The Long Haul South

A heavy, sinister canopy covers the sky as distant rumblings of thunder reverberate through miles of tranquil dreariness. Overhead, clusters of stratus, cumulus, and nimbus clouds seem to intentionally congregate for the sole purpose of darkening the already somber midday. Strong gusts of cool wind dance to and fro above the pitch black mountain peaks, making occasional dives into the valley below it; they make ominous whistling sounds as they bounce off each other, adding to the natural orchestra of boisterous thunder and deafening silence.

On the ground level, three men dressed in distinctively different black-themed outfits arduously trudge on the valley floor made up of dark charcoal soil and jagged gravel. As they slowly persist on the terrain, they notice the barrenness of the landscape: treeless slopes as far as the eye can see; several gradients of gray, ash, and lead decorate the sides of cliffs jutting out of the earth; no sign of any possible shelter from harsh elements; and no sign of other forms of life elsewhere.

The trio traverses on what they can only surmise as a dried up riverbed, littered with rocks and boulders of varying sizes awash in shades of iron, slate, and graphite. None of the men had a map or any means of navigation… and not a single one of them has uttered a word since embarking on their enigmatic trek.

Until now.

“How long have we been following this…” he pauses, pants, and looks around before continuing his rant. “…this path!? It feels like it’s taking an eternity just to get to nowhere... around and through these… rocks! Rocks! Everywhere! I can’t stand it!” Erev, an impetuously impatient Greek dressed in his country’s traditional garb — his foustanella, poukamiso, yeleko, zonari, kaltses, gonatare, tsarouhia, and sariki… all in black — is the first to break the silence among the three. He voices out his disdain for their current situation. “This is what I get for living the kind of life that I did! Aaaargh!”

At a short distance ahead of him, the other two gentlemen stop in their tracks and turn around to give attention to their companion’s protestations. They both take a look at each other before walking towards the Greek.

“Come now. Don’t you realize that complaining about your predicament isn’t going to change the fact that you are where you are? Not one bit. This is your reality now. Our reality, in fact.” The second man to shatter the quietness of the valley speaks in a sensible manner and with a recognizable Italian accent. He moves even closer to try and somehow console the object of his remark, and introduces himself. “Buongiorno, amico. My name is Ricer… Ricer Catore,” he says extending his hand for a shake.

The Greek takes a deep breath and sighs out his frustrations as his right hand meets the Italian’s. “Erev. Nitis. Exhausted sojourner… and resident complainer.”

Both men let out a quick chuckle in response to Erev’s self-description, and firmly shake hands.

“Piacere.” Ricer pulls his hand away from his new friend as he surveys their surrounding terrain. “Are you... American?"

"Nah. I'm from Tripoli."

"Oh! Greece! Your accent, though... very American."

"Yeah. I used to travel a lot later on in life..." Erev explains his proficiency in the English language. "...and, as a child, I've watched way more American television shows than I've been able to travel. So that's where the accent comes from. But I'm as Greek as they come."

"Ah... capito." Ricer flashes a quick smile but maintains a look of admiration on his face. "Anyway, it can’t be that bad here, can it? It’s quiet enough to be a peaceful retreat, and still enough to be a relaxing respite.”

“I agree, mere dost. This is looking to be like a very, very serene and meditative place.” The last of the trio joins the other two men and finally speaks up, tossing in his two cents about their current location. “It is surely the place that one such as I truly deserve to be in. After a…” 

“Oh… you think so, huh?! Wait until the tormentors come out!” Erev cuts off the third man who seems to be the only one elated at the fact that they are where they have found themselves to be.

“Scusa. I just realized… we’ve been walking alongside each other this whole time… and we have not been properly introduced,” the Italian expresses his cognizance to the other male in the trio. “Ricer Catore. I’m from Lucca in Italy… or… I was… anyway,” he says, extending his hand once again, for formality.

The third man, an Indian, did not receive the Italian’s hand, but instead presses his hands together in front of his chest, slightly bows before Ricer, and makes himself known in the most pacific way possible. “Namaste, Shri Ricer Catore. Main Khoja Karta hoon… formerly of the most industrialized state of Maharashtra, India. Aapase milakar achchha laga.”

