ONE

And it came to pass that the journeys of Micah, he descended from the great prophet of old, took him into the mountains of legends. As long as he could remember, the mountains had been the source of extraordinary tales, and in the calling of his work, such stories could not be permitted to endure.
Towering pinnacles of stone, the mountains formed the horizon to the North of the land of his birth and it was said a strange group of people dwelled within a rich meadow near the tallest peak. These unusual people, said the legends, worshipped a god of their own invention, and so Micah had jotted the place within his mental itinerary of sites to be blessed by his holy ministry. Only now, when he had been called to preach to the masses of the great city beyond the mountains, had the occasion arisen. This time, he had decided, he would not take the long route around the mountains but would labor to their heights and enroute, bless the people of the legend with the holy words of truth.
When he had climbed past the foothills, he cast his eyes upward to the needled peaks. Soon he would enter the deep forests that abounded upon the mountains and in the reservoir of his enormous faith, he knew he would encounter the meadow and be guided to the site of the homes where the fabled pagans lived. His faith formed the strength of each step and his staff dug deeply into the soft earth of the mountain in his sacred quest. When his breath grew labored and sweat gathered upon his brow, he did as any good messenger would do and prayed for strength. Knowing that it had been given, he felt his steps stronger and became more certain that his destination was near at hand.
Soon, he was past the vantage point of looking back into the deep valleys of his homeland and since he knew his surroundings as only a wilderness, he formed his thoughts about the great wanderings of the chosen ones of old. If their faith could endure for forty years, surely his small effort was justly asked of him and he laughed aloud at his weariness and lengthened his steps to demonstrate the endless volume of his belief.
Dusk came more quickly in the mountains. The peaks stole the rays of the sun earlier than in the lower, level places. Micah took this to mean that a dark foreboding was upon him. His lips moved slightly as he recited the Twenty-third Psalm and he thrust his staff deeper into the earth, leaning heavily upon it with each step. He would not relent, he promised, for he was in the blessed state of his holy service and that alone permitted no compromise with the flesh.
Had he not been so dedicated, Micah would have marveled at the sight encountered as he crested a hill leading toward the highest summit of the mountains. He had squinted into the dim beginnings of night for a long while, but when he climbed to the hill, he widened his eyes with the first vision of the village. Yet, he did not find wonder in its beauty, but viewed it only as a destination teeming with evil.
A small collection of houses, no more than twenty, rested on each side of a narrow street that began and ended with the first and last house. A street that began and ended without meaning or destination. More curious than anything he had seen was that the village had been captured by a great shaft of sunlight knifing through the pinnacles and stood in a glorious glow while the rest of the terrain was lost in darkness. Knowing that it was impossible for the place to be so revered by the Creator of the sun itself, he reasoned that the phenomena could only mean that it was the site of his destination and it had been illuminated as a divine omen of his mission. Still, he thought it very strange, but kept the humility of knowing he would never be worthy of understanding matters that were holy in nature.
Through the waist-high grasses he entered the meadow and into the great circle of sunlight and smiled with the sight of a butterfly pausing above a magnificent flower. God’s creatures were all appreciated by the purity of Micah. Through the lush, abundant grasses he walked, growing nearer to the mysterious village and the work demanded of him.
The houses were of bright colors, all hues of pink, blue, green, yellow, and a gentle amber. Had they not been occupied by those mired in idolatry, thought Micah, they would be quite lovely. Shutters were hinged at each window and brilliant flowers transplanted from the rich meadow blossomed from long boxes below the squared cavities of the windows. Thatched roofs were radically sloped, obviously as a safeguard from the heavy snows of the long winters, and as Micah stepped upon the beginning of the street, he was suddenly aware of an odd difference. Unlike cobbled streets of his homeland, these did not probe deep into his sandals, bringing pain to his weary feet. His eyes surveyed the street and he found each stone to be of exacting size and elevation, as if placed with special attention to uniformity, each being compatible and akin to the next.
Equally confusing to Micah was that none of the villagers expressed surprise with the sight of a stranger entering their domain. Kindly glances were cast in his direction, but nothing more. The woman sweeping dust from her threshold nodded politely and returned to her labor. A man carrying the long wooden paddle of a baker granted a warm smile, but entered his shop without a word. Even a child, playing boisterously with a leopard kitten taken from a mountain lair, only lifted his eyes briefly and then returned to his activity as if the occasion of a visitor was not new to this hidden village so deep within the bowels of the great mountains.
