"The Path of Pebbles" by John Kuhn

Author Unknown
Discovered by Brennan Lew
Translated by Dr. Az Nirbhik

Compiled by John Kuhn

Note-

The following is taken from the journal left behind by Brennan Lew, an American citizen who disappeared in Nepal 14 years ago. He claims in his writings to have discovered an empty monastery deep within an isolated jungle. According to Lew, the abandoned complex was a maze of temples and gardens, overgrown with vegetation, and he spent months exploring it. At length, he found a hidden courtyard, and at its center, a circular path paved with smooth pebbles. According to his painstaking illustrations and accounts, the path was three to four feet wide, and perfectly circular. He guessed its circumference at a quarter of a mile, more or less. At first he thought it was nothing more than a path designed for meditative walks, and he intended to walk upon it. Each time he would approach the path to tread upon it, however, he would stop. More than once, he writes, "I lifted my foot to plant it on the path, and I stood there, looking down at it. There was something different, perhaps something holy about it. I stood like that each time for several minutes, balancing upon one foot, wanting to step on the path, but unable to."

Lew claims that, while the path was obviously special, he couldn't quite put a finger on what made it so. "It looked too perfect. Roads and paths are supposed to be irregular, but this one was as perfect a circle as I had ever seen. And there was something about the pavement." And then he noticed it. The pebbles were not scattered on the path; they were intricately and deliberately placed. They formed characters from the Nepalese language, and combined to form words; but Mr. Lew, a speaker and writer of basic Nepalese, did not recognize any of the words.

The American took close-up photographs of the path and took them to an acquaintance, a college student who referred him to Dr. Az Nirbhik, an expert in Himalayan dialects. The professor confirmed that the stones were arranged to form words, but that, while the letters were Nepalese, they were combined to form words from the extinct language of Kusunda, a language with no alphabet of its own. "It was like a code," wrote the American. Lew then set out to record the text of the path on paper so that he could bring it to the professor for help with the translation. What follows is the directly translated text of "The Path of Pebbles." The path itself has never been located.

"The hardest thing has been finding a beginning. The text is continuous. It could begin or end at any point, which I think was part of the writer's purpose. Our choice of a beginning was arbitrary. We intended to put this round path, this unending narrative, in the form of a book, which by nature must have a beginning and end. What we have produced is a poor reflection of the original."

-Brennan Lew

from his journal

The Text of the Path of Pebbles

As translated from the original Kusunda

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I see the dirt upon which my feet take turns stamping. It is dirt the color of my own skin, and parched, with weary lines crossing its surface. And I see the earth I tread upon, and the footprints that approach me from behind, but I cannot recall beginning my journey along this path. I walk and walk and always walk, and I cannot remember a time when I did not walk.

So I carry on my laborious task, marking the path with these stones, that I might find my way back when I reach the end. And I will go to the place from which I came, to the place where I did not walk. And I will rest, for I am tired. Very tired.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I ask silently the question that oppresses me. From where have I come? I am, and I am here on this path; but from where have I come? And then I ask a similar question: where am I going?

The only thing I know is this path. This path, and I know little of it. I do not even know what is around the next corner. And there is always a corner. I am, and I am here. That is all I know, that is all I can know.

To my left stands a tree on whose trunk runes are carved. A serpent translates the text for me, saying, "Knowledge is precious, child. Seek it, child. Knowledge. That is the answer to your question, child." And at once the serpent's tongue forks separate ways.

Say I to the worm, "Sir, what you say sounds correct. But...I can only know that I am and that I am here. Anything else is not new knowledge. It is only elaboration. What you call knowledge will not show me where I come from. It will not show me where I am going. I thank you for your advice, sir, but knowledge is not the answer. There must be something more. There must be something greater."

And I look again to the runes on the tree, but where the secret cipher had been carved now there hangs a Sign. And the Sign is held in place by nails nine measures long. The Sign resembles a Man, and He begins to speak. Before He can utter his peace, the serpent strikes His heel.

I watch in silence as the serpent withdraws and the venom works its way through the Man who is a Sign. The serpent's lips seem to curve into a smile. A moment passes. Then another. Then a third.

