The Philosopher's Quill

The Philosopher's Quill

by Derk Bramer

The night had progressed so far that the fire, which had mere hours ago been a blazing inferno of light and heat, was dwindling.  Only embers remained, and the room was colder for its absence. Naught but a single candlestick illuminated the room with its flickering sentry, but the stumps of exhausted wax gave testimony to the erstwhile vigil of at least a dozen prior candles.  Piles of crumpled and discarded parchment littered the dirty stone floor, surrounding the small dog dozing on a soiled pillow. At the center of it all was a large, dust-covered writing table upon which was strewn an array of variegated manuscripts, each unique in every imaginable way, diverse in size, significance, subject matter and even language.  And at this mahogany desk hunched a man who with one hand rubbed the graying temples of his tousled hair and gripped a tattered quill with the other. His name was Xanadryn, and he was a philosopher.

Xanadryn had applied himself from an early age to the study of rationalism, and through both his humble toil and the grace of his patrons he had established himself as one of the most prominent figures in political and religious theory of his time.  His treatises on issues ranging from metaphysics to ontology were particularly resonant amongst the masses, for Xanadryn’s school of thought championed the pre-eminence of the needs of the many over the needs of the privileged few. After receiving a commission from a prominent bishop who approved of his recent pamphlet arguing for society’s obligation to the Church, Xanadryn began the work which would define his entire scholarly career.  It was only a few days prior, in fact, that he had at long last finished the crowning achievement of his intellectual career, which had been sent only a day before to a nearby abbey where it was to be transcribed by the resident monks and from there distributed to the masses.

But no sooner had Xanadryn inked those last words than an incurable dissonance clawed his heart and had since refused to release its dread grasp on the man’s inner peace, for the moment he finished what was to be his masterpiece he sensed that there was some indefinable wrongness to his entire code of ideals.  What frightened him more than this restlessness was that he could not locate its source. And surely, what reason had he to feel discontent with his own accomplishments, meager though they may be? He owed his very life to those who had supported his works, and if the populace was pleased with what he gave them then so was he.  Why, then, did he feel as if he had failed himself? This question had deprived him of sleep, had driven him to reread the lessons that had been etched into his mind during his youth, and now commanded him to scrutinize his own doctrine until he found the cause of his anxiety.

The philosopher dipped his quill into his half-empty inkwell and withdrew, continuing to jot down notes, but after a few minutes elapsed he began jabbing the rundown feather into the papyrus with increasing force as his brow furrowed to reveal premature wrinkles engendered by late nights of study and unremitting deliberation.  Frustrated but otherwise unruffled, he concluded that he had once again worn out the nib. With a rusting penknife he sharpened the dull plume with meticulous care, and before long was back into the contemplative bent which had become his most natural position.

When a chill slithered down his arched back, Xanadryn glanced upwards and, no longer oblivious to the cold which darkened the veins snaking across his bluing hands, scraped his heavy chair backwards with enough noise to startle the little mongrel out of its sleep.  After raising its head to sniff the air, the dog licked its master’s ankle and lowered itself back into the warm embrace of slumber. Xanadryn, indifferent to his pet’s affection, grabbed an iron rod and prodded the ashen logs of the fireplace, but the last spark had long since faded.

He wished, at times, that he could afford a servant to handle such affairs, but it was his duty as a man with a sizeable income to send the money he made in every direction save his own wellbeing.  Between his tithes sent to the clergy, the taxes he paid for the royal treasury, and the liberal donations he made toward various orphanages, hospitals, and poorhouses, he had little means to establish any luxury of his own, which was just as well, for he was determined that no man should ever accuse him of avarice.  And just then, flatfooted footfalls announced the presence of the living proof of the philosopher’s philanthropy, for the plodding steps belonged to Mungus, the fellow to whom Xanadryn had opened his doors out of the selflessness of his heart.

