The Little Black Book

Somewhere in a province that has long lost its name lay a secret that was much too exposed to be called as such. Though Kings of men long overlooked its splendor in pursuit of glory, honor, fame, riches and power, this gift beheld the exact treasures of the beholder. It presented itself bound within the confines of two rectangular leather hides, filled with scribbles on papyri of remnants of old. But it was not bound, this little black book. No. Before it was a book it was a word, spoken and bold, full of authority and creativity, principle, and victory. It was the spirit of the word, if you will, but the only way it could be carried into the future generations, beyond the moment it was declared, was to be conformed to that of a book. The book had one writer, though many contributed to its pages, therein lie its mystery. It was home to the greatest conquests since the dawn of time. It was also home for those who opened its pages. And in a moment, a sojourner, one foreign to the existence of this book, came upon it.

The foreigner began his journey with no understanding, contrary to most wisdom and advice of the day. Except that he followed, what he heard intuitively. In his travels, he faced many unknowns, and though the details of his life mean nothing, his life was inscribed on the last piece of papyrus, the moment that he encountered the book, half buried in the dust from the treads of many other travelers and armies. The book that was meant to be a gift to any who choose to pick it up and learn from its pages, became despised, rejected and forgotten. The foreigner found it in a dry land, searching for water for his family. Unlike the great kings of the day, he was not out in pursuit of great wealth. He was unknown to all except to those who knew him. Yet on that day, he became known to the book, that was, the word, and the book, that is the word, became known to him.

Upon opening the pages, the dust and debris of many kingdoms-passed offended his eyes and nostrils, causing him to throw the book back into the dust where it lived for so many centuries. But a quiet voice, often coined as intuition, encouraged him to wipe the dust from the pages and seek its meaning. And so, he did. As he flipped through the pages, he found many were written in a language… a number of languages he did not know. The only words he understood were simple stories and instructions. The foreigner was not an intellectual man, but he did not despise learning, and so he pondered on the simple, child-like-seeming stories and instructions and began to attempt to understand the other language and dialects written.

Within days the foreigner had found water in this dry land, enough to allow for safe travel to the next destination. He began to dream about the book, and he could hear the stories and instructions in his mind at night when he would close his eyes, and sometimes the voice would linger on beyond the story he had read. He would awake curious, and scribe what he had heard. Night after night the voice would continue in his mind and soon the foreign dialects would flash before his eyes like fire as he heard the calm voice of the story read in his mind. He began to understand the things he once found so impossible to decipher. In reality, the destinations became more bearable, and beautiful. The foreigner felt less like a sojourner and more of a discoverer. Meanwhile he conquered no peoples and took nothing from them, simply using what he had learned in the black book and the voice at night to assist him in his travels and decisions. The foreigner was not a rich man, and though he did not seek riches, riches sought him. Though he did not seek for the book, the book sought him, and once he accepted the book and the words in it, he sought more to understand it.

After years of traveling and moderate success… or provision, whatever you choose to call it, he came upon a city. A mighty kingdom, that none dared to contest, but simply abide by their governance. The foreigner knew that in his passing, he should offer a gift of peace to the king of this mighty kingdom to ensure his and his family’s safety to continue on. In his years of seeking to understand the word encapsulated by the book, he noticed the overarching theme of truth. He found that many of the great failures stemmed from a pursuit of desire surrounded and accompanied by lies. But the foreigner feared the great king and so he gave away some of his most treasured possessions and gifts and he lied saying the gifts didn’t belong to him, so he could give them away without the grief of losing them. In his giving, he lied to the great king. And in the inner compartment of one of his gifts, lay the little black book.

The king had many great things, for he was the greatest conqueror the world had known. He indulged in many of the same activities that had led other great kings into failure as described by the book. But the foreigner desired life more than the book and he was willing to part with it and his treasures. But he did not realize that the book was not confined to its bound form. The word, which had been bound to the pages could come and go as it pleased and remained active in the mind and heart of the one who read it. That night the calm voice continued speaking to the foreigner in his dreams, he had given away nearly all that he had, and two of the most valuable gifts, one of which was with him for almost the entirety of his life. He feared greatly and had little. But the voice spoke of story that ended differently than his imagined outcome. The words waged war against fear and in his mind, there was a great battle, of which he simply spectated. He awoke suddenly, covered in sweat as though he had fought in the battle. He heard yelling in the distance and a great number of footsteps. He could no longer distinguish whether he was dreaming or awake and began to once again fear for his life. He threw himself up off the ground and dashed out of his tent to run from the terrifying sound of many racing towards him. And as his face emerged from the tent, he was met by the great king and his lead warriors.

His life was at its last. The king reached for his gold-crested sword, unlatched it from his torso and handed it to the foreigner in fear and anguish.

“Why did you lie to me!?” the great king yelled, as the foreigner stood trembling, confused.

“You told me those gifts were not yours and that you could freely give them, but as I searched through, I found the black book, whose words were fierce, wisdom was great and warning was bold. Take your things before I suffer the same fate as these kings. I know this language, it was the one my philosopher taught me from young, yet I have never known these stories! A voice came to me in my dream and continued the stories that I read in the book last night. You are a great man sojourner! You did not tell me whose presence I stood before! Why did you not tell me!? Take your belongings and take my gifts as a peace treaty from my kingdom and take with you my best warriors, for those who are not so wise as to come against you in war. And lastly, take this little black book. I never want to read these stories of horror again. I am fine with my kingdom, and the words will stick with me for the remainder of my life.”

The foreigner, still confused walked away with an economy and part of a nation who honored his words. Yet it was not his words, but that of the little black book, that is, the word, that cannot be confined. And so, his story was written on the final page, and so are the stories of many others, who choose to seek its understanding, whose papyrus hide in plain sight.