As I look on, the Man lifts His head and brings His heel down, crushing the serpent's skull. Then He looks at me and quietly whispers, "Faith."

I blink my eyes and the whole scene is gone. But I know now that faith is the substance—faith is more precious than knowledge. Faith is the answer to my question. I can never know my origin. I can never know my destiny. I only know the journey. I only know this path.

Where have I come from? I can never know; I can only believe. But where shall I find a thing to believe?

And now a tree appears to the right of me, and on its trunk is carved a single word. This word is in my own tongue, and it means, "Word." It also means, "Listen. Listen to the path and all that occurs upon it. Take in what you see. Knowledge is bread, but faith is air. What will you believe? There are myriad ideas waiting, waiting for you to place your faith in them.

"Listen to this path and all that happens here. It all is a word. Listen, for the word conveys, though imperfectly, the Idea. And every experience is a character in the word. Every beggar and every prince. Every sunset you observe. Even the serpent is a letter. Every stone on this path is a letter, and it all spells out a word. And behind that word is the Idea. That is to be the Object of your faith. That is the One. Listen. Listen to the journey."

I open my ears, but I only hear a bird singing in the distance. And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I come upon a wondrous landscape reaching forth from where my feet meet the path, spanning as far as I can see, reaching to infinity. And there are canyons and forests dark, and there are swamps and plains and thickets dense. And there are peaks and deep ponds and deserts. Everything that is lay before me.

Above the landscape is a sky of night and day, and in it a hole is burned. Through this temporal tear, I see a vision of the ages. A thousand golden men play strings. Before them a wizard waves madly his wand. Beautiful music spills through the hole in the sky, more beautiful than anything I have ever heard. I hear the music and I see the landscape, and I see the music and I hear the landscape. The two blend, and the sight that is the sound stirs my spirit, and I am more aware than before.

Just below the window into eternity, a downy quill floats across the sky. And the quill etches into the blue marble slab of the sky these words:

See in His art

The Artist's true heart

Before my eyes, before my ears, a great rock plays a tune of unmoving. And a tiny diamond on the ground plays a tune of unchanging. A massive tree in the distance plays a tune of solidity. A flower hosts a bumblebee and plays a tune of provision. The sky above sings of expanse, the sun of brilliance. Water bubbles from a spring with the rhythm of purity, and a golden flame whispers holiness. A crash from above tells of a thunderhead's power.

Everything, everything before my eyes plays a tune, and the countless tunes form one great symphony. It is a symphony of all things, and it pleases my ears.

And this, all of this, this great symphony—altogether it is a word, it is the word. I listen and I gain some faint notion of the Idea which the word tries to convey. The Idea is my origin, and I call it the One. It is the One I believe in.

I watch the words in the sky as they fall into a gray and calm ocean:

See in His art

The Artist's true heart

The hole in the sky is seared shut, and the landscape fades away, but the music echoes in my mind. I stand again on the path, the day is still, and I begin to learn new truths from old things. A tattered vine reaches across the path and seems to say, "The One who made me is like me." Looking at its leaves I notice a verse:

The letters of One in the streets are signed;

In nature's fair features, discover His mind.

For the unseen ever is proved by the seen,

And in all you've beheld has your Maker's face been.

Everything around me looks a little brighter than before. And still I hear a sweet melody.

I know now that everything I see on this path is a note in the symphony and that every encounter is a character in the word. I have a faint notion of the Idea, very faint. Every new note will be a new revelation.

Listening, I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I am surprised to find myself upon a peak in the midst of a great mountain range. All around me is white, a great white desert, and cold. As my skin grows chapped and raw, I notice with trepidation that I stand perched upon a precipice. The earth spills away from me, and I shiver.

Reaching out a skyward palm, I catch a single flake of snow.

"It is a man, it is a man, it is a man, it is a man," echo voices from mouths unknown.

I look at the snowflake in my open hand and it is a blue and intricate jewel and not a man. But then the snowflake speaks, in a ringing crystal voice, "I am beautiful. And I am snow, pure snow and nothing more."