Mungus had been a pitiful wretch, homeless and without a coin to his name, and it was his overall piteousness, perhaps, which had awakened the Good Samaritan in Xanadryn.  On a trip to the market, Xanadryn had come across the tall but emaciated lout as he was being beaten by delinquent youngsters. After chasing the juveniles away from Mungus, who had been too enfeebled by starvation to even defend himself, Xanadryn had felt an overwhelming burst of compassion and decided to take the poor giant into his home.  There the scholar nursed Mungus back to health, offering both shelter and food, but once Mungus had regained his strength he decided that he so enjoyed the abode that he would take up permanent residence. Since then, the oaf took every advantage of Xanadryn’s unselfish hospitality, and now, while the philosopher was trying to solve mankind’s most complex conundrum, the hulking guest seemed to be striving toward the only activity he engaged in besides sleeping: eating.

“Cor blimey, it’s cold in here!  You’d best head to the market right quick-like, old codger, I just now finished off the last of the mutton and I’m already starving!”  With that, the hulking brute lumbered off to nestle himself into his flea-ridden bed – the bed that, many years ago, had belonged to Xanadryn’s parents.  Sighing, the philosopher returned his attention to the table where all his questions lay unanswered.

Since childhood Xanadryn had been taught that man only existed for other men.  Everyone was equal, and because he had been burdened with a modicum of intellect above that of his contemporaries, he was obligated to help those less fortunate than he.  Quite simply, Xanadryn was charged with the task of ridding the suffering of others. And so he had devoted his life to bettering the world for his king, his God, and his fellow man.  Yet no matter how many essays he wrote, no matter how many scrolls he filled with his teachings, children still starved, men still murdered, and unhappiness lay upon the land like a festering wound that no manuscript could bandage.  And a grating whisper in the deepest crevice of his heart warned that his masterpiece would solve nothing, and that he would never solve the riddle that was human sorrow.

A growling sound rose from the floor, snapping Xanadryn out of his ruminations.  The canine that had been sleeping so peacefully was barking noisily, and it was enough to put the philosopher in a foul humor.  Without so much as averting his eyes from his papers, his foot descended and stomped on the dog’s tail. The hapless hairball gave a strangled yelp and scattered out of the room as fast as its little legs would carry it.  Xanadryn used his sleeve to wipe the sweat off his brow and shook his head in exasperation.

“Such cacophony!  This blistering heat is distraction enough without that bitch and its…its…”  The scholar’s words had trailed into oblivion, for he had been overtaken by the feeling that he was being watched, and that furthermore his study, which had mere moments ago been colder than a crypt, now sweltered from a heat so intense as to send perspiration trickling down the spine that had shivered seconds before. A panic had overtaken Xanadryn, and his clamor he knocked over his inkwell, but so distraught was he that he paid no heed to the ink which seeped over his sheaf of paper and obscured his words in black ooze.  He turned around in a hasty whirlwind, nearly falling out of his seat in the process, for the hearth, which had been filled prior with naught but frigid ash, now hosted a roaring fire so fierce he could scarcely look directly into the blaze without being blinded.

Mortified as he was, the scholar was bound to his chair by equal parts curiosity and terror, frozen in place even as the phantasmagorical flames began to writhe in ways foreign to any worldly cinders.  As his eyes beheld the frightening furnace, he suspected that his gaze was being met eye for eye, for lo and behold, the fire contorted into what he dared not admit was a face, elongating into a shape that, with each writhing lick of the flames, took more and more the guise of a man.  When the conflagration’s wispy form had solidified into a sort of hellish homunculus hewn from heat, the philosopher could barely summon the gall to speak; when at last he could, a hoarse wheeze was the most he could muster.

“By God,” Xanadryn gasped, “what be ye, hellion?”  The apparition’s reply was a hiss of smoke, its voice the crackle of roasting flesh.

“I hail from the City thou wouldst call Dis,

Summoned to this realm by thy heart’s desire.

Aamon am I, Steward of Artifice;

No Muse am I, but Inspiration’s Pyre.

Thou seekest knowledge no one can offer,

The philosophy Man long since forgot.

