THE PEN OF SOLOMON

By H.J. Cruz

          It was in an old book store in a seedy part of town many years ago that I came across a dog eared copy of the tales of King Solomon, written in the old Hebrew style. Its date of publication was unknown. The binding and typeset told me it was at least a few hundred years old. A nervous tension known only to the bibliophile also told me; here was something rare.

Thirty dollars was a bargain in my eyes and I eagerly took it home and struggled with translating the first chapter which was written from right to left. The binding was fragile and it split into three parts during handling revealing a hollowed out spine. I thought it quite odd that another binding had been added over the first giving it the impression of a larger book and probed to see if I could get a glimpse of the original, but the calfskin was  brittle, crumbling at the least bit of pressure from my letter opener. I felt something hard, wrapped in a silk cloth. I cut more of the binding and removed it.

          Now before me lie a mystery, a round cylindrical object rolled and carefully sewn tight in a stained white silk. My hands trembled with anticipation as I cut the stitching. A few layers within was a small parchment note coiled about the shaft of what appeared to be a pen. But like no other pen I had ever seen, an antique that carried a strange pungent aroma. The shaft was wooden and blackened from centuries of grubby palms and had engravings that did not resemble Hebrew. The tip was perhaps ivory and it too had some sort of scrimshaw, encapsulating a small tiny white ball upon its tip. I was flabbergasted at the thought that I may well be holding the first ball point pen ever invented. I could only guess at its value and knew I had research to perform before such an assumption could be made.

          I read the note;

                    Now yee sing eko’s of crea’shun past, presant en futyre,

Thine mytee skribe speaketh onlee truthe.

Choose thee questin well then annoynt wit blude

Call thee Ruach times three whilst holdin it,

Thyer before yee lye yourn anser save reasin.

Thine nowe thou furthyst reaches of hart en sole,

 yee comprehendith not yor soles decifer.

Tis the last property of the gude captin en crew,

God save us iffin it falls in an evil han.

I gits rid of it to de firs pyos man I lay me eyebal upon.

          Most bizarre; a pen that use’s blood for ink. I examined it closer and found the tailpiece to be removable, and opened it to find it stained through, then tapping it on the desk and leaving a pile of dried blood that gave a gruesome credence to the dead sailor’s epitaph.

That night I was consumed with thoughts of the pen and slept little. The following day I postponed all work and donated blood for the sake of retrieving a small vile to quench my curiosity. After a thorough cleaning I refilled the old instrument and sat quietly in my study with shades pulled and a pad before me trying to think of a suitable question. Then not being able to wait a moment longer I shouted out Ruach three times and began to write with my body’s ink. The pen was fluid and wrote as well as any gel roller I ever had. I wrote the following;

How did this pen come to be?

          Suddenly I felt faint, as if the very life was being sucked out of me. Then my hand tingled and began to go numb. Within moments the hand I once controlled began to scribble across the page in a haphazard fashion, so I raised my elbow slightly and now the lines of words became more uniform and after a few minutes it stopped and before me were these words;

Then King Solomon brought before him, conjurers from lands near and far and set before them a large pot full of gold and precious gems and the task of acquiring it;

          “Present a device for private commune with Gods mightiest servants and I will bequeath unto you all this and much more!”

Not one of the appointed could surrender such a device, and all were vanquished, save one, who told of a pious wise man far to the east who might be able to grant such a wish. The king entrusted the conjurer to deliver the precious pot to him with the same instructions, yet heard nothing for many years, fearing the worst.

Then one day while the king rode in caravan a giant hawk swooped down, landing on the edge of his litter. In his talon’s was a scroll inscribed to the king. And within that scroll this scripter’s tool with instructions for its use, Followed only by the sign of the craftsman.

   I slowly regained full control of my senses and could once again feel my hand.  I read the words before me in utter shock, dropping the pen and staring at it while the magnitude of the situation paralyzed me with fear, apprehension and an even deeper curiosity as my next question came to mind, I grabbed the pen and wrote; how was this instrument of divination created?

   The vision given to the prophet upon request and after sharing acquired riches with those who suffered was thus; With the hollowed tooth of the cave serpent and the wood from the bosom of the sacred tree hollowed as a flute to hold life’s blood. Tipped with the gem of the mollusk, sanctified in name and anointed with the blood of the prophet.

Without giving it much thought I quickly wrote down my next question.

Who’s the voice behind the written words?

I Ruach, scribe of Enoch speaking from the undivided.

This was truly amazing, it was as if I was the prophet himself, or some sort of cosmic phone where you could call an angel for advice. I wondered if there were any limitations to the nature of questions I could ask.

Scribe of Enoch, is there no question you can not answer?

Each are granted nine questions with their own bodily humors, beyond this further correspondence must be made with the blood relative.

Nine questions! My god, I just used four. The need to scrutinize my curiosity became necessary and I mulled over what questions had the greatest benefit. Thinking there was some begotten mystery to my life I asked; what is my main purpose here?

You came onto the land of time for physical expression; you have no debt to pay. Duties are self imposed. Practice benevolence and give love freely, then you will enjoy the world of false friction more.