In an instant, before my eyes, the flake of snow becomes a drop of water, and stretches out to form a rivulet in my palm. And the melted snowflake wails, "Woe to me. I melt away. I am gone. I thought I was snow, but I am really water. The seem is gone. The real is here. All my hope I had bound up in the seem. My beauty is gone."

And the mountains resound, "It is a man."

Now my hand is empty, but I know it was a man. While I contemplate it all, another flake tumbles onto my palm.

"It is a man, it is a man, it is a man, it is a man," cry voices once more.

In a voice less shrill than the other, this flake speaks. "I am the color of snow. I am the texture of snow. I am the temperature of snow. But hear this mystery: I am not snow. I am water. I am a flake in the seem, but a droplet in the real. I am ready for the real. I am water, not snow. I am water."

Like the other, this flake melts in an instant in the heat of my hand and, in a watery voice, rejoices.

The mountains resound, "It is a man."

From Something greater than the sun I feel a sudden holy heat, and I know that the day will come when I tread this path no longer. Like a tumbling snowflake I will fall into the hand of this Something, this unutterable Idea, this One. And my shell too will melt away.

Man is water, and water is forever. The seas will not dry up, and I cry to the mountains around me, "I am water!"

With a solemn, affirming moan, the mountains melt away.

I find myself on the edge of a great body of water, beside two fishermen who argue.

"Man is merely an intelligent beast," says one.

"No, man is something else. Man is spirit," says the other.

"You cannot prove it," says the first.

"I cannot," replies the second.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I see a potter at his wheel. About him, all about him, are mounds and mounds of clay. As I look more closely, though, I see that the mounds are not clay, but refuse. Heaps of garbage and filth.

Then, as I watch, the potter takes a handful of the refuse and puts it on his wheel. I watch closely; I listen closely.

In the potter's hands, the refuse becomes a vessel. Pleased, the potter fills the vessel with water and sets it upon a shelf with countless other vessels of all shapes and hues.

Suddenly, the vessels have voices. "We are vases and pots. Who is it that says we are made of garbage? Who says we are shaped from filth? Let him be cursed and broken. Indeed, who says we are made by a potter? Curse him, and curse his potter. We are vases, vessels of worth and beauty."

The stench of the garbage overwhelms and sickens me.

"Why do you keep these putrid jars?" I ask the potter.

He looks my way and hands me a vase. "Look inside," he bids me.

Inside the vessel, I see two tiny leaves protruding through very black dirt. "I make the vases to hold my greatest treasure. That plant you see will grow into a rare and beautiful flower. Look, this one is ready."

He shows me another vase, and the odor of garbage is muted by a delightful fragrance emanating from a huge flower growing out of it.

"The flower has outgrown the vase, and the time has come to move it." With that, the potter tears the flower out by the roots and throws the vase into the furnace. Then, with gentle hands, he plants the many-colored flower in his garden. "The vase is just temporary," he says. "The garden is forever."

Looking back into his workshop, I notice many vases with wilted and dying flowers.

"What is wrong with these?" I ask.

"They still think they are beautiful vases. They don't realize they have a greater beauty inside them. I have planted a seed in all of them, but some work very hard to forget the seed. Each time I try to water the seed, they totter back and forth so that the water only washes the outside of the vase. They try to be beautiful on the outside, but they are corrupt, every one of them."

"What will happen to them?" I ask.

"All the vases are destroyed. If there is a flower alive in them at the end, I will plant it in my garden and it will flourish. But if there is no flower, they will know nothing but the furnace."

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I grow weary of walking. I have walked all my days, and I cannot even be certain that I am nearer my destination than I was the day I took my first step. For the first time, I consider leaving the path. Perhaps there is a place for me to rest in the wilderness to the left or to the right. Perhaps I can reach my destination more quickly if I leave this path. But I am afraid. I have heard that in the end everyone leaves the path, but nevertheless I fear it.

I do not leave the path. I do not breach the greatest unknown. It is not for me to decide. I am satisfied with the small unknowns, the minor mysteries of each new step.