Feeling a little awkward about his unmet handshake, Ricer imitates the Indian’s gesture and body language. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Signore Karta. Piacere.” After realizing the content and nature of their conversation, the Italian looks at Khoja with widened eyes and exclaims, “How did I understand your native language? That’s… very peculiar!”

“It’s this place! It gives us the ability to understand any language… any form of communication.” Erev joins the conversation, making the Indian’s acquaintance. “Eímai o Erev Nitis. Den tha sas enochlíso na sas chairetíso sta angliká. Tha katalávete ta elliniká mou oútos í állos.”

Without missing a beat or misunderstanding the Greek, Khoja appropriately responds, “Abhivaadan, Erev!” He then repeats the Indian gesture of greeting, which Erev nonchalantly ignores. “And…” the Indian adds, “…what do you mean tormentors? Those types of entities do not belong in this level of enlightenment… not at this height!”

“Tormentors? Enlightenment? Wait! Where do you guys think we are?” Ricer interjects, expressing his confusion, hoping both men’s answer would bring him clarity.

Both Erev and Khoja blurt out their answers simultaneously:

“Tartarus!” “Nirvana!”

All three men look at each other in bewilderment and stunned silence.

They exchange stares between each member of the trio… their speechlessness prolonged.

“Wait, wait, wait! W… w… we are not on the same page here.” Ricer stutters in anxiety to this turn of events. “This can’t be Nirvana, otherwise it would only be you here, Khoja. And it can’t be Tartarus either, otherwise it would only be you here, Erev.” The Italian tries his hardest to make sense of their predicament.

“Alright, smart guy! Where, then, do you think we are? Huh?” Erev makes no effort to hide his sarcasm; he’s never had any trouble displaying that throughout his life.

Ricer takes a long, disoriented look at each of the other gentlemen. He mumbles his answer to himself. “Well, it’s definitely the waiting room.”

“Mujhe maaph kar do. Come again?” Khoja asks for clarification.

“This place is definitely Purgatory! Without a doubt!” he exclaims.

Erev’s annoyance increases. “And you know, this how?!”

“Because…” Ricer pauses and relives the portions of his life on earth that flashes before his eyes. As he stands garbed in a black and dark gray striped t-shirt, a pair of slightly-baggy dark ash trousers, black shoes, and a dark graphite straw hat — making him look like the quintessentially macabre version of a Venetian gondolier — his face shifts to a woebegone countenance. He somberly proceeds to answer the Greek’s question. “…because this is as far as my life of tempered vices and good intentions would permit me to go… in the afterlife.”

“Well, then… by your very own logic, Kýrie Catore, this couldn’t be Purgatory either… because the Indian and I are here as well. Otherwise it would just be you... standing here in your own solitude, right?” Erev posits emphatically.

Silence once again enshrouds the trio and lingers like leech refusing to let go of its host.

With the exception of the howling winds making passes at the gentlemen clad in black, no other sound could be heard between them and the surrounding nature.

“This doesn’t make sense at all. Why — if each one of us believes in a different version of the afterlife — why are we together in the same place?” Ricer, to the best that he can, paces back and forth on the rocky ground as if he were solely responsible for figuring the trio’s current puzzlement.

“Okay. Okay. I suppose one of us has to be right about this… place. We certainly can’t be all wrong!” Erev presents what he considers to be a brilliant idea, hatched in his eccentric mind. “Why don’t each one of us share to the group a description of what their version of the afterlife is and, based on that, we’ll see which one is closest in resemblance to this realm.”

“Oh ho ho. Achchha. That should be easy. I will go first, yes?” Khoja confidently volunteers. “This is totally Nirvana. There is so much peace and quiet and tranquility here; it is so devoid of conflict; and this place naturally fosters enlightenment. I deserve to be here since I completed my ascension to the highest level.” The Indian once again placidly places his hands in namaste position, and slightly bows before the other men. With a regal bearing, and dressed in the typical Indian traditional male garb — also in different shades of gray and black — he says, “Welcome to Nirvana, gentlemen.”