Micah´s steps slowed as he surrendered to his curiosity. Never had he entered a strange place and been received with such indifference. He peered into the few shops that embroidered the narrow street and saw the people there, happy and industrious. Even when proprietors glanced up to capture his inquisitive eyes, they only nodded a greeting and returned to their tasks or conversations. As busy as they appeared, none of it was done with a sense of urgency and Micah was confused that everyone moved at the same pace, regardless of their activity, as if nothing was dictated by schedule.
Through his inspection of the village, he sensed a gnawing awareness that some basic ingredient of his surroundings was escaping his attention. There was some common factor that was too apparent to be noticed. He frowned deeply with the thought and turned to look back over his course, wondering what it might have been that he failed to note. His finger pressed against his bearded chin with thought and he strained to create an inventory of each sight, seeking a solution to that secret he felt ever-present about him. The houses seemed perfectly natural, well kept and pleasant. The design of the village was precise and functional although the street perplexed him. Streets should have extensions giving access from other villages or routes toward the distant valleys, but this narrow artery seemed to serve only the village itself and he could not resist the impression that it was indeed meaningless and without any greater purpose. The people certainly appeared unusual, but only in the fact that they neither welcomed nor rejected a stranger in their midst. No, it was something more than any of these that so troubled him.
It was when an old woman opened the door of her home to shake out a small rug woven from lamb’s wool that Micah realized the oddity he had sought. His eyes darted about to each structure he had passed and he returned to the large window of the potter’s shop to confirm his discovery. Yes. There, mounted on the wall in a position of great esteem was a large, ornate object of unusual design. A pendulum hung from the strange device, swinging with infinite precision and the face of the instrument, adorned with two arrows, was mounted within intricate carvings of woodland scenes. The heavy oak casing was a marvel of craftsmanship, each detail revealed with the obvious attention of an artist. A great love had been dedicated to the creation of the object, and Micah again searched his memory to determine if ever before he had seen such a mechanism before walking briskly to another window of yet another shop.
At each window, he encountered more of the contraptions, each large and beautiful, all measuring some unknown quantity with a patient precision. These were not merely mechanisms, he knew, for from them hung weights fashioned from gold and the faces held twelve numbers formed from silver. Priceless jewels could be seen in settings throughout the various carvings of the cases, and those depicting miniature houses displayed roofs of jade.
These, he reasoned, must be people of great wealth. In their solitude of idolatry they had concentrated their treasure only among themselves and felt no hesitation to display it openly. From the mountains they must have extracted gold and silver and discovered hoards of valuable gems. In an establishment as simple as a bakery he had witnessed such a device with numbers studded with long succession of diamonds. Yes, these mysterious people were owners of abundant resources.
His mind now turned to the business at hand and he placed determination within his steps. At some hidden place within the village must stand the idol that had long ago formed the legends and mysteries. It would be the cardinal part of his mission to locate the abomination and destroy it. Such a deed, he knew, was paramount to being the messenger of truth. Just as true believers had destroyed the great temple of Mithra, so would he decimate the idol and replace it with the doctrine of light. Wickedness would fall and in its place would arise a new congregation, he resolved, and his eyes probed each suspect building as a possible receptacle for the object of the people’s misguided faith.
When he had reached the end of the cobblestone street, he turned back again with a frown of confusion. It was well known to all missionaries that idols were kept in conspicuous places in full public view. Idols rarely worked any other way. He thought deeply of the matter and concluded that he had somehow passed the object without noticing. He analyzed the situation and determined that it might not be a massive statue as his mind had conjured. It could well be quite small, but considered immensely holy. This time, as he retraced his steps, he would give a greater scrutiny and not permit any detail to escape his attention.
Even when he had again exhausted the narrow street, the idol had not been found. Stranger yet, the gathering of dusk told him that the hour was late, but the last gleaming of the sun still sent a broad beam of pink light onto the village. This bewildering condition led him to believe that a power of extreme evil dwelled about him and that he would have to pray for cunning and eloquent oratory to sway the people from their paths of the unrighteous.
The advanced hour did not appear to distress the people and Micah viewed them with open curiosity. They moved in their steady flow of commerce and activity just as they had done earlier and continued to ignore his presence, except for the occasional gestures of greeting when his eyes locked with theirs. It was more than Micah could endure and his thoughts turned to the throngs of the great city who would be expecting him soon. He could not tarry long among these people and he knew his time would be short. The realization distressed him and he glanced again at the decline of the crimson sun to confirm the hour, measuring it against his schedule.
“Kind sir,” he called at last to a man leading a small child by the hand, “is there not an administration to this village? Surely someone is in charge of its conduct.”