I do not exit the path, but still I am weary. I sit down in the dirt.

After hours have passed I realize my folly. Though I was uncertain of my advancement when I walked, now I am certain that I do not advance. I am wearier, it turns out, with waiting than I was with walking. I rise and dust myself off.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I see a small girl sitting in the dirt, rubbing her eyes. She is not crying, only rubbing her eyes.

I approach the child to ask her what is the matter, but she says nothing. She only looks at me. And, looking into her laughing eyes, I notice that from each a tiny dandelion grows.

I kneel at the little one's side to comfort her as I pluck the yellow weeds from her brown eyes. I whisper how pretty her eyes are and how it will not hurt. With a quick and fluid pull, I fix what is wrong with the child.

"But, sir," says the girl as I throw the broken dandelions to the ground, "I like to look at flowers."

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner I come upon a stranger. He wears perched atop his head a hat made of white sunlight and his eyes are afire in a strange and reverent way.

"Hello, countryman," he says, waving to me.

"Hello, sir," I reply. "Have we met?"

"Just now, indeed," he says. "And are you as homesick as I?"

"Homesick? Are you not from here?"

"No, indeed. My home is far from this place."

"Then how is it that you call me countryman?"

"Why, because you are my countryman."

"Sir, I beg to differ. I have lived in this land all my days. Indeed, I do not remember a time when I did not walk this path. And you say you hail from a distant land."

"But are you certain that this is your home?" he asks. "No, I see it in you. Like me, you are a pilgrim. You and I, we are pilgrims, we are countrymen."

"Very well then, my countryman. Tell me of this homeland of ours."

"But I cannot, friend. I have never been there."

There is a moment of silence, then the man says, "I long to go there, though. It is my home." And with that, the strange pilgrim takes a step and his body collapses onto the path. He has stepped out of it as if it were nothing more than a robe. Somehow, I know he is going home.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I chance upon an old portrait lying beside the path. An intriguing painting upon silk it is, it depicts a plump old woman whose right eyelid droops, concealing the eye. The other eye glares, striking bare nerves in me, glassy and cold. The portrait is faded with age, and my eyes are clouded by wonder and fancy. But still the woman's left eye pierces me like a pinhole in the atmosphere, like the whitest star.

I wonder, is she my ancestress? I am certain that she is dead, long ago dead. Was she a woman of spite, as her cataract stare implies? What was her name? What did she do to have her face laid down forever in the tints of berries and oils? And I wonder, where is she now?

And I wonder, where am I going?

Now, I thank the old woman in the portrait, aloud I thank her as her left eye glares at me. Wherever she is, I thank her. She still acts upon this path, for she has moved me, and this not in spite of her leaving long ago, but because of it. The portrait of the old woman of yesterday reminds me that I will follow her and leave nothing behind but footprints.

Looking once more at the portrait, I see a sudden change in the face of the dead old woman. Suddenly I see the face of a dead old man. It is me.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I notice an odd little man in a striped hat sitting in a tree. He is whistling. As I pass him by, I ignore him. He looks strange upon that branch, his skin pale, his eyes wide.

"What?" shouts the little man as I walk past. "What do you want?" He seems exasperated.

"I said nothing," I respond, startled.

Humming, the man in the tree begins to sing a strange song.

You said nothing, and your echo said the same,

And I said, "What?" For Nothing is my name.

Spelled with no letters, pronounced with no sound—

Listen, listen! My name floats all around.

And I can hear your silence, as loud as loud can be—

Speak up, speak up, and quit hollering at me!

Then, I start to speak, but something catches in my throat and I turn my back on the little man in the tree. Hurrying away, I hear the man's high voice crying out.

"Nothing is my name, nothing is my name. I am nothing to you, to all. I am nothing. I fade away." And abruptly, there is silence.

Suddenly, I am seized by a boldness and I look over my shoulder. The tree is empty save for a striped hat. And I hear a faint soprano, singing:

You said nothing and your echo said the same,

And we are thousands strong who answer to that name.

