through its rooms, noting every texture, sound and sight, playing happily with and studying its minds, all connected to my own, bright baubles glistening throughout, with the capacity for expansion.
My baby self gurgles, cooing appreciatively.
—YES. BEAUTIFUL, ISN’T IT?— The great essence chuckles, hearing my baby self’s nonverbal agreement.
—LITTLE LEIANNA. I GIVE YOU THIS UNIVERSE. YOU MUST TREAT IT KINDLY. YOU WILL SHARE ITS WORTH ALWAYS WITH OTHERS. FOR I MAKE YOU A KEEPER AND CHARGE YOU WITH ITS WELL-BEING, YOU WHO ARE WORTHY. AND IF THE DAY SHOULD COME, WHEN YOU FEEL UNWORTHY OR UNCERTAIN OF YOUR TALENT OR YOUR STRENGTH TO CONTINUE, YOU MUST SEEK OUT OTHER KEEPERS, HOWEVER YOU MAY FIND THEM, AND THEY WILL AID YOU UNQUESTIONINGLY. AND SHOULD YOUR STRENGTH STILL FALTER, AND WEAKNESS ENTER YOUR VERY CORE, YOU MUST SEEK ME AND I WILL ANSWER AND REPLENISH YOU.
—FOR THIS COMMISSION SHALL BE ONGOING, WITH MANY HANDS, GREATER AND LESSER, UPON IT, TO HOLD IT INVALUABLE AND INVIOLATE.
—AND REMEMBER THAT THE VALUE OF THE UNIVERSE, OF ITS WHOLE, IMMEASURABLE THOUGH IT BE, IS NO GREATER OR LESSER THAN THE VALUE OF ITS PARTS, WHICH MAY BE MEASURED, THOUGH BY LESSER CRITERIA, OFTEN INADEQUATE CRITERIA.
—REMEMBER THESE WORDS, LEIANNA. REMEMBER THE COMMISSION I PLACE UPON YOU, FOR I SEE YOU ALREADY LOVE IT AND WILL TREAT IT KINDLY.
—AND, BY THE WAY, LEIGH ANN ELFMAN, WHO IS LEIANNA, THE GREY FUZZ IS THE PROVERBIAL “DARKNESS BEFORE THE LIGHT.” YOUR POETS ALWAYS TRY TO FORCE REALITY TO SUCH EXACTNESS IN THE SHORT-CHANGED NAME OF CLARITY. THE TRUE PROVERB IS “THE GREY AREAS OF FUZZY THINKING BEFORE BLINDING CLARITY OF ALL ASPECTS.” DO YOU UNDERSTAND?—
God laughs. It is a measured thoughtful laugh, with much love behind it, but nonetheless a laugh and . . . .
* * * *
It woke me abruptly. I sat bolt upright in my bed.
Ginnie slept blithely on, Daniel slept, the bedroom dark, the night-silence thick. And now the familiar tingle of an unseen hand slid up my arm, resting on my shoulder. Bael’s hand.
—Did you tell him, Leianna? Did you tell him he must let us heal the rift?—
—What? I think so. I don’t know! I’ve got to get back! I was talking to God.—
—What? What did Quatama tell you?—
—Not Quatama. God. I’ve got to get back. Did you wake me?—
—No, I awaited your return. I would not disturb your sleep. What did Quatama tell you?—
—He showed me. I was a babe, newborn. You were a baby, too.—
A different throaty laugh tickled my inner ear. —Your Naming Day. He showed your journey through the Well of Being.—
—Yes.—
—And. . . ?— There was slight hesitancy, a fear.
—You don’t know?—
—Know? I don’t know my own Naming Day journey and its results. These are things hidden deep within our cores, a master program motivating our outward selves. Do you think you could function as an individual, having consciously carried back the memory of the Universal Mind?—
A nebulous twinge of distrust toward Bael drifted through me. —You thought I would know.— I had felt that expectancy, distinctly. —And I thought . . . well, I thought I had remembered the journey and had told you of it in our other life, in Eliom.—
—You are special,— he answered me slowly. —I, too, thought you might remember, just a glimmer, having reenacted the journey.—
—Reenactment . . . —
“No,” I murmured aloud, then caught myself, glancing at Ginnie and Daniel.
—No,— I continued telepathically, —God spoke to me by my mortal name. First He addressed me as the immortal infant I once was. He commissioned me to do something. I can’t recall what. Something to do with keeping something, I can’t recall what. Then He answered a question I’d had before, when I was watching the reenactment as if it were a movie. Something to do with the grey mist. And God told me what it was. He said it was “the darkness before the light.”—
I sensed the amused tolerant smile on his face.
—Well,— I insisted, —that was what He said. If God wants to use a cliche, who’s going to judge Him?—
—It’s not the cliche that gives me pause. It’s the masculine pronoun.—
I stared into the darkness, puzzled.
—God is neither male nor female, Leianna.—
—Oh? You’ve caught God bathing in the buff, I suppose.—
He chortled. —No, but the angelfolk never described the Creator in sexually preferential terms.—
I shut my eyes, the need for sleep returning. —Well, people on Earth generally describe God as male.—
—Sheer ignorance. The Creator, our original Creator, has both male and female traits. The One understands both as part of Its Whole.—
I remained silent at first, the early dawn and my broken rest lulling me back to sleep. “It’s all right,” I whispered. “It’s a habit. God won’t mind.”
—What’s in a name?— Bael paraphrased. —That which we call God would sound as bittersweet . . .—
“’Sall right,” I sighed, barely hearing him, slipping back into unconsciousness.
* * * *
The viewing room screen is off. Quatama sits, relaxed, in his chair, as if patiently awaiting my return.
“God addressed me as I am . . . today,” I say. “How can He address me as an immortal babe, all those centuries ago, and also instantaneously address me as I am now?”
“The Universal Mind need not view time as you do, Leianna. Sometimes it is more important to understand the message, rather than when it was sent. Our Creator can be everywhen at once.”
“Did you stop the projection . . . the recall?”
“You and God stopped the recall, by means of the buffer.” He stands up, displaying the buffer, the skane prism in his hand, and places it in the red accordion file. He lays his hand flat on the viewing screen. The shiny black rectangle slowly emerges. That, too, is carefully returned to the file. “Do you recall the message?”
“Yes, but I don’t understand it? What is a keeper?”
“Ah, but what were Adenoy Dominey’s final words to you?”
“Something about fuzzy grey becoming blinding clarity. I don’t recall it exactly.” I try to smile and fail. “Have I done something wrong?”
Quatama reaches out, his hand lifting my chin, turning my averted face to his. “No. You do recall it, deep inside,