As Khoja finishes his bid for the proper identification of their mystery location, the Italian and the Greek wearily look at each other: Ricer leaning towards more perplexity; Erev, toward more animosity.

“So you earned your way here, huh? That’s rich! You must have had a perfect life then, Baba Khoja Karta! Great!” An unconvinced Erev vehemently rejects the Indian’s insistence on his belief. With a continued antagonistic tone, he adds, “Nobody is that good! And this…” He gesticulates with both arms, signifying the vast, open area that surrounded them. “…this is not Nirvana. I mean look around you! This is a barren wasteland… riddled with ash and fragments of dark stones on the ground… the air is riddled with the ambience of death. That peaceful tranquility you feel…? That’s actually the atmosphere of hushed despair and determined hopelessness! Open your eyes and see it!”

Khoja sports a pensive look on his face. He doesn’t respond to the Greek’s tirade.

“This feels more like Purgatory,” Ricer interjects between the other two men, hoping to ease the tension. “Souls who are neither blessed enough to enter to Heaven nor damned enough to merit Hell end up here; the Waiting Room, as I often named it in my mind.”

“And I suppose you’ve earned your way into this place as well, huh?” Erev simmers down a bit in response to Ricer's mellow pattern of speech.

“I wouldn’t really say that exactly… but that seems appropriate,” the Italian sadly replies. “I tried to be good. I helped people with what wealth I was able to collect in my life. I helped fund charitable institutions…” Ricer pauses; ponders for a moment; and continues. “…because I thought my good would outweigh or somehow balance my vices… which weren’t viciously evil things… I gambled here and there; played around with women… sometimes with other men… among other things.” Looking up at the dark sky above them, Ricer takes a deep breath and lets it out through a pronounced sigh. “I… uh… apparently balanced my accounts… because… hah… I’m here. In Purgatory. And now… I have to wait for my loved ones’ prayers to get me out of here.” He looks both men in the eye, one at a time, with a wistful countenance on his face. “Who knows how long that will take.”

With that, the Italian turns his back on the other two gentlemen and slowly starts to walk toward the direction they were headed before stopping a while back.

"Smart decision, o fílos mou!" the Greek shouts gratefully to Ricer as he and Khoja begin to follow suit. "As I indicated before, tormentors will come out... sooner or later. Better we keep moving. Maybe we'll be more difficult to locate if we move around."

As the trio resume their trek on the dried up riverbed, the expanse above them turns slightly dimmer and the wind around them subsides to a gentle breeze. They remain speechless.

Moments pass by them as the Italian, the Indian, and the Greek continue to negotiate the mountainside trek, made more demanding by the ever-increasing incline of the path they have decided to walk on. 

As Erev takes a quick breather from their ascent, he turns around to take a look at the vista behind them. He takes a couple of deep, labored breaths as he admires the valley below and the surrounding mountains from his now significantly elevated vantage point. A few feet below him, he notices Khoja strenuously making the effort to catch up with him and Ricer.

Realizing that the Italian has not slowed down his consistent but unhurried climb, the Greek carries on and pushes forward.

"Hurry up, Baba Khoja Karta!" He shouts at the Indian.

At an even higher point on the slope of the mountain they were trying to conquer, Erev decides to proceed with their previous conversation. “We, three… are such an eccentric bunch of misfits and — I think it wouldn’t be improper for me to say this — losers!” In a matter-of-fact, controlled-anger kind of tone, he launches his mouth into a rabid invective as he carefully plants each step on the rocky ground. He raises the volume of his voice so that Ricer, who is slightly ahead of him, and Khoja, who is slightly behind, could hear his ranting. “We are a hopeless lot, if anything!” He gesticulates by pointing at the Indian following his tracks and says, “The Enlightened One… back here... wants to stay… thinking this is a serene, restful place…” He pauses, catching a breath. "While you…" pointing forward to Ricer, "...are looking for an uncertain exit door that may or may not appear within the next… oh, I don’t know… two millennia.”