Words of care are sweet like air

But our souls are snuffed out like a flame.

And I find myself more alone than all but a man on a tree, cursed above all. And tears fall from heaven for the forgotten ones, and all turns off gray.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I notice the gray coals and cold ashes of a fire burned out long ago. And beside this is a great marker inscribed with the words of a man from days gone by.

When I eternally recline,

Remember, friend, these words of mine:

Build not for me a funeral pyre,

For I shall be my own.

Let Death himself be the savage fire,

While pallid flesh and calcite bone

Be cold gray ashes and unconsumed coal;

And label as smoke my ascending soul.

And I look at what had been the remains of a bonfire and see instead the sun bleached bones of a human skeleton.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I find to my right an old house, and strange. For a great wooden wheel extends from a wall and into a stream. And the wheel turns and turns in the water.

It is a mill, the old house.

And the wheel creaks as it turns forever, pushed by a small stream that begins and ends at the same place, called Who Shall Know, from and to a spring there called Love, or Perfect, or Truth, or Life, or Forever. And the spring feeds the river and the river feeds the spring.

To my left an old man with a whip drives two malnourished oxen back and forth over a threshing floor. Back and forth they tread, and dust and chaff clouds the sky above them. The oxen are muzzled as they work, and the old man whips them continually. But a raven descends from heaven and knocks the whip from the old man's hand, and two doves descend as well, and tear the muzzles from the heads of the hungry bulls. And the oxen feed as they continue to tread out the grain, and the old man watches, his whip carried off by the birds.

And before me on the path sits a lovely young woman whose hair is long and straight and shines like black silk. She sits cross-legged, a stone before her and another in her hands. And she grinds grain between the stones and her knuckles bleed. But she does not cry and she does not quit, for the sweet bread she makes will quiet her pain when her children eat and smile.

Within the mill and beneath the oxen and between the stones, the grain is crushed.

Suddenly, I become the grain. I am thrown into the air, and the wind tugs at my pride and tears it away to blow orphaned forever, the chaff of a man. I am crushed in a mill and trod beneath beasts and ground between stones, and I am broken, and the lusts of my eyes are lost to my pain. Suddenly, in the breaking I become something greater.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I see two figures ahead of me, two silhouettes, one large and one small. The small figure leads the larger figure by the finger. The small one seems eager. Now the large one leads the smaller, and their pace is more leisurely, and the small figure seems larger than he did before. And from somewhere, gentle syllables are whispered in my ear:

         Hand in hand walk father and child, returning from a distant place to where the child had wandered. The father fetched the disobedient child and now patiently walks by his side, offering direction, but the child is sure he knows the way. Hand in hand they walk. Sometimes, though, they walk in silence. Walking in circles, falling down, the child at times gets frustrated and will not speak to the father. He is embarrassed. But the father is always there, and when the tears come, he holds his son close. Sometimes they talk and laugh and the child asks the way to go. The father leads him during these times and they near their beautiful home, but every time, the child gets excited.

         "I know the way now," he cries. "Follow me!"

         And they regress, and the child knows. Then, he either admits his helplessness and trusts his father, or he withdraws from the father, obstinate in searching for a way, following big signs and wide roads, and taking advice from whispers in the air and voices in the shadows. Often he ignores his father, and he sometimes denies the old man at the end of his arm. And the father's heart often aches, but he never lets go the hand of his child. And one day they will be home.

       Forever.

       Hand in hand you walk. Who is leading the other?

And the words leave me in peace as I feel a hand clasp mine. And something warm like life or love flows from a hole in the hand I hold and into me. It feels nice, the warmth coursing through me, bathing me from the inside out.

I look up at the bluest sky, and I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I see a man lying on the path with a manuscript in his hand. As I approach, I hear his strained breathing and I know that the man is dying.

"Son," says he from beneath his salt and pepper whiskers. "Son, come close."

I draw near to him and kneel by his side to hear his words. I tell him I am near.

Coughing, he speaks. "Touch my hair," he instructs. I touch his hair and he says, "Now rub your fingers together." I do, and there is something gritty between them.

