Produced by Jonathan Dunn
THE
REVOLUTIONS
OF
TIME
By Jonathan Dunn
Note to the reader: The manuscript for this book was found in a
weather-beaten stone box on an island in the Pacific Ocean. Its contents
were written in an ancient form of Latin, which was translated and
edited by Jonathan Dunn.
Dedicated to Bernibus,
amicus certus in re incerta cernitur.
Table of Contents:
Chapter 1: Past and Present
Chapter 2: Predestined Deja Vu
Chapter 3: Zards and Canitaurs
Chapter 4: Onan, Lord of the Past
Chapter 5: The Treeway
Chapter 6: The Fiery Lake
Chapter 7: Down to Nunami
Chapter 8: The Temple of Time
Chapter 9: Mutually Assured Deception
Chapter 10: Devolution
Chapter 11: The Land Across the Sea
Chapter 12: The White Eagle
Chapter 13: The Big Bang
Chapter 14: Past and Future
...The very men who claimed mental superiority because they were free
from superstitions and divine disillusionment were themselves victims of
their own sophism, and while they thought themselves crowned with
enlightenment, it was naught but the Phrygian caps of their prejudices
toward the material state.
--Jehu, the Kinsman Redeemer
The physical manifestation of the spiritual force is not the spiritual
force at all, only a bland deception. If you only focus on what you can
see directly, than you chase after only the representation and not the
object desired. If a bird is flying through the sky at noontime, casting
a shadow on the ground below him, and a man comes along, and in the hope
of catching the bird chases after its shadow, it is evident that he will
never catch it, for when he does reach it, he will find that there is
nothing there at all, only the shadow of what it was he desired. So it
is 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 give
character to a name. It is a harsh name, cold and inhuman, like
something out of the night, an unwelcome intruder into the warmth of
familiarity. It inspires no blissful memories, nor does it kindle fond
feelings in the bosom of the hearer, instead the heart is hardened to it
like the feathers of a duck to water, repulsing it, leaving it to run
off into the ditches and by-ways of the long forgotten past, to trickle
dejectedly into those stagnant ponds where so many words of wisdom are
imprisoned: out of sight, out of mind, out of heart, out of history. Yet
while history is forgotten and misconstrued, it is repeated, for what is
life without water, which nourishes and sustains it, and what is life
without wisdom, which protects and cultivates it?
Jehu is my name, though it no longer brings the quickened pulse and keen
anticipation of happiness to the hearts of any, not even my own. For
what deference can be given to a name, though not in itself a thing of
dishonor, which represents the failure to derail the evitable fate which
wrecks the race of man again and again. Not that I myself embody such a
failure, nor even that I gave birth to the dreaded fate's latest
momentum, but as is seen time and again throughout history, one name is
brought to represent the tide of change, for better or worse, the doer
of 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, I
will always be fingered as the villain, as the ambitious Napoleon or the
barbaric Atilla, the arrogant Augustus or the fearful Cyrus. Someone has
to bear the burden of shame on the pages of history for the people of
his time, and in that sense, maybe I truly can be called their kinsman
redeemer. Perhaps it is my fate to bear witness to the wrongs of a
people, of which even you are not wholly innocent.
And yet can an individual be blamed for the faults of a society, can
personal responsibility be extended to the members of an unknown
multitude? How the enjoined conscience of one longs to say no, but in
good faith it cannot be said, for in this case the mask of ignorance
cannot supersede the face of guilt. Indeed, ignorance in this case only
adds to the shame of the guilty, this being a crime not of misdeeds but
of negligence, twisted together with the vices of humanity into a thick
and sturdy cord, a rope that cannot be pulled apart and individually
examined, yet must be taken as a whole. Insularly, the strand of
ignorance 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 two
of the strands were omitted, the result would be a feeble rope, easily
broken, and we would live. But by our own vices is our mortality made
manifest, by our own wrongs are we wronged.
By now you may be beginning to feel the impulses of indignation arising
in your breast, for who am I, the admittedly despicable Jehu, to group
you as my fellow convicts, my co-conspirators, in a sense? And you are
right, 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 and
discontinue reading.
"Surely," you say to yourself, "He is mentally deranged, for what author
in his right mind would encourage his readers to disperse, what writer
does 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 been
found, then I have long since been dead; and I assure you that in
whatever form my existence takes in the present, I have little desire
for your intrigue or goodwill. Do you think Melville is consoled in
death of his miserable life by the vainglorious praises of the living?
Or do you think that Poe is comforted by such avid attentions in his
present abode? In truth, Melville's only rivalry is now within, and
Poe's only raven that daunting memory of those truths which had escaped
him in life, but which now are opened to you.
More importantly, if this manuscript has been found, it proves that what
is contained herein is the unerring truth. I do not write this to
exonerate myself, however let me say here that I am more the Andre' than
the Arnold, for I was but the emissary of history, not the traitor to
humanity, and if not me then some other would have filled the void. Let
it be remembered that it was Andre' who gave his life for his deeds, and
yet it is Andre' who is recollected with a sweet sorrow, and though
Arnold lived, he had no peace. Yet while history is vivid and
encyclopedic, in itself a living organism, it can speak only through the
mouths of men, who often misrepresent it for their own partisan and
prejudiced plans. It is strong and steadfast, though, and in time is
always victorious over its menial opposition, for what is history but
the past tense of truth, and it is justly said that veritas numquam
perit, truth never dies.
Going back to what I said before, namely that at my manuscript's
discovery my demise will itself be history: I am assured that such is
true, for even now as I write this my death is near at hand. How wide
the abyss of time that separates us is I cannot tell, but I do know that
it 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 speaking
directly to you, despite all of the desolation between our times. That
is what makes history an organic being, and by history I mean all of the
past, or all of the future, depending on your viewpoint.
A book is a connection between times and peoples, more so than any other
medium. As I put these words down in writing, it is as if I am imparting
my very self into the pages. And as you read them, the name Jehu slowly
forms into an image, into a personality, and from the empty word Jehu
comes the great well of affection springing from a personal intimacy. A
book is an enigma in which no time exists, and as it is read it brings
the reader into its eternal being, for while it sits closed on a shelf
it is no more than a forgotten memory, yet when it is opened its
contents come to life and its characters and locations are once more
existent in the same state as when they were written, the story becomes
once more reality.
While I have long been deceased, when you read this I am brought to life
once more, and with my rebirth I tell you my story, and make known to
you the truths contained therein. The words of this book are a rune
gate, a portal to the past, and as you read them, your present fades
away and you are drawn into my present, this very moment in which I now
write. Then you connect with me intimately, and for a brief time the
gulf of mortality is transcended and the depths of my being are laid
open to you. We commune together and you eat of my flesh and drink of my
blood, merging your existence with mine.
Come to me now, my friend, come to me across the gulf of mortality, for
I await you. Come, and in your spiritual peregrination meet with me, in
this land of the past which is so foreign and unfamiliar to you, but
which will become for a time your home. Come to me, my friend, and let
me tell you my story.