Perhaps due to the exhaustion from his steady pace, or because of his exasperation from the Greek's smug monologue, Ricer breaks off his progress and turns toward Erev. "Va bene! Since you seem to have a better grasp of our entire situation here... why don't you tell the rest of the class your... presumptions of this place! Khoja and I will give you the floor now, Mister Speaker!"

Catching up to where the Italian stopped to talk, Erev stands a few paces lower from Ricer's position, and elucidates. "This is Tartarus! This... is the deep abyss that is used as a dungeon of torment and suffering for the wicked. This..." he gestures with his arms, referring to their surroundings, turning a full 360 degrees as he does so. "This is where souls are judged after death... and where the wicked receives divine punishment."

"You must be well-versed in your religion, then, Shri Nitis. Yes?" Khoja finally catches up with the other two, and immediately rejoins the conversation.

"Meh!" the Greek says, with a shrug. "I read it off of Wikipedia. I'm brainy like that!" Erev pompously exclaims. "But I can assure you some... spirits... or creatures... will come to torture and afflict us with every conceivable — or inconceivable —manner of distresses and agonies!"

With a look and tone of frustration on his face and in his voice, Ricer tenders the summation of his musings on the way up to what seemed to him was about 600 feet of elevation above sea level. "Listen, Erev," the Italian somberly gazes into the Greek's eyes, as if pleading for a truce. "We are all tired now... and none of our ideas about this place has... will ever be confirmed. Each one of us believes three separate truths about where we are."

"Haan. Yah sach hai," the Indian concurs.

"I think it is pointless arguing with each other when there is no... arbiter... or someone who could validate one of our assumptions. But at least we seem to agree on one thing: we all believe this is the afterlife. Yes?" Ricer concludes his appeal.

Looking intently at the other two men, Erev finally decides to put aside his ego and become a team player. "Fine. Okay. How do we get answers then? This place seems to be short on sages and gurus from the what we've seen so far."

"You know..." Khoja puts forth a suggestion. "We could ask that other person back there!"

"What?!" Erev exclaims in astonishment. "What other person?! We haven't seen anyone else around here!"

"You haven't. I have! That's the... advantage of always looking around... and frequently falling behind, mere dost!" The Enlightened One lightly chuckles, bobbing his head sideways.

"You saw someone else, Khoja?" The Italian chimes in. "Where?"

"I noticed some person follow us the moment we stepped into the riverbed and walked on its path. He has consistently kept the same safe distance from us for most of our trek up here. But whenever we stop, I notice him little by little getting closer... but then we start moving again, and our distance, as well as some features on the terrain, obscures him from sight." Khoja relates his observations to his other companions.

"Why didn't you say something, man? You know this all along and kept it to yourself!" Erev's temper starts to flare up.

"Well, I didn't think it was of any relevance at all to our journey. He stayed quite a distance from us.... I presumed he wanted to be left alone." the Indian remains ever the pacifist and responds calmly. "We could wait for him here. I'm sure he will be here in a few moments, seeing that he has been on our trail since we began."

The trio, at this point, was somehow resigned to the fact that they now have apparently ran out of options in the attempt of getting some answers about their current whereabouts. Khoja looks at the duo, brows raised, anticipating a reaction. Ricer maintains eye contact with both men, thinks the mystery fourth man just might be able to help them. Erev shrugs offhandedly, just desiring for their locational conundrum to be solved.

"Well... if we're waiting for the stranger to get here," Ricer says wearily, then continues, "then I might as well sit here and recover my strength."

"Achchha! Excellent idea," the Indian seconds the motion. He looks for a clearer surface on the side of the hill, and proceeds to relax in a lotus position. "I need to center my chakras anyway."

Erev is the last one of the group to find a resting place and sit down. "He better have answers!" he mutters under his breath, his anger subdued.

As the minutes wear on, the ambient light becomes even more dim as the clouds seem to have incrementally descended lower, almost touching the tips of the mountains. The Indian finds his way deeper into meditative zen, and remains in a still and serene posture. The Italian, not minding the coarseness of the ground, decides to lie down and doze off into a nap. The Greek stays alert and decides to keep an eye out for the stranger they were expecting to catch up with them.