"Kiss my cheek," the dying man orders.

I kiss the old man's stubbled cheek. "Sir," I tell him, "you taste of salt."

"Yes," he replies. "I once was a famed explorer. Ask not my name, for you will not recognize it. I am long ago forgotten. Once I conquered the seas. Now I am dying.

"Son, I have seen many things, I have been many places. I have dined with sages and prayed with monks. I learned how not to die, but not from these wise men. I learned how not to die from a crippled native on an isle far away. He showed me the secret, how not to die."

The sick old man grows quiet and closes his eyes. I think for a moment that he is gone, but then he opens his eyes wider than before and looks through me.

"Do not live. That is the secret. Do not live and you cannot die."

"You are dying, though," I tell him. It seems a mean thing to say.

"No, I am only moving. From a vase to a garden. I cannot die, for I am kept. I am the salt of the earth. I do not live. I am. But this life is not mine. My life will not work, though I try to make it. I must use another's life, or rot and die day by day. I do not die. I met a native one day, and that has made all the difference. Now I ask one favor. Take this manuscript with you, and drop it in the first stream you come to. I am a man of the sea to which all streams flow. Place this manuscript in the water, for it is the memoir of an explorer, one who found the greatest kingdom not by exploring, but by being still." And with that, the tired old man expires, his body crumbling and becoming part of the path I tread.

I pick up his manuscript, and I read the first page, which contains a poem:

The Crutch

There was a man on an island in a faraway sea,

Member of a curious race

Indigenous to that isle, that tropic place,

And a most curious man was he.

He hobbled along with a cane in his hand,

A crutch, without which he'd never stand.

"You fool," the other natives would say,

"You need a crutch to pace,"

Looking up from where they lay—

For theirs was a crippled race.

I turn the page and find that there are no more pages.

"Curious," I say.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I find myself in a prison. Of a sudden I see before me a prisoner, hanging shackled to a cold stone wall. His arms are stretched out beside him as if for an embrace, cuffed to hooks on the wall. He cries out in pain; he cries out for mercy.

"Are you a criminal?" I ask him.

"Yes," he groans.

"What law is it you've broken?"

"All of them," he replies.

"Then, you deserve your penalty," I say.

"I do," he admits. Then he continues crying out for mercy.

Next to him hang two empty shackles, then beyond them, another prisoner chained to the wall.

"Are you a criminal, too?" I ask.

"I do not consider myself one," he answers.

"You've not broken any laws?"

"Only one," says he. "But that man has broken them all. Why should we get the same penalty?"

"What law have you broken?"

"Only the most minor of them all. Really, I'm a decent fellow," he insists.

Calling to the other prisoner, interrupting his supplications, I ask, "Is it true that this man has broken but a single law?"

"Yes, that is true," he calls.

"And is it true that he has broken the most minor statute and no other?"

"Yes, I suppose that is true."

"How then do you suppose he rates the same punishment as you who have broken every statute?"

"Stranger," called the first prisoner, hanging limp in his chains, "There is only one law here."

The scene fades, and I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I notice a small frame darting to and fro upon the path. As I draw closer, I can see that the frame is a woman and that she is chasing something. A butterfly. She is chasing a butterfly. And her hair is white and she is shrunken with age, but to and fro she darts like a child, laughing and calling, ever in pursuit of the evasive butterfly.

After a time she reaches out her hand and grabs the butterfly. Laughing, she shouts, "I caught it!" She is gleeful. "I caught it! It's mine. My butterfly, pretty butterfly." Then she opens her fist to find the insect crushed, its colorful wings broken, its body destroyed. And the woman's laughter becomes sobs, and she sits sadly down on the path.

Suddenly, another butterfly flutters near the woman, only it is not truly another butterfly, but the same one again. It is mended.

