The Ghostwriter's Words

Sammy: The Professor, that Miserable Fuck

And there he stood, the Professor, that miserable fuck. But Sara had made it clear; if he attempted to harm the Professor, she would do whatever she needed to stop him, then go away and never return. So, no matter how his fingers itched to wrap themselves around the miserable prick's throat, he needed to contain the fury that still hadn't abated after five hundred years.

"I'm sorry about all that has happened between us," the Professor began, hanging his head. "I should have realized the pain it would cause you. Given how you felt, it should never have happened. I hope you can forgive me." He hesitated a moment, warily looking up to seek Sara's reassurance and hoping she wouldn't feel that he regretted their time together, which he couldn't, while keeping watch on Sammy's reaction, unconsciously backing a few more steps away.

Sammy glared at the Professor, with a storm of emotions warring for control of his face. But, once the threat of violence seemed to have passed, the Professor continued. "I found some old journals. They appear to be your great-grandfather's. We need to talk about them."

"What journals? Where?" Sammy asked, then paused a moment, nodding, recalling exactly what journals, without wanting to acknowledge a thing, and said, "Of course. I've always suspected that if I looked hard enough, I'd eventually find the entire contents of his hard drive still lingering somewhere in the cloud. Nothing ever goes away, even after a thousand years. I just never bothered to look. I have his book, the one he inscribed, and dozens of other copies. Why would I need to read his journals? So, I can hear about the intimate details of his life with Granny Annie? Or his private thoughts about other things I'd prefer not to know? No, I'm good with the memories I have. Why would I go snooping through something that holds no benefit, only the potential to tarnish my cherished memory of the man?"

The Professor shook his head. "No, these weren't online. I found them in the basement beneath the Library of the Faith. A stack of dusty old wooden crates filled with old lined paper tablets containing handwritten notes. I'm amazed no one else ever found them and had them preserved in glass cases somewhere. Except..."

The Professor paused to gather his thoughts. "Except, your great-grandfather's notes discuss ideas for a novel based on a fictional autobiography of God. They are from years before he retired, years before he wrote The Word of God. He made it up! Sammy! It's fiction! So, if the Curia had found them, I'm sure they'd have destroyed them centuries ago. And, if I publish a paper or release the journals to the public, it will undermine the foundations of The Faith. The Truth too."

"Handwritten notes?" Sammy asked, shaking his head with skepticism but privately having a laugh he could barely contain. He had nearly forgotten those tablets. Also, the Professor's choice of words: "The Foundations of The Faith," had, ironically, been the working title of the book he'd fussed with for several centuries, which, he agreed, if ever published, would rock those foundations. Especially if published under his name since he was The Descendant and the only living person to have ever spoken to the Prophet, personally, in the flesh, his voice would resonate through the hallowed halls, which, he'd always hoped, would come tumbling down on their heads.

This debate over publishing under his name or anonymously was only part of his excuse for procrastinating. He recognized, once again, having forever diminished his sense of urgency, and ever more so the amount of forever he'd left behind him. A decade had come to feel no more than a year of his youth. He'd also been more than a little afraid they would kill him for such a betrayal. The irony was, being The Descendant was also his protection.

But, even if he'd published anonymously, he would have relished watching the pompous asses scramble to defend themselves. They'd had centuries of practice defending 'The Faith.' But he had facts. He knew secrets they would struggle to dispute that the faithful wouldn't be content to accept and calmly allow them to explain away. There'd been so many lies and dark secrets. The most damning, in his mind, was the Culling, the first. Nothing about the Culling had ever been published, no doubt for fear of the authors immediately being culled themselves. He doubted even two dozen people alive knew that the Culling had occurred. Most of those who might have were also among those culled. And he, along with the Curia, made up a dozen and one. The Professor and Sara added two more. It had been a long time, and things got lost in history.

"Why would he have left behind handwritten notes?" Sammy asked the Professor, returning from being lost in his thoughts. "Granny Annie told me he always used his computer. He may have jotted down a few things while away from this computer. But the last time I visited, my great-grandfather also had a brand-new Smartphone and an electronic tablet. So, he was still pretty tech-savvy, especially for an old man. I can't see why there would have been..."

Sammy stopped himself, midsentence, and smiled. "Unless, as you said, these tablets are from decades before he wrote The Word of God. I remember, hard as it is to fathom, him telling me that there hadn't been any computers when he was a young man. He bought a typewriter. But, before that, he'd used paper tablets and a pencil. If he'd been thinking about it that far back, there could be a cache of long-lost notepads that even my great-grandfather forgot. That would be too ironic. And, contrary to my earlier claims, I would love to browse through those."