The wind starts to feel a little bit more chilly and the breeze a bit more harsh. Ricer curls up on the ground, trying to conserve his bodily warmth. Khoja's meditation apparently shelters him from the cold. Erev, still on the look out for their anticipated guest, gets on his feet and walks a few paces downhill.

At a distance, he sees a faint red glow; it is moving towards them, leisurely. Erev takes a few more steps downhill, squints his eyes, and shouts to his companions, "Guys!" Getting no response from either men, the Greek races back uphill, alerting the other two. "Hey! Get up! Snap out of it, you two! The other person is here... I think! Come on!"

With that, Ricer immediately gets up from his nap on the ground and Khoja placidly rises from his meditation. All three are now standing beside each other, looking intently at the ever-increasing brightness of the distant red glow as it approaches them.

"If this happens to be a tormentor," Erev takes a look at each of the men flanking him and directs his slurs at them. "...I am totally blaming both of you... afterlife deadweights!"

The Italian and the Indian both stare at the Greek, and then at each other.

"Whatever!" Ricer concedes, throwing both arms up in the air.

"May you find peace, Shri Nitis, in all that you do," Khoja imparts a blessing of tranquility.

All three now notice that the red light has not only gotten bigger; it has also gotten brighter and much closer. At this point, the men are all squinting, unable to fully open their eyes to witness the approach of the stranger.

In trepidation, Erev chooses to furiously require the stranger's identity. "Who goes there?"

The approaching figure does not answer but continues to walk toward them. The surrounding area is now awash in an effervescent red glow and a gentle warmth that chases away twilight chill.

"Oooh. That's nice!" Ricer, still struggling to look at their visitor, voices out his appreciation of the change in atmospheric temperature.

Erev continues to interrogate their oncoming guest. "Are you for us... or against us?"

"Neither," the unidentified person finally communicates... with the voice of man. "I am here on my own reasons... and for my own purposes." The voice is audible enough to discern that the speaker is in close proximity to the men. As the stranger gets even closer to the trio, he stops and stands still exactly six feet away from them. 

A jittery Erev shouts out a restriction: "Do not come any closer!"

The man replies in an authoritative yet unthreatening tone that carries an assuring vibe. "Don't be afraid, Erev. I am not here to harm you... any of you." 

"What did you say?" The Greek responds in puzzlement as to how the stranger knows him by name.

The bright red light starts to gradually diminish to a welcoming glow, pleasing enough for the naked eye to stare at, but still brilliant enough to illuminate the night.

Ricer, Erev, and Khoja were greeted by the sight of a bearded Middle Eastern man clad in a wine-colored trench coat that runs down to his calves; underneath that, he wears a matching scarlet turtleneck sweater and a pair of slim fit trousers; his feet are shod with a pair of mahogany-shaded knee-high boots.

"He's fashionable." Ricer whispers to his companions, who are, at this point, transfixed on their trendy guest. “Too fashionable for a terrain like this, though.”

The man addresses the side comment. "Grazie, Ricer. I appreciate that." He smiles at the trio, and winks particularly at the Italian. "You have always had such a great sense of fashion."

Ricer's eyes widen in surprise and amazement. "Uh... okay."

“And… hello again, Khoja. It is very nice to meet you here,” the stranger says to the Indian.

The Enlightened One’s countenance turns into one of bewilderment as he asks, “I’m sorry, gentleman… I do not remember seeing you before.”

“None of us remember seeing or knowing him from before!” Erev, speaking to his companions, steps back into the conversation and proceeds to question the man again. “Who are you and why have you been following us?”

“A… and also…” Ricer, in an effort to diffuse some of Erev’s antagonism, tries a different approach. “…if you know anything about this place… perhaps you could shed some light on our shared confusion. You see, each one of us believes different things about this realm… but we do agree that we are in the afterlife.” The Italian concludes his plea with an uncertainty. “Are we?”

The man compassionately looks at each member of the trio in the eye, one at a time. As Ricer, Erev, and Khoja stare back at the guest, they all see that there is no hint of fear, condemnation, or judgment from his fiery, red-orange irises. They instead receive a sense of warmth, comfort, and acceptance, which puts them all at a certain level of ease.