So it is I present thee my proffer,

That thou might attain wisdom thou hast not.”

Xanadryn’s long, thin fingers trembled, but his tremulous shaking was the extent of his faculties, for his body had been turned to stone by the demon Aamon’s gorgon gaze.  The philosopher’s eyes were forced to fixate in unrelenting horror on the devil’s shifting form, for even when he closed his eyes the fiendish phantasm burned through his very eyelids, refusing to grant the scholar even a moment’s reprieve.  Xanadryn’s eyes told him that what he faced was an abomination, an affront to both God and Nature, and yet as the tortuous seconds passed, blind terror gave way to intellectual curiosity, and the more he capitulated on the spirit’s supposed proposal, the more his scholarly interest was piqued.  When Aamon saw the spark of cerebral intrigue ignite within Xanadryn, the demon extrapolated, its grating speech not as harsh as it had been.

“There is but one term, do not be alarmed.

On this offer I shall therefore expound:

Meet the condition and you’ll be unharmed –

By the Daemon Code I thusly am bound.

Live by the creed from this moment and on.

Follow the maxim for just a fortnight.

When fourteen days pass, I’ll return at dawn –

Till then, simply follow what thou wilst write.”

Xanadryn, his bodily functions having returned, lifted his weathered fingers to stroke the grimy stubble that bespeckled his chin in contemplation.  Learned as he was, he need not be told that the price for failing to meet this prerequisite would be his soul and his life. After all, Xanadryn had read of men who had foolishly bound themselves into contracts they had not comprehended until the moment was too late, but an agreement with only one stipulation seemed almost laughably simple.  If the sole condition of attaining the knowledge he so desperately sought was to obey said insight immediately, then he was sure that he need not fear for his soul in the slightest. And what, he asked himself, was the worth of one soul when weighed against the innumerable others in the world for which his bounty could enlighten? He would gladly risk his own damnation if it meant raising the masses toward providence.  What better end could he hope for than that of altruism? To sacrifice himself for the common good was the highest possible ideal to the society to which he had pledged his entire being, and thus he felt that he had no choice but to agree. Xanadryn closed his eyes, uttered a silent prayer, and gazed directly into the demon’s smoldering core.

“I, Xanadryn, accept your terms.”

Having sealed his pact, Aamon’s form cast off its humanoid façade and split apart into many convulsing tentacles of fire.  At the center of these serpentine conflagrations rested his head, whose features seemed to transform at random, possessing a wolf’s snout now and an owl’s beak then, shifting from one creature’s parts to another’s and then back again, never resting in one shape but constantly altering its visage.  The voice of Aamon, however, remained as it ever had been, a sizzling hiss that jarred the senses and unsettled the heart of any mortal unfortunate enough to hear its demonic rasp.

“I give thee a pen from a firebird’s plume,

A pinion plucked from the Phoenix of lore.

Just as it’s reborn with ashes for womb

Will your mind arise more wise than before.

Old thoughts will die, but awaken anew,

Purged by the flames of the Phoenix’s Quill.

Write thy question and the truth will accrue,

Transcending the whims of thy feeble will.”

No sooner had Aamon’s words ended than did the fire erupt forth in a final burst of smoldering glory, forcing Xanadryn to shield his eyes from the blinding flare.  The heat grew so intense that it sent the man reeling, causing him to slip in the puddle of now-boiling ink that had trickled down from the table and sending him toppling to the floor, his fall broken only by his dog’s singed pillow.  Smoke now billowed from the hearth, choking the scholar and engulfing his vision in blackness. Xanadryn surrendered his soul to the inferno, and his entire being plunged into darkness, where neither dreams nor nightmares could trouble his slumber.

