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INCREDULITY
by
James C. Clar
“Credo ut intelligam”
Anselm, Proslogion
Zoticus sat at the desk in his study. He was surrounded by armillary spheres, intricately wrought alembics and retorts as well as by a seemingly disorderly profusion of parchment scrolls and codices in a variety of languages both ancient and arcane. One particular tract, which he had managed to translate with some difficulty from Arabic, had proved especially fruitful. The breakthrough which he had managed to achieve as a result was the culmination of a lifetime of research and experimentation.
But how to disseminate the information and knowledge he had acquired? His was a skeptical age and people these days viewed his work with everything from condescension and amusement on the one hand to outright disdain and even hostility on the other. What was more, Zoticus was old. In spite of what he had learned, his own days were numbered. He was desperate to find someone to whom he could bequeath his wisdom and who would be both willing and able to carry on his work. Apprentices like that were few and far between at any time and in any place, but here and now they were particularly, acutely scarce.
There had been that young man last year. Zoticus had so hoped that he would persevere. Within weeks, however, the novice – despite his aptitude and keen mind – had succumbed to the poison of doubt. He had demanded “proof.” Proof of what, Zoticus had wanted to ask? But he knew that such an approach would have been futile. The youth insisted that he needed to “know” so that he might believe. The secret, as Zoticus himself had ascertained, was that one must first believe and only then might one come truly to “know.” Zoticus was convinced that one either understood that esoteric truism intuitively or one did not. And if one did not, there was no means that had yet been invented to alter such an individual’s outlook or hermeneutic.
Zoticus’ musings were interrupted by a knocking at his door. He rose stiffly and shuffled slowly into the hallway. A draught of cold air entered as he opened the outer door and the oil lamps began to sputter. Before him stood what he could only assume was another candidate. This one, however, was carrying a dead owl. Zoticus was intrigued.
“I will forsake all … my family, my friends, and my career … to become your apprentice but you must first prove that what is rumored about you is true,” the determined young man challenged Zoticus. “Raise this bird to life and I will stay.”
Zoticus couldn’t help himself. He stroked his long white beard and, despite the near tragedy of the situation, he began to laugh. “Another one,” he muttered under his breath. He shook his head in bewilderment.
As Zoticus was shutting the door the startled and bemused supplicant hurled the dead raptor at the old master’s feet in frustration. Unfazed, the elderly scholar closed the door completely and threw the latch. He bent and picked up the owl’s lifeless body and carried it back to his desk. Setting it down gently, he spoke one word with great conviction and authority. The animal’s hooded eyes began to flutter
My Bio: James C. Clar teaches and writes in upstate New York. His work has been published in print as well as on the Internet. Most recently his short fiction has found a home on Flashshot, Antipodean Sci-Fi, Apollo's Lyre, Taj Mahal Review, Residential Aliens, The Shine Journal and Static Movement.
My Motivation: A stray passage in my beloved Borges as well as far, far too many years teaching Theology!
Photo by:Kristof Degreef