As the wind blows past the now company of four, tousling the stranger’s wavy, dark brown, shoulder-length hair into his face, he carefully raises his right hand to remove the locks obscuring his sight, and tucks them by his ear.

He introduces himself formally to the trio.

“There is no need for you all to be alarmed… or cautious. I am not here to harm you,” he reassures them in the most gentle vocal timbre that the men have ever heard. “I am Derekh Emet Chayim… you may call me Dec; that’s D-E-C, which stands for my initials… you know, in case you were wondering.” Dec smiles at them again and, before continuing the introduction, looks up at the skies with grateful eyes. “… and I have been following you — Ricer, Khoja, and Erev — because each one of you has been searching… your whole lives… for things that up to now you still have not found.”

The trio is speechless, but attentive.

Dec focuses on the Italian. “I know you have been looking for a way out, Ricer… from so many things: from the confines of society; from the stringency of religion; even from your own estimation of yourself. And even now, you are still looking for a way out of this place. But you feel uncertain as to when that opportunity might present itself, or if it will ever come at all.”

He then turns to the Indian. “Khoja, you are seeking eternal peace. In your life, that was all you majorly focused on. Nevertheless, even here, that is what your heart continues to desire, which is why you still find the need to meditate in this place, because this is not the quality of peace you expected to attain all your life.”

Finally, Dec speaks to the Greek. “And Erev, you feel that you deserve ending up here because of the poor choices you’ve made and the bad actions you’ve done in your life. But I want to tell from the bottom of my heart that I do not rebuke you. I accept you as you are… and truly care for you. That... that is what you have sought after and desperately wanted to have up until the day your life was violently ended by the vicious people you have associated yourself with most of your existence.”

The three sojourners are dumbfounded, having realized that Dec had just told them everything they had ever done.

“I am here to tell you that — although for the most of your lives, things have pretty much gone south for each of you — not a single one of you has ever been outside of my purview nor out of my reach. I have always been there for you and by you.” Dec intimates a mysterious revelation that the trio intently ponders on in their minds.

Dec instantly recognizes Erev’s fierce thoughts. “‘Where were you when I lost my family to tragedy? Where were you when I had no one to rely on and nothing left to turn to?’ Right, Erev?” the gentleman in red compassionately looks the Greek in the eye. “For that is what you want to ask me, but are afraid to, yes?”

He then looks to the other two men. “You are both wondering who I am... and if I can meet your deepest needs.”

Both Ricer and Khoja let out a resounding, “Yes.”

“I am… Derekh… Emet… Chayim. And I come to you now to turn the tides in your favor. You have all been searching… for meaning… for purpose… for direction… and, from this place, a way out. All along, you three have been traversing southward, when the answers that you seek can be found… north.”

The men’s query have been quelled at last.

“The way out of here is due north?” Ricer excitedly exclaims.

“Yes, amico,” Dec replies.

“And there is lasting peace… uttar?” Khoja’s eyes expands in elation.

“Enough to last for eternity, mera dost.”

“Then we have to turn back and head in that direction!” Erev erupts in eagerness.

“There is no need for that, filos.”

“Yes… there is! If the exit out of here lies beyond that horizon…” Erev points toward the opposite direction of where they had been heading for most of their journey, adding, “…then we must make haste and get there as soon as possible. We don’t want tormentors capturing us and torturing us for eternity here in the afterlife.”

At this point, Dec approaches Erev and places his right hand on the Greek’s left shoulder. “I am sorry to disappoint you… but this… this is not the afterlife.”

“Ti?!” “Kya” “Che cosa?” The men garbed in black exclaim in unison.

“Where are we then?” Erev immediately follows up, shoving Dec’s hand from his shoulder.

Without feeling slighted, the man in red answers the Greek. “You are currently in the Eternal Second: a stretched out moment in time that kicks in after your souls leave your bodies; a place that more often than not feels like a thousand eternities without an end.” Dec explains.

The three exchange looks between each other.

“Ah! None of us were correct! And…” Ricer shouts out in relief, declaring “…there is a way out after all! Grazie Dio!”