The man widened his most natural smile. “Yes, there is such a man,” he replied. “You have business with him?”
“The greatest business,” said Micah, “and my time is short.”
A sudden sadness seemed to enter the man’s eyes and he permitted the smile to sag away from his narrow face. “That is a great pity, sir,” he remarked. “The man you seek is known as Jason, the maker of clocks.”
“Clocks?” asked the prophet with confusion. “But sir, clocks are large contrivances driven by water or metal fins that direct shadows in the lands across the seas.”
“Truly?” the man asked pleasantly. “Here they are as you see them, sir.”
Micah frowned and spoke with stern authority. “But I have not seen them. Tell me how they are. Where is the river for their operation? I have seen nothing that casts a shadow to measure the day.”
“Upon the walls of all our shops and homes they hang to measure the motion of time for all to see,” explained the man.
Micah permitted the spark of recognition to brighten his features. The strange mechanisms served as clocks, he realized, and their perfection was the result of one man’s labors. The leader of these people was also he who fashioned such beauty, he thought with amazement. Perhaps this mission would not be so difficult after all. A man capable of creating such marvels should be receptive to a thing as beautiful as the truth.
“And where is your Jason to be found?” he asked politely.
“There,” pointed the man, lovingly pressing the child’s face against his leg as he spoke. “In the shop where is his work is done.”
Twice Micah had passed the shop, and twice he had failed to notice anything significant about it. It was as pleasant and comely as any of the others. It fitted well into the scheme of the village and was not audacious or dominant as the homes or businesses of political leaders were within the valleys. After thanking the man, Micah took long, heavy steps toward the building as his heart braced for battle with an enemy of the truth.
A large bell clamored with the opening of the oaken door, a deep, resounding ring that vibrated long after the latch had been snapped in closing. Micah stood and surveyed the walls of the shop where barely a nail could be driven between the array of clocks. Timepieces of all natures hung there, clicking and clocking with a steady din of rhythm. There were clocks with squared and round faces, oblong and diamond-shaped faces, rectangular and tear drop faces; clocks with exquisite carvings; clocks with the mastery of molded precious metals. There were clocks with exposed gears and miniature clocks whose workings defied the best of vision to detect. Large shadow clocks rested in the shop window where the sun recorded its course. A water clock moved lazily beneath a thread-thin stream of water moving through a trough from some unknown source beyond the building. Tiny figures of incredible intricacy spun on pedestals driven by clock gears and others depicted heavenly planets in the places where numbers normally were placed.
Micah was astonished with the sight and was forced to compose his mind for what he must do. With a shake of his head, he reconstructed the content of his mission and glanced about for the man who was responsible for the works surrounding him. He leaned far over the long oak counter of the shop but only saw a collection of wooden boxes billed with an assortment of gears and clock hands that were aimless and pointed in all directions.
“Jason!” he called in his most forceful voice, and strained to hear above the clatter of the clocks for a reply. Yet, there was no response, only the parting of a curtain at the rear of the shop where a tall, slender man smiled through a beard formed from hair more chestnut than Micah had ever seen.
There was no inquiry in the eyes of the man and Micah felt uneasy with the sight of him. Without speaking, the man emerged and closed the curtains behind him before brushing a fine, gray dust from his long garment.
“It is I,” stated the man at last in a voice resonant enough to diminish the clamor of the clocks.
Micah searched the man’s eyes for that glint of weakness found so often within the wicked. The followers of evil could conceal their transgressions behind cloaks of words but their eyes always betrayed their ways.
“I am Micah,” the prophet announced. “I bring you a message of hope.”
Jason softened his smile then, as if it could have been more genuine. He gestured luxuriously for Micah to follow and parted the curtains from whence he had entered.
“My home is yours,” he stated and the invitation held the power of an order so subtle that Micah found himself obeying before he thought to resist.
Beyond the simple curtain was a large room of magnificent design. Couches for lounging and tables bearing fresh fruit awaited. Ornate carpets were strategically placed and basins of cool water stood in readiness. Micah´s attention was captured by the very center of the quarters where stood the large, incredible clock. He moved to a place where it stood amidst scaffolds and tables littered with the craftsman’s tools and stared upward toward its handless face.