I watch the woman closely as the lithe, winged creature catches her eye. As soon as she sees it, she smiles. She does not pursue it now. She only sits and watches the butterfly float about her. Slowly, she holds out her hand. Then, after the shortest of moments, the bright insect cautiously lights upon her open palm. The old woman's fingers twitch but she does not close them. And she whispers to the butterfly, saying, "You are not mine. You are yours. I would rather you fly away than lay broken in my fist. Yes." And the butterfly's wings twitch as her fingers had, but it does not fly. It remains, in beauty and in liberty.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I find a tattered, yellowed fragment of paper. The gentle wind pushes it along until it rests at my feet. Stooping, I grasp the paper and read it. In small, neat script, the brittle page reads:

I sat to write because

I had a new and wonderful thought

But now I've forgot

And the poem that almost was

Is not.

I look around for the despairing poet, but I see no one.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I notice a puddle of blackened blood, spilled long ago but yet to dry, standing pooled in the middle of the path. A great stone marker rises up beside the blood. Upon the stone is an inscription in the language of an ancient race that is no more. Looking at them, I can see them in my own language. Etched upon the marker in trembling letters are these words:

Whose child is this condemned to die upon the city square?

Whose child, surrounded by this throng, will perish all alone?

What has he done that he must now this harshest sentence bear?

Why must he now encircled stand? And why hold I this stone?

A sad thing is this thing we do, and yet we stand in line;

A waving flag the child will see, and close his eyes in sorrow.

For soon the throng destroys the babe, this blameless child of mine;

The blameless child of ours we kill, who goes by the name Tomorrow.

Silent tears fall upon my dirty feet as I wonder what people would betray their own children. Though no one is near to know my thought and answer me, I know what people it is who would do such a thing.

A people who are no more.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, a looking glass falls from the sky. It is jeweled on the handle and it floats, as in a dream, into my hand. Instinctively, I clasp my fingers around it and hold it with a white-knuckled fist. And a voice, like silent thunder, rolls across my heart.

Without speaking, a voice tells me to look into the mirror I hold. I see my face. It is brown. Aside from my face, I see green grass and blue sky. I see white in my eyes, pink in my lips. I see many colors, all the colors. And the question comes from the silent voice, "What color is the mirror?" I think, but I cannot answer the question.

I drop the mirror to the ground, lost in my thoughts, and it catches the sun's white light and shines it into my eyes. I start to say that the mirror is silver, but I know it is only silver when it reflects something silver. "Are you wise?" asks the voice.

"I am not," I reply, for I do not know what color a mirror is.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I notice far ahead of me a shape. I think that it must be a person, but he walks with a peculiar gate, springing up and down with each step, as though he mimics a frog. Perhaps his legs are deformed, I think, and I rush forward to see.

I am upon him before I know it, and I see that his legs are formed perfectly. I touch his shoulder to get his attention, and he turns immediately to me, startled. I start myself when I look into his face, for it is leathery and covered in warts, with a great giant mouth and protruding eyes. His face is more like a toad's than any man I have ever seen.

As quickly as he had turned to see me, he strikes me in the temple with a stone and knocks me to the ground. As I fall, I see him hop quickly away.

When I awaken from a stupor, I find upon the path the stone, spotted with my blood, and tied to it, a leaf of paper. I free the paper from the stone and read.

To whom it may concern:

I've felt that when one resembles a toad

One feels compelled to hop down a road

Rather than stride with a gentleman's pace

Or a gentleman's carriage steer.

For many would think it excessively queer

To see such a man in a gentleman's place.

But in many a beggar is a prince's heart borne,

And many a speaker dies mute and forlorn

And oft times a man with a gentleman's soul

For want of like face has hopped down a road

To a silent and lonesome, unhappy abode

To sit in the dark like a miserable troll.

I will not fail to play my part, but I know my heart.

My noble heart.

I look up the trail but the toad-man is gone. I am certain he is in a damp place, probably reading philosophy and eating flies.

And I round the corner.

Suddenly, I encounter a corner. As I round the corner, I find myself in a strange new land. Over my head a large banner arches across the path, fluttering in the gentle wind. The banner reads in bright and jolly letters, "WELCOME TO LESIONA!"

