Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
GWENNA
“Aretalogy,” Emrys says.
“What?”
Kingston and I say it at the same time, which elicits a soft apologies from Kingston.
We’re huddled in Emrys’s classroom, no texts out or notes taken, having spent the bulk of the instructional period relating all the details we can think of our—my—encounter with the Lady, of what she said and what she asked, of the riddle I can’t seem to answer.
“Bit of a mouthful, no? A-re-ta-lo-gy,” Emrys repeats, sounding out each syllable slowly. “From the Greek.”
I think for a minute. Arete is like…virtue, or excellence, something along those lines. One of those uniquely Greek abstract nouns that seems to speak to a concept we’ve lost sight of in our hectic modern lives.
“The study of excellence?” I venture. Emrys nods.
“Literally, yes.” He steps to one of the many bookshelves, scans it, then selects a volume from a high-up shelf.
“In specific, however, it refers to a literary form that describes the wonders of some divine being from a first-person perspective.” Back at his desk, he opens the book—The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, I glimpse on the weathered green spine—and flicks through the pages.
“Here.” He spins the text around and pushes it to Kingston, who frowns, but reads aloud.
“‘I am Isis, the mistress of every land. I gave and ordained laws for men, which no one is able to change. I am eldest daughter of Kronos. I am wife and sister of King Osiris. I am she who findeth fruit for men. I am mother of King Horus. I am she that riseth in the Dog Star. I am she that is called goddess by women…’” Kingston looks up. “It just goes on like that.”
“Precisely.” Emrys nods. “Fortunate for you and your elementary grasp of Greek, Mr. Pendragon, that I have only the English translation at hand here, eh?” He takes the book back and snaps it shut.
“The aretalogical hymns are exactly thus: a series of statements. I am this, I am that. I am she who begat whomever, I am she who created thus and so.”
“Is it always a she?” I have to ask.
“Not always,” Emrys says. “But frequently. Until, at least, a certain carpenter out of Galilee.” He sets the book on the table, lifts a piece of chalk, and dashes out seven letters on the board.
EGO EIMI.
“I am,” I translate—just to beat Kingston and his elementary grasp of Greek to the punch. “Or, arguably, it is I, depending on whether you’re interpreting the verb as copular or existential…”
I trail off. Shut up, Gwenna, I think. We get it.
Emrys, however, simply drops the chalk and dusts off his fingers with a nod. “Yes. And exigetically? Where does this phrase occur?”
This, I don’t have as quick recall on. Memorizing scripture was never my forte. But Kingston does—already paging through the leather-bound Bible I realize he must always carry with him. He flips a whisper-thin page, then another, and then points and starts to read aloud.
“So when they had rowed about five and twenty or thirty furlongs, they saw Jesus walking on the sea,” he narrates. “And they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be not afraid.” He looks up. “John 6. That’s one, isn’t it? An example of that phrase?”
Emrys nods.
Kingston waits.
“And?” he says, after Emrys makes no move to speak. “Where are we going with this, exactly?”
He looks at me. I can only blink—I’m not sure, either.
“I wonder,” Emrys says, “whether, in posing that question, in that location, your Lady is inviting you to respond in such a form.”
“Aretalogical,” I sound out.
“Yes.” Emrys smiles faintly, tapping his chin. “Quite clever of her. Poetic, really. I envy a mind that can come up with such a neat puzzle.”
“But…” I’m struggling to piece together the logic.
But what does that have to do with anything?
I want to say. Instead, I settl for: “Okay?" I clear my throat. "I mean, that still doesn’t give me the answer. Only the form of the answer.” I pause. “And, for that matter, it’s not exactly revelatory, is it? That I the answer to a who are you question should start with I am?” Duh, for lack of a better word.
Emrys frowns. “To a who do you think you are question,” he amends softly. “But no, I suppose not. I may be stating the obvious.” He shrugs. “Or, perhaps, what I am inviting you to consider is that the answer she seeks is an ontological one.”
"Ontological," Kingston repeats, the barest edge to his voice. "As opposed to?"
“Teleological,” Emrys says, as if it’s obvious. “Or utilitarian. Instrumental. Functional.” He spins a hand in the air as if grasping at synonyms. "You know, ah--"
I don't, actually. Even I am getting lost here. “Meaning what?” I interrupt.
Emrys stops.
“Meaning,” he says, slowly and gravely, “that the Lady is asking what you are, not what you are for.”