Twice his height, thrice his breadth, weightier than ten of him, Micah marveled at the masterpiece with mouth agape. The entire work was composed of stone and chips driven from the chisel gathered in vagrant clusters across the floor. In the smooth granite, Jason had formed scene of breathless wonder. Waterfalls cascading from majestic cliffs where sentinel pines rose from delicately sloped hills. Clouds in meticulous relief rose from the stone and birds needing only the touch of breath to fly away breast-stroked through the heavens. Slender blades of grass and blossoms welcoming the sun were there, seeming to send their fragrance throughout the room and a fawn peeked warily from behind tall rushes, timidly paused in readiness to drink from cool waters. All the carving, in its absolute perfection, surrounded the huge face of a clock that stared blindly forward, void of hands or numbers by which to measure.
“You are indeed a master,” gasped Micah. “Never have I seen finer artistry.”
Jason bowed slightly, gesturing again for his guest to be seated on the long tasseled sofa where pillows were placed as if begging to bring comfort.
“You are kind,” he replied with humility, “but there is a distinct difference between artistry and inspiration.”
Micah settled to the sofa after leaning his staff against the wall beside him. Again he probed the man’s eyes and found them unchanging. Even the expression remained permanent, soft and gentle. Jason offered a cluster of grapes and Micah accepted them eagerly, for he had not eaten that day.
“There are legends of your village,” he began as he munched furiously. “Beyond the mountains, the people have spoken of this place for generations.”
“That is fitting,” agreed Jason. “We know legends of the valleys as well.”
Micah cocked his head with curiosity. “And what say these legends?” he inquired.
Jason lowered his eyes as he spoke. “The same as all legends demand, Micah. They remind us that not all people are the same.”
Micah grunted a sound of approval to Jason’s comment and nodded abruptly. “That is the nature of our legends as well. It is said in the valleys that you worship an idol here. An idol your people created.”
Disturbing to Micah, Jason seemed unafraid to allow his eyes to be challenged by the prophet’s stern probing. Jason looked directly into his guest’s face when he spoke and his words came softly, never stirred by an obvious emotion.
“It has become my belief that mothers have borne more idols than man ever created,” said Jason.
Micah dramatically dropped the last grape into his mouth and hardened his eyes as they probed the face of his host. The empty sculpture of the stems was tossed onto the table and he leaned back with his best air of authority, looping an arm about the back of the sofa.
“I speak of your idol,” Micah said sternly, “of what nature is it?”
Jason seemed to want to laugh with the question, but politely suppressed it. Instead, he stood suddenly and walked to the base of the great clock, turning then to examine Micah with gentle eyes.
“Our god differs little from yours, Micah,” he replied. “It shares many qualities with your message of hope.”
Micah pressed his best prophet frown across his brow and tightened the muscles of his jaw. “I will see it then!” he commanded with a voice dripping with power.
Jason sat on the edge of his work table and folded his hands within his lap. “I can no more show you our god than you can show me yours, my friend,” he stated.
The blasphemy brought Micah to his feet and his hand reached forth for his staff. It was always best to hold a staff when delivering divine messages, he had learned.
“I come in the name of the only God, Jason!” he shouted. “The creator of all things! The God who fashioned man from clay and He who parted the waters of the Red Sea for the chosen ones! I cannot leave a false god in my path and still serve His will!”
Jason softened his face, as if with pity. His eyes moved over Micah’s large frame and somehow reduced it by his probing. “Come,” he said gently, “let us walk and speak of our gods in peace. The cool air will be soothing.”
“I have no time for meandering!” warned Micah, “God’s work is demanded elsewhere and people await me.”
Jason moved to the curtains and parted them as an invitation to exit and fixed his cobalt eyes upon Micah’s. “If your work is holy, Micah, then Time will be given to it.”
The statement seemed to be a challenge to Micah and he walked briskly through the curtains, staff in hand, past the clicking of the clocks and beneath the complaints of the large bell. On the meaningless street, he felt Jason move to his side and their steps were taken slowly, as if a great study was to be done of each stone beneath them.
“I know of your god, Micah,” began Jason softly. “Knowledge of Him came to me long ago and I learned and valued His commands.”
Micah felt the sharp edge of shock move through his chest, but waited to form his reply, for villagers now widened their smiles with the sight of Jason and the nods of greeting somehow had been transformed into gestures of a gentle reverence.
“You learned and still denied Him?” he asked with tones of astonishment.
“I reject nothing,” advised Jason. “There is good in all things.”
Micah released a throaty sound of contempt. “There is no good to be found in idols, Jason. Idols are an abomination to God. Thou shalt have no other god before me! That is the declaration of the only God!”
Jason gently touched the head of a passing child as he walked, but his eyes lifted toward Micah’s and they were filled with inquiry. “If there is but one god, why would he then command that no other be placed before him? Would a man’s only wife command that he should have no other wife before her? Could the sky demand that we view no other?”
