29. The artist was on the ground outside the factory. A hole had been blown away and a good portion of the factory was in fragments around him. His head was bleeding and his ribs felt like they were broken.
The last thing he remembered was that he had grabbed the secret comic book and was trying to escape out the window when someone broke down the door and a group of people with guns flooded in. And then there was a flash of light and a sound. He wasn’t sure if he remembered the sound.
Pain shot through his chest and he couldn’t breathe.
There was someone walking near him bending over in the rubble and picking things up. He tried to call out but he couldn’t catch his breath. The figure ambled closer and he saw that it was the old crazy person from the burned-out car and there were pages from the secret comic that had been blown apart in one wrinkled hand.
He looked at the bum and the face was a patchwork of millions of wrinkles. There were more wrinkles than skin and on top of the grisly grey wren’s nest of hair was tied a pink elephant mask. There was no one else around so the painter thought he might as well try to ask what had happened.
"Too many people."
Well, he should have known better than to ask a crazy person.
"Only two were to enter the shrine," the crazy person said. Its voice was like sandpaper and it scraped against the artist uncomfortably. "Instead, there were sixteen." He was rifling through the pages of the secret book and the artist tried to grab them out of those ancient hands but the pain flung him back on the ground. Some blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth.
"This is very close," the crazy person said. "But not right."
Another wave of pain kicked at the artist’s insides.
"There were no missionaries. The temple was not dismantled from the outside."
"What?" the artist managed to get out.
"It was destroyed from within."
The artist stopped listening. Why should he listen to the random babblings of the insane when he should be getting to a hospital?
The artist could not see what the crazy person was doing bent over drawing a dot in the dirt.
"The Internal One from whom all things flow."
The old wrinkled hand drew two lines radiating out from the point.
"And two of the devoted in the Internal One’s presence."
Two points were drawn at the end of each line and then connected to each other making a triangle.
The old hand reached out and drew a line radiating out from each of the lower points.
"And from the two radiates outward encompassing everything. But no more than two. With more than two there is chaos and destruction."
"Listen, I need help," he tried to say but he was choking on blood. The pain washed over him again and he lay back amid the broken debris of the factory. The old crazy person looked over him and he looked up at the ancient eyes and did not see the fever of the mentally ill. He saw the eyes of his great, great grandfather. He writhed on the ground as another wave of pain and nausea rolled through him. He spat up blood.
His great, great grandfather lowered the mask of the pink elephant and reached out to the artist and touched his eyes.
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The last thing he remembered was that he had grabbed the secret comic book and was trying to escape out the window when someone broke down the door and a group of people with guns flooded in. And then there was a flash of light and a sound. He wasn’t sure if he remembered the sound.
Pain shot through his chest and he couldn’t breathe.
There was someone walking near him bending over in the rubble and picking things up. He tried to call out but he couldn’t catch his breath. The figure ambled closer and he saw that it was the old crazy person from the burned-out car and there were pages from the secret comic that had been blown apart in one wrinkled hand.
He looked at the bum and the face was a patchwork of millions of wrinkles. There were more wrinkles than skin and on top of the grisly grey wren’s nest of hair was tied a pink elephant mask. There was no one else around so the painter thought he might as well try to ask what had happened.
"Too many people."
Well, he should have known better than to ask a crazy person.
"Only two were to enter the shrine," the crazy person said. Its voice was like sandpaper and it scraped against the artist uncomfortably. "Instead, there were sixteen." He was rifling through the pages of the secret book and the artist tried to grab them out of those ancient hands but the pain flung him back on the ground. Some blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth.
"This is very close," the crazy person said. "But not right."
Another wave of pain kicked at the artist’s insides.
"There were no missionaries. The temple was not dismantled from the outside."
"What?" the artist managed to get out.
"It was destroyed from within."
The artist stopped listening. Why should he listen to the random babblings of the insane when he should be getting to a hospital?
The artist could not see what the crazy person was doing bent over drawing a dot in the dirt.
"The Internal One from whom all things flow."
The old wrinkled hand drew two lines radiating out from the point.
"And two of the devoted in the Internal One’s presence."
Two points were drawn at the end of each line and then connected to each other making a triangle.
The old hand reached out and drew a line radiating out from each of the lower points.
"And from the two radiates outward encompassing everything. But no more than two. With more than two there is chaos and destruction."
"Listen, I need help," he tried to say but he was choking on blood. The pain washed over him again and he lay back amid the broken debris of the factory. The old crazy person looked over him and he looked up at the ancient eyes and did not see the fever of the mentally ill. He saw the eyes of his great, great grandfather. He writhed on the ground as another wave of pain and nausea rolled through him. He spat up blood.
His great, great grandfather lowered the mask of the pink elephant and reached out to the artist and touched his eyes.
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