Ever before time ruled the universe, it had been written that the physical isles of man will eternally be subject to the spirit world of wind and fire.

The sands of time began to trickle slowly yet ever so swiftly. The eons unfurled, rolled on, a vast restless sea of dreams and happenings, only frozen in dispensations by those who decided to ride its bucking waves and control their destinies…

Zeb from the vantage point of his mountainous hideout, admired the golden sea of wheat pirouetting to the flute of musical evening winds. It had been a bountiful year of plenteous harvest. However, in the distance, his patch of plots stood out amongst the others, forlorn and forsaken, plants shriveled.

His genetic strains had failed again. While others excelled at being scientists and husbandmen {Hillanders were all supposed to engineer and plant their seeds themselves}, he could not seem to juggle both and his silos adequately told that story of shame. Aside from the snickering and mocking he endured in the village hall, the worst was the voice in his head that continuously told him he will never amount to anything.

In a world where his mates where all buffed, he was willowy. The heavy protein infused meals that helped others gave him allergies. Once, it had nearly killed him. The butt of every joke, he was told constantly to hide during the season of the heavy winds that pronounced rain to avoid being blown away like cotton seeds. In a mostly self-sufficient economy, Zeb was one of the very few that went around cap in hand. He was a failure!

He had contemplated death a couple of times, but strangely, though he was a coward in most situations, suicide was an act too cowardly for him to follow through with.

Watching an eagle make away with a snatched hare, he felt as helpless as the prey. He got angry at his plight and decided to make a move. At that point, it dawned on him what he must do.

The next morning, though he did not have much, he carried his last two sacks of grains on a borrowed donkey and made for the peak of the highest mountain in the land, to see the Priest of the Temple of Scrolls. To make your journey more worthwhile, you do not appear before the Priest empty handed.

connection 2

The old man welcomed him warmly and while they shared a jug of honeyed mead, the priest consulted the oracle of destinies. The oracle was an old book that was said to have existed before the first primordial atom of the galaxies was conceived. To the young man’s astonishment, the book looked brand new. He had expected it would be worn with age and dog-eared.

The Priest flipped through unhurriedly until he came to a certain page. His deduction confirmed the young man’s worst fears.

The old man’s blue eyes twinkled even as he delivered the dire news to Zeb.

“The future is bright but to access its possibilities, you must die!”

Stunned by the revelation, the young man’s vessel of drink fell from shaky hands.

“Is there no other way?” stammered Zeb, face, a portrait of consternation.

“Unfortunately, there is none! Leave now and you will spend the rest of your life wondering what would have happened if you had taken this risk but the choice is yours to make.”

“I appreciate the drink Sire, it was lovely. Thank you,” murmured Zeb.

“Find out the secret of a corn of wheat. If you can unravel that, the road you must take will become clearer.

“The secret of your life is in a corn of wheat. If you can unravel that, the road you must take will become clearer.

Head hanging in dejection, he went out, untied the donkey and made for the valley, a location where negativity and torment gleefully awaited him.

Death was too much a price to pay for a new life…….



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