Dust motes danced in the first rays of the morning sun, gaily gallivanting around the motionless body sprawled haphazardly on the chilly stone floor.  But when first the cock crew, heralding the new day, the noise awoke Xanadryn and roused him from his deep sleep. Blinking, as if surprised to find himself alive and well, the disheveled scholar heaved himself from the floor, moaning from the aches that accompanied an evening spent slumped on the ground.  With consciousness came the memory of the prior night’s ghastly occurrences, which, try as he might, he could not dismiss as fantasy. And so it was with much trepidation that Xanadryn shuffled toward his empty ingle, and upon the briefest of surveys breathed a sigh of relief, simultaneously delighted and disappointed that these ashes could never have housed so foul a fiend as the demon Aamon.  But closer inspection brought his attention to a tiny speck of red in the corner, and though it at first glance seemed to be nothing more than a surviving spark, further investigation indicated it was something more. Reaching into the fireplace, he brushed aside the cinders and procured a peculiar pen.

The pen was carved from the most beautiful feather Xanadryn had ever laid eyes upon, for when he turned it in his hand, the morning light refracted off of the quill so as to shift its color from a regal red to a rich gold and back again.  Succumbing to his insatiable curiosity, Xanadryn returned to his desk, and with a sweep of his arm brushed the mess of used parchment onto the floor. He grabbed a few new sheaves of his finest sheepskin, rummaged through his drawers until he procured a fresh inkwell, and hunkered down to put this mysterious relic to the test.

Recalling the demon’s instructions, Xanadryn understood that he first needed to write down a question in order for the answers to follow.  There was nowhere to begin, he decided, but at the most fundamental level. After quenching the quill’s thirst for ink, he wrote the simplest, yet most basic inquiry he could: ‘What is a man?’  For a few hesitant heartbeats, Xanadryn knew not what to expect. He began to doubt whether anything would happen at all, until he realized that the response had already been written.

‘Man is Man,’ read the words inscribed on the parchment in Xanadryn’s own handwriting.  Shaking his head in astonishment, he realized that he had written those words without even realizing it, as if the quill had moved his hand of its own accord.  But the declaration he had transcribed seemed puzzling, its meaning elusive and tantalizing at once, and so the philosopher wasted no time in jotting down more questions, and soon he had conducted a veritable interview with himself.

‘What is the moral purpose of man’s life?’ he had written, to which the quill replied,

‘His own happiness.’

‘What is man’s noblest activity?’

‘Productive achievement.’

‘What can man hold as absolute?’

‘Reason, only reason.’

Xanadryn leaned back, as if looking at the paper from a distance would help him take in the enormity of these scant few words.  These radical phrases were a stark departure from anything he or his colleagues had ever considered. No intricate wordplay, no hidden meanings, just…reality.  The years of tension and apprehension that had vanished from his heart testified that this was the truth for which he had yearned, but it frightened him, almost as terribly as the presence of the devil called Aamon.  He knew that in his hands was fire, a dangerous tool, but a tool nonetheless, one which he could use to illumine the virtues of obeying not subjective mysticism, but objective reality. At that moment the philosopher vowed that, with the power of the phoenix quill, he would use these values to cast off the shadowed shroud of ignorance and oppression under which he had labored for everyone but himself, and through his innovations pave the way toward a perfect world led by the individual; no Gods, no Kings, only Man.

The sun’s bright rays flowed freely into the cozy study, warming the room and invigorating the strong, supple limbs that carried in a man whose proud bearing and handsome features could not be more unlike the unkempt, shambling tatterdemalion that had occupied the room scarcely twelve days prior.  Though just under two weeks had passed since the fateful transaction between spirit and scholar, it was a clean-shaven gentleman who strode confidently across the tidy stone floor and sat down with self-assured posture at his polished writing table, on top of which his recent manuscripts were neatly organized.  Xanadryn’s new philosophy had sloughed off decades of premature decrepitude instigated by the self-imposed slavery that had dictated the sacrifice of his own health and comfort for the convenience of others. Now he had learned to value himself and his belongings, and already this reversal in outlook had generated dramatic results.