Khoja, in his anticipation to finally find the kind of peace he’s been looking for, urges the other two to get moving. “Jaldee! Jaldee karo! On to the way out!”

“Wait a moment, please,” Dec pleads with the men. “Stay a while.”

“Why?!” Erev’s arrogance begins to rise up again. “If the gateway to freedom is north of where we are, then we need to get there as soon as possible. We need to go north now!” Without hesitation, the Greek rudely brushes past Dec, anxious to leave the Eternal Second.

The Italian and the Indian follow suit, and walk past the man in red.

As the trio take their first few steps northward, Dec turns toward them and calls out to the men in a caring but authoritative voice. “Erev… Ricer… Khoja… I am the True North. The portal out of here… is me!”

Upon hearing this declaration, the three men stop in their tracks and one by one turn to face the red gentleman; their countenances drenched in confusion.

“What do you mean by that?” Ricer asks Dec, as he slowly makes his way toward him.

Dec stands with a bearing of royalty, a few feet away from the three men. He looks at Erev. “You asked me earlier why I have been following you? Well… I have heard the cries of your hearts; lamentations too deep to be uttered by your lips. Those have all reached my ears. Each one of you has groaned in hidden agony and secret suffering all your life. You think that no one has heard you. But I did.”

The man in red leisurely moves closer toward the trio and makes his final appeal with teary eyes. “I am the True North. The way out of here is through me! That is why I followed you all this way because I wanted to let you know and show you that even though you have endured the long haul south… I am here to make finding north much easier!”

In the middle of the dark night on the slopes of pitch black mountains where gales and gusts of wind dance wildly by, a mildly brilliant red light stands out amidst a sea of nothingness.

“What must I do to leave this place through you, Signore?” Ricer humbly asks.

“Believe in me. And come to me,” Dec issues the instruction and spreads his arms wide open.

Without hesitation, the Italian draws closer to the relaxing crimson glow emanating from the red gentleman. Ricer lands into the warm embrace of Derekh Emet Chayim. With their arms locked on each other, the brilliance surrounding Dec increases in radiance until it floods the valley, the mountains, and the firmament above them; effectively driving the darkness away.

Moments later, the brightness subsides.

Erev and Khoja open their eyes to see that Ricer has vanished from Dec’s arms.

“Where’d the Italian go?!” Erev asks, looking around.

“To a better place,” Dec replies.

“Khoja? You’ve been looking for unlimited and lasting peace. I offer it to you now. Will you receive it? Will you come to me? Do you believe that I can give you peace that circumvents your intellect?” Once again, Dec’s arms fling wide open as an invitation for the Indian to find an eternity of peace.

The Indian’s eyes begin to well up with tears, and with head bobbing sideways, he says, “Jee… shreemaan.” Khoja walks into Derekh Emet Chayim’s embrace and disappears in a blast of dazzling red light, as Ricer did.

As the second flood of bright light dies down, Erev is left standing face to face with Dec.

“You are unsure if you can trust me. You’ve been let down and hurt many times in your life. You’ve been saying earlier that you want to run away and not get caught by the tormentors when the truth is you believe you deserve all the agony, all the guilt, all the punishment and condemnation here because of what you have done in your lifetime; and you believe that you do not deserve either forgiveness or love.” Dec peruses Erev’s mind as he lovingly stares into Erev’s soul.

The Greek’s countenance hardens. He tries to hold back his tears, yet he maintains eye contact with the man in red.

“Erev, I forgive you and accept you as you are. I truly care for you, and I came all this way just to get to you. Do you think it was just a coincidence that I found you here? No. I am what you have sought after so desperately in your heart for such a long time.” Dec’s eyes start to water as he makes his final plea. “Will you come to me, and find freedom and life? Do you believe me? Will you pass on from here to eternal love and acceptance, as Khoja and Ricer did?” Dec, for one last time, opens his arms wide open.

The Greek is motionless except for the tears that stream down his face.

Silence envelops Dec and Erev. Only the howling winds make any audible sound in the vast nothingness of the Eternal Second.

Derekh Emet Chayim — like the offer he has made to the Greek — still stands firm, waiting for a response.

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Erev makes the first step forward.