"I can’t help but wonder," the Old Man confided to the Trappist, "what different course might have laid itself before us had we followed a slightly different trajectory. The inn would be here of course, and so would we, but perhaps the table decorations would have been different. Tell me: have you read it?"

"You mean these?" The Trappist, frowning, gestured vaguely toward the unopened parcel he had placed on the table before him. "Yes, of course. After all, I play a significant part in the unfolding drama." He took a short draw from his long pipe and sputtered briefly. "It seems I am the Adversary."

"Ah, it’s a story, is it?"

"A very convoluted story, winding its way from antiquity toward the climactic appearance of a Savior and the subsequent destruction of the holy city and the scattering of its inhabitants, from whence the story winds down a few narrow alleyways until it all but disappears in a miasma of prevarication and sophistry. My character insists that, instead of collapsing onto itself, the alley opens outward and branches repeatedly until it traverses the entire world. I am rebuffed, of course, outdueled and chastened and dismissed by the hero of the piece."

The Old Man didn’t need to ask who the hero might be. He untied the gilt ribbon and white paper and tried to make sense of the title: "In:Comprehensible:Neo:Tribalism:In:a:Post:Neo:Tribe." He opened the front cover, noting the author’s signature on the frontispiece, which had apparently been affixed by an inked stamp, unadorned by any sort of personal message. Suddenly overcome by fatigue, the Old Man glanced across the room toward the suave young Westerner, surrounded by many of the novitiates, silently holding court while animated conversation swirled about him.

"So, my ancient friend, where have your wanderings taken you since last we parted ways?" For a time the two of them had considered traveling together to some of those obscure corners of the world that had in times past been sites of veneration and pilgrimage. But the Trappist had found it impossible to disengage from persistent conflicts to which he had committed his energies.

"As you know, my dear contemplative, I am drawn to the arcana of your venerable sect. The three-in-one. The logos. The incarnate divine. The human propensity to transgress. The complicity of law therein. The corruption of the world. And, of course, the beginning. Fascinating."

"Have you drawn any conclusions that might enlighten us? Have you written any more of your legendary scrolls?"

The Old Man nodded toward the passage leading to the scullery. There, affixed to the wall and bespattered with orts and grease, a parchment hung from the wall.

"It had entirely escaped my notice," the Trappist acknowledged. "Tell me: has it been well-received? Have you engaged in stimulating discussion and debate?" The Trappist rubbed his hands together in anticipation of a lively intellectual exchange punctuated by the odd bit of gossip.

"For the most part I’ve heard grumblings from those who, having read the first few paragraphs of my scroll, chastised me for pursuing such an ill-conceived investigation. I must say, the Eastern Monk has proven himself an astute and independent theologian. He positions himself inside the camp as it were, yet his thoughts range freely. He has traveled widely, it seems." The Old Man quaffed deeply from his flagon. "The young Anarchist too has shown insight, as has the Jacobin."

"Anarchist?"

"You know him?" The Old Man jabbed his thumb toward a very young and earnest looking fellow browsing through some of the Apocryphal writings that lined the dusty shelves of the common room.

"Ah yes," the Trappist smiled. "Not Anarchist. Enarchay. Greek for ‘in the beginning.’"

"Really? Was he there, then? I must speak with him further. I had the impression he was more interested in the middle and the end. Another fellow stopped in, an itinerant unitarian witness of some indeterminate affiliation. We had a delightful but brief exchange, the three of us…"

"What about him?" With his finger the Trappist underlined the name stamped onto the book’s first page.

Sinking lower in his chair, the Old Man removed his wire-framed spectacles and rubbed his face in his hands. "At first he engaged in a heated dispute with a group of Inquisitors who regarded my project as heretical — which of course is not really my concern. Having ably defended my right to say what I had to say, he moved on to other concerns. At one point he did point out to me what he regarded as an error in my interpretation of particular Biblical text, citing one of his own prior writings as definitive. When, after reviewing the salient passages cursorily, I endeavored to engage him in conversation, I realized that he was gone."

"Perhaps it’s just as well," the Trappist sighed, reaching across the table for a handful of roasted chestnuts.

"Tell me, friend," the Old Man said, visibly lifting himself from his doleful reverie: "What news do you bring? What adventures have befallen you?"