I soon realized I must be more specific with each question if they were to yield detailed answers. My next question took hours of contemplation, but I felt it necessary in these times of uncertainties.

Ruach, what is the folly of mankind and how can we correct it?

Collectively the conscious man seeketh control of nature in all kingdoms  feared, poisoning it with servitude and condemnation. Thou seeketh endless profit and concern yourself not for the welfare of your brethren nor the inheritance of those to come. Without temperance your downfall is inevitable. Only man can change what he has become, yet the disease lay disguised as success continues to be taught to your heirs in mass; a self fulfilling legacy of ruin. Now the sands of time escalate as never before as the land you reside upon, the air you breathe and waters of life become exploited without end. You must ask yourself how do I define success?

I gazed long and hard at the words drawn by my unconscious scribbling, realizing the gravity. Our entire culture has bought in to a malignant stereotype. Was there any hope for the type of change required? Even if there was a model blueprint for success how could one hope to sell it to nations with fragile economies and burgeoning populations teetering on the verge of poverty? Could the answer lie in our precious youth who blindly follow tradition without question? How could we teach them righteousness without hypocrisy shadowing our every word, and we being products of prodigal cultures can hardly begin to discern what is the right path. At this stage in the game we can not turn back to the ways of the indigenous cultures because our sheer numbers would guarantee starvation or worse. We would be forced to turn to the very science that brought us here. A Pandora’s box without a key! My next question I did not ask due to its personal and financial nature, so I pondered a new one.

Is there no true path within current social, religeous or current cultural disciplins worthy of Gods blessing?

All methods of contemplating god are worthy, God does not descriminate! All that promotes humble loving union are worthy endeavors, judgement is a physical characteristic. Man’s free will is as unabated as his manifestations. Loving the creator is not the issue here loving his creation is, for it is polinated with potential, clemency be granted as the scales of chaos and contentment are balanced. Your fear based systems create order for supposed disorder, your moral ideals are like tides ebbing and flowing, relative only to an emotional attachment; to a belief whose definition is forever illusive. Your attachments become you; as lichen encrusted stone, you no longer shine. But know this; your conscious soul will persevere reguardless of your predisposition. Your true path resides without institution but herein; constitution among restitution brings resolution!

I immediately wrote my next question.

Ruach, Will man survive this century or perish in a global war?

Man will survive for many centuries to come, yet different than you would have imagined; a parasite buroughs deeper as the surface is repeatedly scratched. Your global war has already begun, you have just refused to notice. Survival of the passive specie is failing destroying the delicate balance necessary. It matters not if a microbe or a missle initiated the process. Once a link in the chain of the circle of life is broken it causes another link to weaken  eventually breaking as well. It can start with bees and lead to flowers but  the links are woven like a patchwork quilt that will eventually cease to support life. Will man survive? Yes, with cunning and resourcefulness, however the environment as you know it will become increasingly more hostile. It shall become a battle of attrition as your numbers are decimated by foe’s equal in quantity to which you’ve contrived.

This will end our session!

Wait! That was only eight questions, you said I got nine!

The agreement was fulfilled, how you calculate is of your own accord.

Going back over the questions I noticed that I had asked two questions simultaneously and would now need the fresh blood of a relative if I was to get more answers. I conned my sister into donating blood and gave the nurse a small vile making up a story about DNA research being a hobby.

It had been over a week before I was able to get back to the business of corresponding with Ruach, or so I thought. But as I eagerly wrote the first of many prepared questions the scrivener was silent. Something was wrong. Going over the notes I realized the blood relative Ruach spoke about must have ment, the blood relative to the subject at hand, and all the questions I hoped to get answered became moot. I would have to rephrase my questions so that they were pertinent of and about my sister. To prove my theory I used a sample question; is my sister happy?

Now I felt the head and the hand respond accordingly and I began to see blood on the tablet.

The pleasure we receive is equal to the pleasure we bring. She is relatively content, yet inner turmoil has recently surfaced due to a career decision tearing her away from her family and creating disharmony within the home.

This answer just led to more questions, as they all did. Soon I would be spilling the blood of many in my quest for truth and wondered when it would end. I felt like some sort of clandestine vampire trading blood for knowledge that couldn’t be shared. I thought about the possibilities of getting fresh blood from leaders in all walks of life and wondered if the truth would be something I could stomach let alone change. Yet something began to change inside me as I mulled it all over, perhaps I inherited some of Ruachs wisdom; perhaps the earth shattering experience made me see clearly for the first time in my life. Whatever the case, I began to think about things on a deeper more philosophical level.

   When we take the mystery out of life we steal the intangible’s; that magical essence that keeps us motivated to search for meaning, and it is that search that gave birth to those institutions that have become icons of tradition, and it is tradition that many cling to as the world becomes increasingly complex. I began to see why the pen was hidden away; sometimes the reality is that the ultimate truths underlying the greatest of questions shouldn’t be known, for they don’t just rock the boat, they often sink it when hope is what keeps it afloat.

H.J.Cruz

5/20/07