FIRST TESTAMENT
MELLISA
SHANNON
a history and a tragedy
By Taralisa Rhine
as transcribed by her devoted
student: Bobol
CHAPTER ONE
Dreamless
slumber ended with the sound of a flute, distant, melodious. She felt delicious
internal heat throughout, like she was energy. Diffused orange light filtered
through her eyelids; skin tingled, sensed still air upon bare surface. She lay
on her back, awake but unaware; no memories, no identity, and no purpose—only
being. She was a life with no focus—a sentient mushroom.
She smelled food and remembered
hunger; it reminded her that existence required action. She stirred, stretched
and arched her backbone.
Eyes
opened, gentle light; confusion, uncoordinated shapes, unknown colors. She
strained details: a ceiling network of pipes and conduits; recessed lamps cast
indirect light and mysterious shadows. She lay in a box—a sort of coffin—with
an open lid. It occurred to her that she had been asleep for a long long time.
And
still the flute song played.
Hunger
kept at her; she had to rise. She grabbed the topsides of the box and pulled
herself erect. Motion brought dizziness and nausea; she almost fell back onto
her mattress. But she held on, took a deep breath, closed her eyes in a grim
effort of will.
The
unbalanced feeling passed and she lifted her head; looked around. A long broad
room; dimly lit with rows of boxes identical to hers. A minority were open;
naked people sat upright in them. Other people stood shakily upon the floor,
some even had robes over their skin.
She
looked across to the next row, a man sat opposite; his eyes were confused, his
face a little troubled, but she knew his name was Paul.
The
hunger talked again, churned inside her, refused any leisure. She swung her
legs up and over the low sidewall of her box, one at a time. Then stood upon
the floor, naked and chilled.
The
next step was unclear, she wanted clothes, saw none. But found a cubbyhole
beneath the box. Within: a folded white robe and a pair of sandals. All was a
perfect fit; stitched across the left breast was a name—Charlene Hanson—another
perfect fit.
She
surveyed the room again, looking for a clue. Some of the people filed out
through an archway in a far wall.
She
realized that food odors emanated from that direction: coffee, baked bread and
earthy roasted aromas drew her appetite. “That’s where I need to go.” She moved
across to the archway. As she walked she noticed that the flute music was still
with her and that it came from ahead.
The
archway led into another large room; brightly lit, filled with the delicious
scents. A group of fully dressed people stood near the entry, quietly greeted
the wakened sleepers urged them to come in and eat.
Several
long trestle tables stood in the room, heaped with food and pitchers of drink.
A familiar man she didn’t quite recognize came toward her. He had the name
‘Jack’ embroidered on the breast of his jacket.
Jack
stood before her, grinned shyly, long arms dangled awkwardly. He tried to
speak, stammered out her name a couple of times and then gave up; swallowed her
in a deep loving hug. His touch was confident and easy; she liked it, and liked
his dark tall firm body.
Finally
he let her go and stood back, looked into her eyes. “You don’t remember yet...
But you must be starving! We’ve made up a ton of food for you! Sit! Eat!”
He
led her to a table, helped her to a seat and served. She was impressed, he
seemed to know what she wanted before she asked and ladled out exactly the
right portions. Once she got going on the meal he sat next to her and watched.
He didn’t speak, and that was all right—she only wanted food. But his quiet
presence and familiar eyes jogged her memory. By the time she sipped a final
glass of juice she remembered her husband—Jackson Conroy. She put the glass
aside and leaned over to give him a kiss. “I love you, Jack.”
