“He turned to face his visitor, in spite of a hard appearance the man’s heart was a reflection of his character. The visitor was pleasantly surprised as the interior of the building came to life with each lamp that was lit. They revealed an impressive home, from an old, crocheted rug to hardy wooden furniture. -The Great Caper Vol 1

Prologue

It was only a week before that you happened to stroll down the empty road in the dead of winter. Perhaps it was The Great Comet greeting you from the heavens that pulled you away from the lights of Paris and into distant roads less traveled.

In your pace you noticed a lone figure walking through the fields, a lonely soul out of place. The soul drifted its way towards the mysterious Windmill in the distance. While bracing yourself against the chill you see the figure disappear.

You were left to wonder what happened with that wandering soul, even until the present time, when you feel compelled as you did a week before. The only illumination is The Great Comet high above, and its radiant light stretches a path towards the Windmill.

“Another visitor?!” The old man replied with surprise, then gave a broad smile under his old, ragged beard.

The interior of the Windmill was shrouded in darkness before one light came to life. The first light captivates you before a number of others flare into existence like the wisps of legend. “The present company as of late is spoiling my friends, it’s rare they get to see the world around them.”

“I’m excited for them. . .!” He added with enthusiasm.

His shadow casts a looming figure on the far wall as he hobbles his way through the interior. The silhouette travels over a hundred books that lay haphazardly out of their cases covered in the dust, as if they were discarded a long time ago.

“The stove is plenty hot friend, stay a while and rest your bones. . .!”

While taking in the scenery you notice that up a narrow winding staircase rests a massive telescope aimed outside through the ceiling. You also notice what was once a Windmill is now far gone and had been replaced with furniture, hollowed out, and re-purposed.

“Not an inch nor a particle of an Inch is Vile. . .!” The old man said in the distance, holding a carafe in his hand. “These old Steins will do!”

Your gaze returns to the pile of books of the floor, that were overturned and left open. Among the stacks and piles of books a few papers lay strewn about. Your curiosity compels you to pick one of them up and read the page before you.

The old man’s ear perked to hear the rustling of the page that you hold. “The more we seek to understand the less we know. . . The less we know, the more we understand.” He at last sat down in a chair that had been worn with time and age, it reflected its owner as he settled in for comforts sake.

A second cup of coffee sat on a table next to an empty chair that was less worn and held up far better over time. “Please, fire alone does not warm the bones.” He has a way of reading the hesitance of your mind and asks of you. “Please, sit down. . .”

Within a few moments you find yourself settled in, admiring a painting of flowers up on the far wall, and wonder if the old man was once an artist, or perhaps merely an astronomer. His eyes looked forward, listening to every subtle sound of the outside world and all around and began to speak.

“I see you are uneasy friend, as perhaps I should be, however my body does not allow me the luxury of fear. . .” He gave a laugh. . . “As I fear nothing.”

He began to speak, perhaps for no other reason than to set you at ease.

“This place once belonged to my Great Grandfather, my Grandfather, then myself. I did not know my father as he had died when I was quite young. You might think not having a father would give me cause for a rebellious nature, however my Grandfather, and mother would not have it. When I inherited this home, I made it my own. The wealth that was left to me I put into knowledge, and books, and peered over every word as if it was sacred you see.”

He braced his stein to warm his cold worn hands as he spoke tenderly.

“There are many places in the world where words and concepts are not understood, where knowledge is void of the world. However for their’s is the wisdom of experience, adventure. I have lived a good portion of my life in the worlds of others, though my one regret is that I have not seen the world with my own two eyes. More often than not I was looking towards the heavens, and to that benefit I have seen things that most of us have not seen.”

You inquire the old man as to what he has seen, to which his face brightened in response, appearing younger to even give it thought.

“Angels in the darkness of the void, Dragons dancing on the surface of the sun. . . The Grandness of all things, we are but one and the heavens are many, infinite in its stage. One cannot fathom even in a lifetime all of its glorious splendor. I have heard tell of flying ships that are taking to the skies!”

The old man arose from his chair suddenly and began pacing forward, with less of a hobble and more of a stride. He was not gazing before him but into the future. “Someday, with our sailing ships we just might pierce the veil and bring a more precious light to the void!”

Feeling his way around he gripped the rail of the staircase and made his way up one step at a time with a new found vitality.

“The pessimist says that we are animals, not ordained by gods, but for ourselves!”

You quickly rise to your feet and scramble to get behind him in case he should suddenly fall.

“But I beg to differ from this silly notion! One cannot judge humanity anymore than one can judge oneself! If one sees humanity as vile, it is because he himself is vile.” With a mouth full of teeth he gave a big grin. “Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile!” His arms thrashed around, cutting through the air while he fought his way up the staircase as if he were swiping at his critics.

“Have at thee!” He cried joyously.

“The death of imagination, is the death of humanity. . . The human spirit my friend will soar, and what rots? What is the result of what rots? Perhaps a new Eden, a new Genesis, a second chance, another tree, another choice, another cycle, another death, another resurrection, again another Genesis.”

At last he makes his way to the top of the staircase and reaches out to embrace the telescope. “Rosetta!”

“In spite of our faults, there is a sight beyond sight. A look for hope, a path beyond the land and the seas, and what absorbs our inner failures and distills us into our lesser selves. There is beauty, even in the absolute darkness. . . There is light!”

He beckons you over with a sharp wave to give a glance through his telescope. “Please, see for yourself….!”

He mused as you peer into the night sky.

“Irony is the voice of the Gods you see. . . To those that doubt, one cannot help but to hear, or to see, or to reason with it. She’s aimed at a distant star, and what do you see, how many more stars do you see? More than your eyes can very well see.” Such are the senses, dull limited.”

“A tree does not eat bread, or drink wine, but it grows, and lives for hundreds of years nevertheless.”

“A tree gives its life to us so that we may see, and what is it that we see, and what will the next ones see that eat of our fruit?”

He turned around with his arms raised and began to recite something from memory.

“Through the Garden the children travel to and fro. . .

Through the flowers, through the weeds. . .

The sins of the fathers that bind. . .

The pains of matrons that cry. . .

Falling through the murky dye

Of their fore bearers’ failures

. . . Now hear the lesser angels cry, while lesser demons do not mind. . .

In the precarious cradle do they sleep

And in their dreams do they weep. . .”

Gripping on the rail of the staircase the old man almost mournfully declared. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so . . . Sin is a prison. . .” He gave the mock of laughter in his throat.

”Don’t tell me, you haven’t read Shakespeare have you friend?!”

In your absence he supposes you have not, and he simply responds.

“To the left of Rosetta, you’ll see it, I believe it is bookmarked under Hamlet if memory serves, a personal favorite of mine. . . Full of Intrigue that one!”

You look over to see an old book covered in dust, you pick it up and blow off a cloud revealing that it is indeed an old copy of Shakespeare.

“Please, by all means take your time and enjoy it. My coffee awaits as the night is young!”

When you open the book you find the bookmark nestled in the second act, second scene of Hamlet. You sit in the old chair in front of Rosetta and find yourself becoming more and more absorbed in the play for a time.