As I pass under the sign I see a community of huts scattered about on pastel hills. The huts are made of dumplings, stacked like bricks, and shingled with the green rinds of melons. Milling about are hundreds of tiny figures, too small to be human, too human to be beasts. They are too distant to discern their features, but they are obviously an organized society, with work going on in fields all around the huts, and well-marked paths dissecting the village.

Suddenly, the ground below me wavers and lurches forward, and I am carried along on the back of some beast that swims through the earth. The beast dives and deposits me in a lump in the center of the town of Lesiona. I find myself crumpled on the ground in front of a miniature palace with bricks of gold and mortar of platinum. Surrounded by the dumpling huts, the palace glows and casts shimmering rays upon the peasants.

From the open door of the palace emerges a diminutive prince, draped in purple robes. He slouches toward me, and I see that he suffers from some horrific affliction. His face is covered in white and infected sores. But he does not hide his face, nor does he shrink from my sight. He strides confidently toward me, his vile and leprous head beneath a massive gem-laden crown.

Standing before me, the prince extends a diseased paw, heavy with rings two deep on each finger and three deep on the thumb. His lips, half-decayed, spread into a smile.

"Hello, sir, and welcome to this our humble land," says the tiny royal, still grinning through his disease, still extending his hand. "This is Lesiona, and I am the prince of all you see." He nods at me, expecting the kiss upon the hand that princes are due. I cannot bring myself to kneel and kiss the spotted paw, but can only stare at the open wounds covering it, wounds that disappear under the flowing purple sleeves of his vestment. After the uncomfortable moment, he drops his hand abruptly and the purple sleeve covers his many-ringed hand.

I look at his face, and he is smiling no longer.

After a moment of uncertain silence, the prince smiles and begins again. "It is this face that graces the coins of Lesiona," he says, motioning at his own hideous visage. "Do you see these huts? A portrait of me hangs in every one. Every morning, stranger, I awake to the praises of my people. I am adored. You are welcome here, sir, but I implore you—do not scorn me for my appearance. You see, though you will not touch my hand, these peasants would be honored. Of course, I would not allow those vile dogs to touch me."

I look past the prince and see a laborer in the field. He is close enough that I can see his sores. I am in the village of the leprous.

"Ah, that farmer. Please pardon how he looks. I'm afraid he's quite hideous. Many of them are. It makes me ill to look at them. I suppose they can't all be as I am. You see, to my people, I am beautiful. You might find me disgusting, but here, among a graceless people, I am a hero. We are none perfect, but I am more perfect than any of my neighbors. I am afflicted, but they are all misshapen monsters. I am as far above them as the sun is over the earth."

I follow the leper prince into his palace, crawling through the doorway and ducking through the halls. He shows me great wardrobes filled with silk finery, fine art along the walls, and vast chambers filled with jewelry. All the while, the prince relates every victory he has ever known, not forgetting a single glory.

At dusk, I find myself outside a great door of the tiny prince's palace. It all strikes me as ridiculous. Then the prince peeks out of an upstairs window in his palace, looking at me eye to eye. Says he, "Sir, come again. Yes, come, and you'll still find me the proudest leper in the colony." My anger rises and I want to tell him that he is a cur before me, a man whole and clean. But before I can speak, the village is gone with its deformed peasants and its proud and leprous prince. My anger remains, and then I look at my arms and hands. For a moment, I see white spots covering me.

And I round the corner.

John Kuhn is a writer and educator from Texas. His works of non-fiction, fiction, and poetry have appeared in a number of magazines and e-zines in the US and the UK. He won first place in the 2006 DKA Magazine poetry contest with his poem "Statuary".

John lives with his family in a town famous for its "Crazy Water". And that explains a lot...

Cover: "Dragon Egg"

Adventurers should have a better knowledge of dragons—they are never far from their nests. An original image rendered in Bryce 5.5 and "polished" in Paint Shop Pro.

A homeschooling mom, and a gramma, L. S. King taught martial arts for years, and also coached gymnastics. She loves Looney Tunes and the color purple, and adores Zorro, which might explain her fascination with swords and capes. When on the planet, she lives with her husband and youngest child in Delaware.

The Path of Pebbles (Excerpt One)

www.theswordreview.com