We all go silent, considering.
“As I said,” Emrys picks up, “it is the slimmest of distinctions, but at this point, anything to narrow the field of potential correct answers is welcome, no?”
I can’t disagree with that. “Sure.”
“I could, given some time to think, assemble a corpus for you to study. Aretalogical texts from Egypt to Rome, and beyond.” Emrys rubs his chin, staring into the middle distance.
“Nothing we have in original or even facsimile, I’m afraid.
But I can write to the library and have them put together some holds for you, Ms. Vale. ”
Beside me, Kingston tucks his Bible back into his bag and shakes out his watch from under his sleeve. “I’m sorry.” He looks up. “I need to get back to Camlann. Gwenna, of you—”
“Go,” Emrys and I say in unison. Kingston dips his head, slips on his coat, and takes his leave.
Not, however, without one last look back at me.
The door shuts, and silence settles once again.
“He is,” Emrys says after a moment, “ardently in love with you, Ms. Vale.” His bright eyes flick to me. “They all are.”
It’s…fatherly, the way he says it, and yet still I blush.
I wonder, suddenly, if he has ever been in love—if Myrddin Emrys, living backwards through time, had ever crossed paths with the right person, at the right juncture, for all things to align that way.
It would be a miracle if he did, I’d have to think.
But then again, no more a miracle than for any other two people.
Or, you know, five.
“Do you know the story of Rabbi Zusya, Ms. Vale?”
Emrys’s voice interrupts my thoughts. I look up to him leaning on the wall beside the chalkboard, arms crossed and face thoughtful, and shake my head no.
“A wise and learned rabbi of the third Hasidic generation,” he explains.
“Beloved of his students, revered by his peers. When at last, aged and infirm, he took to his deathbed, his students visited him and found him weeping. Trying to comfort him, they told him ‘But Rabbi, you are nearly as wise as Moses! Surely you will be judged favorably in the world to come.’ And do you know what the Rabbi said to them?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Zusya said, ‘In the coming world, they will not ask me, ‘Why were you not Moses?’ They will ask me ‘Why were you not Zusya?’”
I stare at the surface of my desk.
“All of which is to say, Ms. Vale,” Emrys goes on. “I wonder if, perhaps, you too might consider what question you are truly being asked.”
I think about it.
Why were you not Gwenna?
Because to be Gwenna is to be…inconvenient, I think. Contradictory, inexplicable, messy, self-indulgent, inadvertently show-offy and too smart for her own good. Too much of some things and far too little of others.
But I know Emrys is trying to make me feel better. So I smile for him.
“It’s a nice idea,” I say.
Emrys lifts an eyebrow. “But?”
“But…” He isn’t letting me off the hook, I guess. “But…well, it’s just a little turn of phrase. It’s clever, but…you can’t believe that just switching a word around can change everything like that.”
Emrys gives me a look as if to say yes, in fact, I do.
“Well, I don’t,” I say aloud.
“Don’t you?” Emrys counters. “And here I was led to believe you found the word to be the foundation of all that is and shall be.”
Chalk in hand, he writes spidery Greek letters across the blackboard:
?ν ?ρχ? ?ν ? λ?γο?
I know that. Everyone knows that. In the beginning was the Word. The opening of the Gospel of John; the very first passage I’d ever read in my very first class with him.
God. Do I believe that? Did I ever? Could I, now?
“You are the finest pupil I have ever taught, Ms. Vale,” Emrys goes on. “Well, so far as I know, anyway. We’ll see what the past brings. Regardless. I shall be sad to finally teach you for the first time.”
And then I realize: Emrys hasn’t been there yet. It’s my past, his future, that very first class. The day we met is the last time he will ever see me.
“Time flies like an arrow,” he murmurs.
“Fruit flies like a banana,” I mutter back. Emrys frowns.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a stupid pun.” What am I talking about?
I need to get a grip. I’m losing my mind to wordplay when I need to be doing anything but thinking myself in circles.
Anything but thinking, period. “Look,” I say, verging on frustrated—with myself, with this riddle, with everything.
“If being me were enough, it would have been enough by now.”
Before people killed because of me. Before people died because of me. Before the Earth itself started to die.
“Perhaps,” Emrys says again. “Or perhaps it is that by now simply needed to catch up with you.” He smiles faintly, eyes drifting to the window, to the world beyond that still lies frozen long past overdue. “All a matter of perspective, I suppose.”