A soft panting near the ground caught Xanadryn’s ears, but this time when he reached down it was not to swat his dog but to pet it, and after a few soothing words to the pup he reached into the folds of his freshly cleaned robes to pull out a small scrap of meat he had saved from his lunch for this very occasion.  As the dog gratefully chewed at her unexpected treat, Xanadryn ran a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair and inserted a thick, bronze key into a heavy oaken box. From this small chest the philosopher extracted its only content; a quill whose plumage was either red or gold, neither color yet both all at once. The newly written volumes stacked before him were evidence of the wonders he had woven with the miraculous pen, for once he had accustomed himself to the use of the phoenix’s quill, entire scrolls had been filled with his newfound beliefs, writing in a few days essays that would have taken him years to postulate without the aid of the enchanted quill.

The sound of heavy footsteps told Xanadryn that Mungus was about to enter.  He had been meaning to have a word with that freeloader, but had been too busy with his work to track the oaf down.  When he placed the quill back in its chest and rose from his desk, he was surprised to see that on Mungus’ lumpy, hairy face was a distinct look of apprehension and perhaps, he ventured, even remorse.

“What is it, Mungus?”

“Xan’dryn,” he croaked, “I got to confess, your books got me thinking.  Now, I can’t read, but late at night when I’m a-lying in my cot I can hear you reading aloud to yourself as you write your books down, and it just got me thinking.  Now I didn’t get it all, wot with the big words and such, but what I did get was that it’s wrong to expect people to help you when you’ve done nothin’ for them, and well, I’ve been downright rotten to you.  That’s why I’m leavin’ today, so I won’t be a burden no longer.”

Xanadryn nearly choked on his own astonishment, for this was hardly how he had expected their exchange to begin.  Not once had he considered that this philosophy would already have such an immediate impact on the people around him.  With an incredulous smile, Xanadryn shrugged his slender shoulders.

“Alas, this is most unwelcome news.  These new manuscripts of mine must be copied, but it is an undertaking too arduous for a lonely scholar.  Mungus, I would have you stay as my scribe.”

“Well, then,” Mungus said through his bushy beard, “I s’pose that’s the least I can do for you.  Right, then, I’ll stay and do wot you wish, and I’ll do it for free if it pleases you.”

Xanadryn merely shook his head, albeit more pleased than offended. “That, Mungus, would be entirely unacceptable.  Just as I refuse to enslave myself to others, so too shall I refuse anyone who wishes to become a slave to me.”

Mungus scratched the back of his shaggy head, blinking furiously, until he could find the words to convey his perplexity.  “Now I don’t have a lot of book-learning but I’m right confused. I always heard you talking about something called al…alt…altruism – that’s wot it was, altruism – and how altruism’s all bad-like and such.  But if you want to give me money when I’d gladly serve you for not a one coin, ain’t that like altruism?”

“Allow me to elucidate, in terms which you may readily follow.  Welfare for altruism’s sake is indeed an evil.  Thus, it would be wrong of me to extend charity for no purpose beyond an erroneous belief that those who are successful hold an irrational obligation toward those who are not.  But it would be equally unreasonable for you to become a thrall, toiling for my sake and receiving not even a pittance for your labor.” When Xanadryn saw Mungus’ eyes slowly light up in understanding, the philosopher continued.

“But for one to justly pay another man for his services, and for a man to work and receive the pay he has earned, is entirely moral.  In fact, it is the only rational and ethical option.”

“Well then,” said Mungus, with a whiskery grin, “it’ll be an honor working for you, sir.”  His meaty hands took Xanadryn’s in a hearty handshake, but without warning a look of realization spread across his face.

“Cor blimey!  I nearly forgot, a monk from the ol’ abbey came by with this letter for you.  I guess now I’ll be collecting your mail regularly, eh wot?”

