T he night cold and humorless. An aging scholar stood in the street and waited. Pulling his robes around him against the chill he wondered if his quarry would come out of the house that he had seen him enter an hour before. It had been a curious day. He had watched amused, then terrified, the events as they unfolded in the temple. What an event it had been! How he had felt his blood pound as the young man had usurped commerce in the temple. Never had he seen such controlled violence, such precise and titillating vengeance. The commerce of piety, always as usual, had been going on for centuries. But this young tiger, this virile hero, this, this superhuman man, or whatever he was, had completely arrested his sensibilities. And so, he had furtively followed him here. Followed him through the streets and paths of the city. He had listened as he heard the young man speak to those who were likewise curious of his actions. Only one nondescript face in the crowd, so as not to be noticed. Yet insistent in his intent. Longing to meet this man. He would not rest until he had heard him for himself. He could not stop until there had been personal contact. Face to face dialogue. He is a man, isn’t he?

The light from the windows of the home gave the illusion of warming the night. The man shivered. What must I do to make him notice me? How shall I approach him? What shall I say? I do not wish to seem like a foolish old man? With such haunting trivia flitting among his thoughts, he waited and watched.

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