“He spoke of idols, Jason! That seems quite clear to me. It was a commandment that idols were an affront to His supreme authority.”
Jason glanced knowingly from the corner of his eye and the sense of it made Micah uncomfortable. “As you wish, Micah,” he replied, “but it would seem equally strange that your god would grant the title of god to an idol. Even so, you are the expert of such things and I can only offer questions.”
By then they had reached the end of the narrow street and Jason turned abruptly to his right, crossed the artery and reversed their direction as if it was the perfectly natural thing to do.
“If you were filled with the Holy Spirit, the meaning of God’s words would be clear to you!” grumbled Micah. “The very fact you find them confusing and contradictory proves that you are bound in the ignorance of sin!”
Jason issued his gentle smile that Micah was learning to dislike and spoke more softly than before. “To be forever in search of sin is an abuse of Time, Micah. I prefer to do better things.”
Micah knew he did not have the time to consider such comments that moved in the circles of logic. He only raised his eyes to the dark sky and suddenly realized that the sunglow was now gone from the village. The only lights about them came from windows.
“It is clear to me that you have closed your mind,” he said harshly, “but I beseech you to consider your people. At least give them the chance to hear of truth. If you have any compassion as their leader, you will give them their chance to become children of God.”
“Most certainly,” nodded Jason politely. “You will find that the village has Time to hear your words, Micah.”
The concession startled the prophet and he halted his steps for a brief moment, examining Jason with suspicion. “Even a soldier of God needs to know his enemy,” he said slowly but with emphasis. “It would be unfair to allow me to address your people without knowing of your god.”
Again, Jason nodded and without speaking merely motioned with his head and Micah followed his slow steps obediently as they led back to the shop where the marvelous work on clocks was done. Passing the heavy curtains again, Micah stood within the great room and felt a chip of granite beneath his foot. He kicked it away and looked about curiously.
“Is your god so repulsive that it must be spoken of in private?” he asked scornfully.
Jason stood beside the great monolith stone clock, his hand moving tenderly over the smooth surface. “Whatever repulses man was made repulsive by man,” he replied.
“Hurry, man!” stormed Micah. “My hour grows short! This parrying of words has taken too much time already. I must be down the mountain two days from now and I still require some rest.”
Jason beamed with a broad smile. “That is good, Micah,” he offered gently. “Even in your perturbed haste you recognize the power of our god.”
“Never!” shouted Micah with indignation. “Show me this idol and my staff will prove it is little more than clay, metal or stone!”
Jason lifted his eyes toward the blank face of the great clock and his voice reached Micah’s ears as a different sound, as if coming from a great distance. “Destroy it and it continues. Deny it and it persists. Oppose it and it ignores. Your defiance will have no result, Micah, for you stand before our god you call an idol.”
Micah’s eyes followed the man’s hands upward over the sleek stone of the massive clock. His mind reeled with amazement. He had seen the idol dozens of times in his short sojourn with the village and never recognized it. With the realization he felt his anger mounting.
“Clocks!” he said louder than he intended. “You are so pagan as to worship nothing more than clocks?”
Jason’s hand was held forth, palm outward. “Our clocks are no more the object of our worship than churches are yours, my friend. Do you pay reverence to the steeple or altar?”
“You know better, infidel!” shouted Micah, his eyes moving with fury over the large structure. “Churches are places to conduct worship as commanded by God! Your clocks speak nothing of truth and I denounce them as the lowest of abominations!”
Jason smiled with understanding and softened his voice. “We pay no homage to our clocks, dear Micah. Our god is Time. The gentle, eternal flow of Time and all it provides. To destroy our clocks would no more end Time than would we slay your god by burning your churches.”
“Time?” gasped Micah. “You would be so misled as to believe that Time is truly a god?”
“Not a god, Micah. Time is god.”
“Blasphemy!” shouted Micah, his staff raised by impulse to strike the great stone sculpture. “God’s curse upon this desecration!”
With his pronouncement, Micah swung the staff, watching it recoil from the impact without causing the slightest damage.
“Has Time even paused? Did a single star falter in its path?” asked Jason with a grin of mirth. “Come, the people will welcome your words, my friend. They always have Time for such diversions.”
Micah remained for a long moment with his eyes fixed upon the vacant face of the clock. Never had he considered such a concept, that man could truly worship something as absurd and impractical as time.
“How did such a thing begin?” he asked absently, as if the question was never meant to be said aloud.
“From the beginning,” answered Jason, and he again parted the curtains and Micah looked into the street to find the people gathered there, as if mysteriously knowing that they were expected to congregate in his honor.