Xanadryn eagerly took the letter from his new hireling and sent him off to begin practicing the copying of words, leaving the scholar alone with the letter.  After breaking the seal and skimming through the salutation and the securing of the good will, he reached the narration (the facts of the matter) and blanched at what he read.  The abbey’s resident monks had just finished transcribing the philosopher’s so-called “masterpiece,” the definitive essay meant to further popularize the very altruism that had ensnared Xanadryn in its tangled web of mysticism and ignorance, and would surely trap countless others if it was allowed to be distributed to the general populace.  Though the work was representative of what he had previously fooled himself into believing, he could not in good conscience allow its lies to spread, and so he determined to put a halt to the copies’ release by any means necessary.

Xanadryn tucked his quill into his pocket, donned his riding cloak, and set out for the abbey with not a moment’s dalliance, for the ride could take up to two days, and time was running short.

The abbot’s chambers were stark, unadorned, and above all else built to strip away the comfort of anyone unlucky enough to find themselves there.  The abbot was surely wealthy enough to afford basic accommodations, but these quarters were hardly fit for a convicted prisoner, as if the abbot himself was atoning for a lifetime of unearned guilt by forcing himself to sleep in a subhuman cell.  Xanadryn could not help but feel disturbed by the sight of this voluntary, self-inflicted punishment, but he remained ever respectful as the abbot lifted his withered head from the thick tome at his dilapidated desk.

“Xanadryn, my child!  What brings you here?”

“I have no time for formalities, I fear,” cut in the philosopher brusquely.  “The manuscripts – I trust they are still here?”

“Yes, yes, do forgive my poor scribes for not having finished sooner, but in a matter of hours your humble undertaking shall become the magnum opus revered by God’s children across the entire kingdom.”

“That is the very matter for which I visit you today.  Abbot, those manuscripts of mine must not be released.”  Upon hearing this demand, the old clergyman’s eyes, which had been sunken deep into the fleshy recesses of his skull, threatened to pop out of their sockets.

“But, my child, surely you jest!  Our people deserve to read these works.  We as men of education are obligated to the masses to give to them all that which does not already belong to the crown and the cloth.”

“Listen to reason, I implore you!  We should be working under a system where men deal with one another as traders, by free, voluntary exchange to mutual benefit, not as victims and executioners, nor as masters and slaves.  You and I owe the populace nothing save what we willingly choose to share.”

The ancient abbot only shook his wrinkled head in bewilderment, and so the scholar extrapolated on his claims, hoping to somehow appeal to the ancient one’s sense of reason.

“Every man and woman is born with a set of inalienable rights, and just as a man has rights over his economic property – his land, his house, his money – so too does a man have control over his intellectual property.”

At the scholar’s mentioning of rights, however, the abbot had found his voice, and with a shocking nimbleness for his age he leapt in front of the philosopher, his high voice creaking with age.

“My child, are you feeling well?  Shall I send you to the apothecary for treatment of your ill humors?  You of all know perfectly well that these rights, this property of which you speak, it belongs to the King.  And what are the thoughts of man if not the property of God? Regardless, think of the scribes which have labored so dutifully.  Why, even I sacrificed my sleep to ensure we met our deadline. Surely you cannot think to put all of our hard work to naught, for that would be selfishness.”

Xanadryn’s next reply came from the bottom of his heart, and even without the quill’s assistance he knew it to be true:

“You cannot claim property over another man’s words and ideas, simply because yours was the hand which put it to parchment.”

The abbot’s pale flesh had reddened with anger, and so flustered was the old man that he couldn’t even yelp out his customary accusations of blasphemy.  The philosopher could only sigh, for he knew that there would be no lifting the wool from the clergyman’s closed eyes.

“I shall not ask you to agree, Abbot.  I shall not even ask you to understand.  All I desire is that you respect my wishes in deciding on the handling of my property.  But, should you choose to deny me my basic rights as a human being, no amount of force will prevent me from reclaiming them.”  By the time the abbot had reclaimed his faculty of speech, the philosopher was already gone.

Outside, under the waning moonlight, the monks had finally finished stacking the manuscripts that they had transcribed from Xanadryn’s original, and by dawn the wagons would arrive to carry these sheaves off to their destinations.  But no sooner had they placed the last text on top of the massive load than did a voice sound forth from atop the heap of parchment, a voice which rang clearly and assertively.

