Theem

�Now tell me,� a voice from the darkness said. �Is flapping your hands around any help?�

Theem looked up. His senses told him the source of the sound was no less than twenty meters away. He was in the locker room of the city�s public coliseum. It was a modest-sized room arrayed with fourteen rows of five-foot steel lockers. There were no lights on except from that issuing from the refrigirator left open after his trainor took a can of beer.

�No one�s flapping his hands around in this room,� he answered.

�Ah.�

�And even if there was, I doubt you�d see it. Where are you? And who are you, for that matter?�

�So you are flapping your hands around.�

In a swift motion, Theem got up, ready for attack. �Show yourself to me and I�ll teach you why they forbid common folks to come around unbidden into locker areas of Council Trainees, and much more acuse them of fla��

�Theem!� the voice was suddenly harsh and heavy. Only then did Theem noted the raspiness in it. The man sounded as if he hadn�t slept for days and was talking to you through the telephone. �You should know that I will not be as stupid as to venture coming here without the proper permissions. I�ve talked to the King. And I happen to know very well what you monsters can do�what you monsters have been trained to do.�

�No one can get permission from the King that easily, much more call Council Trainees, and even Members, mons��

�And what should you be called? Heroes?�

Theem was silent, but it was more of trying to calculate in his mind the exact location of the intruder, than due to the lack of anything to say. �In more or less a year the Printing Process will restart, and it will be because of me, and the faith my trainor has in me.�

�Ah, I almost forgot. I am talking to The One. In four hours you will face your trainor in the coliseum in a battle to the death. Only after you�ve slain him shall it be an accepted fact that you are indeed what the prophecies speak of.�

Theem shut his eyes, and abruptly opened them. He was certain of the man�s location. In a movement no less effortless than a light skip, he appeared to where he had calculated the man was. He siezed the man by the throat. �Why do I sense you don�t fully believe the things you are saying? Who are you and why have you come here?�

The man smiled. He was half a foot taller than Theem was, and broader too. He had the get-up of actors-turned-politicians, complete with the pair of dark glasses. These last have fallen a bit off their proper place on the brigde of his nose so he adjusted them. �Good. So you indeed are prepared to meet your master.�

�You know very well I can end your life right now,� Theem threatened, applying more pressure on the man�s throat.

�Hhagggkkk!� came the sound out of the man�s mouth. The smile disappeared from his face, and yet there wasn�t a trace of fear as he said: �You won�t kill me. You can�t kill me. You can�t kill your own father.�

�My what?�

�Yes, Theem. I am your father, and I have come after all these years, with persmission from the King, to see you at this last moment. You have grown so powerful, my son.�

Theem loosened his grip, and finally let go. �My father? But my mother have always told me I didn�t have a father. In fact that was one of the reasons Biff Jorkensen identified I am The One.�

�Your trainor? Your master? Everyone around here knows he�s a loony. How can anyone be conceived without a father?�

�But that�s what it says in the prophecies.�

�The prophecies are yet another one of your trainor�s inventions. I won�t argue the reality of the halting of the Printing Process, but you can�t expect me to believe it will restart with the deeds of what they call The One.�

�Then why have you come only now?�

The harshness left Theem�s father�s voice. The effort to hold back the tears made him sound like a whining dog. �Because this could very well be the last time I�m going to see you.� He shed tears that, if only the voting public could see, would have guaranteed him at least 500,000 votes.

�What are you talking about, father? I am The One. I can�t die. I will slay my trainor, and eventually restart the Printing Process.�

�Don�t be a fool! Crazy as this is already, your facing your own trainor in a battle to the death, it�s even four times as foolish actually beliving the prophcies he has brought!�

�No one can prove the prophecies aren�t themselves already subtly suggested in our World-lore, much more ridicule the Battle of Thurnil��

�And what happened to your speech pattern!�

�What?� A third voice interrupted. It was deep and powerful, reverberating on the walls and locker doors for five entire seconds. �What�s wrong with the boy�s speech pattern?�

Before Theem�s father could realize, Biff Jorkensen, Theem�s trainor, Thurnildon Council member, and one of the only two survivors of the psychiatric world of �rth before it exploded, was striding in front of him.

He looked like a typical middle-aged man. His thinning white hair was parted to the left, revealing a severely wrinkled forehead. The facial hair he fashioned sprouted unevenly and irregularly across his face. If there indeed was power in him, it didn�t show in his pale-skinned, thin shoulders. His hands were those of a furniture repair man who did laundry right after working manually because certain power tools had not been functioning properly. He wore no vestment of a powerful warior, save for an apron-like piece of canvass tied around his waist. More movement would later betray that contained in the front pocket of that garment were crushed empty beer cans.

�Biff Jorkensen,� Theem�s father whispered in mock ashtonishment.

�Don�t fake reverence in the presence of a Thurnildon Council member,� said Biff Jorkensen. �I know very well that you think me to be a powerless, old man, and that you, without any physical combat training, can break my neck as easy as you can crush an empty beer can.�

�Whaaattt???�

Biff Jorkensen walked past Theem�s father, and passing Theem, put a hand on his shoulder and said, �Do an old and forgetful man a favor. Next time I leave the refrigirator door open, be a good lad and close it up for me, will ya?�

� Jay Santos 2003.