortality, forI await you. Come, and in your spiritual peregrination meet with me, inthis land of the past which is so foreign and unfamiliar to you, butwhich will become for a time your home. Come to me, my friend, and letme tell you my story.

  Chapter 2: Predestined Deja Vu