“I am Xanadryn, and I have come here to ask you a question.  Is a man not entitled to the sweat of his brow?” The monks turned back around to find out just who had caused this outburst, and when they recognized the name they were hushed into a shocked silence.

“Nay, says the King, it belongs to the Crown.”  A wary murmur immediately ran through the crowd, for whether or not they agreed, these monks knew full well that to voice such a radical opinion would be considered treason.

“Nay, says the Church, it belongs to God.”  Now the murmurs rose in volume and in fury, and several threats were thrown toward the audacious trespasser who had dared to question their leaders.  But the philosopher continued, heedless of naysayers, and his speech could be heard well above the slanderous curses which wished for nothing more than to silence him.

“I, however, say that a man must exist not as the means to the ends of others but as an end in himself, for his own sake.  I am not asking others to sacrifice themselves to me, nor should anyone expect me to sacrifice myself to others. To pursue one’s own rational self-interest, to pursue one’s own happiness – that is the highest moral purpose of a man’s life!”

Suddenly, Xanadryn leaped down from the pile and grabbed the nearest lantern from an unsuspecting monk.  The crow of a rooster could be heard in the distance, though the first light of dawn had yet to reveal itself, and the light from the lantern cast a dreadful shadow over the scholar’s face, so that those who would later tell tales of that tragic night would swear that Xanadryn’s face had contorted into a devil’s sneer.

“And as I brought these lies into the world, so shall I expunge them!”

With that, Xanadryn tossed the glowing lantern into the center of the load.  The inexpensive paper on which the manuscripts had been printed lacked the resistance to heat that sheepskin boasted, and as such it did not take long for the entire mound to burst into flames.  Just as he had physically arisen from his own funereal ashes, transformed from a passive beast of burden to an active fountain of genius, so too would his writings undergo a trial by fire before being reborn as the works of beauty and truth they were meant to be.  As the pyre rose, the monks fled from the fire in fear, but the philosopher stood his ground against the heat, his inquisitive eyes every bit as fierce as the roaring blaze. From the smoking scrolls fluttered down a tiny scrap of paper, the rest of it incinerated, which Xanadryn caught in his hand and found that one word was left intact.  From this mountain of mendacity only three letters had survived: “Man”. Here it was taken out of the manuscripts’ context, but, once separated from the lines meant to demean its meaning, he saw that it was the most beautiful word he had ever written.

The sky was still no brighter than the muted gray of early dawn, and when Xanadryn realized that once again the flames were returning his gaze, not a muscle in his body tried to escape, no longer staying out of fear but remaining in defiance of the forces which threatened his life and his liberty.  When the monstrous form of Aamon once more arose from the bonfire, Xanadryn shouted clearly and unwaveringly, determined to be heard even above the violent snarl of the creature’s combustion.

“Behold, demon!  I have fulfilled my side of the bargain by following my own philosophy for a fortnight.  Now leave me in peace, that I may return to the fruits of my creation.”

Aamon’s response, however, was an ear-splitting howl, a condescending sneer the likes of which only the direst of demons could issue.

“Thou came not to this conclusion alone,

By thine own dedication and insight.

Rather, these thoughts be not even thine own!

Thy hypocrisy hath no end in sight.”

Needless to say, the philosopher was indignant.  In his righteous anger Xanadryn threw his arms out wide, brazenly challenging the villain’s verdict.  “Explain yourself, archfiend. I have answered the questions of the mystery of life. I have followed my own rational self-interest at every step.  I have taken pride in myself as an individual and as a man, and I have taken charge of my own destiny. I have become a creator, an innovator, a being above the monks who copy my words and hold them as their own.  How dare you accuse me of those bloodsuckers’ offense?”

“Thou placed thy faith in a phoenix and fiend,

When the answers should have come from within.

On mysticism’s teat thou hast been weaned,

And not once didst thee consider this sin.

How canst thou hope to offer the herd food,

When thy blood is what waters their grasses?

Thou offered thy soul for the common good,

And risked losing thy life for the masses.”

Xanadryn’s hand tightened around the piece of parchment in his palm, for he now grasped the validity of the devil’s accusations.  Even though the words he had written had all been good and true, once he proclaimed himself master of a stolen philosophy he became no better than the monks who had artlessly copied his older works, which were themselves but a permutation of the popular voice.  At last he saw that the quill had not broken his cycle of imitation but had perpetuated his reliance on replication, for the values of this objective philosophy were meaningless if not earned by his own intellectual invention. By now, however, it was far too late to hope for salvation.  He had failed, and now he would suffer the ultimate punishment.

“I tell thee, philosopher ill-fated,

The contract’s price contradicted the creed.

Thou hast copied instead of created;

Thus were thou damned as soon as thou agreed.

"Rather than follow all of the tenets,

Thou hast lived the borrowed life of a leech –

Now shalt thou pay the parasite’s penance

For failing to practice what thou didst preach!”

Neither man nor animal could have outrun the tendrils of fire which lashed out at its prey, but Xanadryn had not so much as attempted to evade the snakelike flames that whipped his body, scorching his flesh and singing his hair.  So thick was the smoke that it blotted out the rising sun, and the philosopher’s world was only darkness and heat. After gasping for breath and inhaling only cinders, he glanced down at his robes to find them set aflame by the sparks which had leapt from the inferno.  Coughing, crying, he attempted to pat out the flames which were steadily creeping up his robes but instead succeeded only in burning the appendages which were so dear to him. His mouth opened to cry out to the Heavens, to pray for the mercy of God, but his tongue had been blackened and his lungs were filled with ash.

Through smoke and tears he saw that his hands, which had been meant to accomplish greatness but instead had produced only lies of one form or another, were erupting in blood red blisters, one for each word of his counterfeit composition.  But even then, he held fast to the scrap of paper clenched in his broiling fist. He would never let it go.

Despite the physical torment of his body being slowly cooked and suffocated, a serene calm placated Xanadryn’s soul, leaving neither restlessness nor unchecked zeal, but an inner peace that had previously eluded him his entire life.  Reaching into the tatters of his disintegrated robes, the philosopher procured the phoenix quill, seeing for the first time as a scepter and a cross, and then renouncing both by feeding the pen to the pyre, forsaking the accursed quill just as it had forsaken him.  

Yet he knew in his heart that Aamon had been wrong, at least in one regard.  Xanadryn had already written the answer to all his questions, of his own volition.  It was right there in his hand. He had simply needed the burn away the falsehoods first, so that only the good remained.  It was just one word, but in it laid more power than all the armies of Earth and all the choirs of Heaven combined. The one word held one truth.  The one truth was in one man. The individual, unbound from the shackles of collectivist oppression. And if the price for freedom was his life, well then, Xanadryn could not even imagine choosing life as a slave over death as a freeman.  

When the flames had died and only ashes remained, the monks returned to recover any salvageable objects and ensure the embers had all been extinguished.  After they had dug through the piles of soot, they at last found the charred remains of a skeleton which, upon inspection from the abbot, was confirmed to have belonged to the late Xanadryn.  It was not the untimely demise of this enigmatic man, humble servant one day and genius heretic the next, which had baffled the monks and caused his tale to be etched into the annals of legend.  And it was not the peculiar circumstances of his death which prompted his new works, copied down by a loyal servant, to become so fervently followed by a marginalized group of scholars.

The monks of the abbey, on the other hand, had found new purpose in deciphering the half-burnt scrap of paper pried from the philosopher’s bony hand.  That it survived such a terrible fire was a miracle, they said, and though they never spoke of it near the abbot they agreed that Xanadryn was a Saint who had come to Earth to lead his people to enlightenment. For on the parchment was written but one word, and yet within just four letters the monks felt as if the mysteries of the universe had been unfolded before them, for the word was "Mine".