“…thou met’st with things dying, I with things newborn.”

The still youthful Dr. Wynn – attentive, defensive – eyed the elderly patient who sat before him. If this man resembled any previous patient of the institute, then Dr. Wynn could not remember whom. In his blithe composure, Mr. Ashe could almost be a senior and retired colleague on visit from, say, Austria. Yet he was suffering the most extravagant and vividly detailed delusions.

Now he was requesting a recorded consultation – through paranoia, through grandeur?

The old man’s manner, so practical, so downright venerable, was in sharp contrast to his actual condition. That made things easier in some ways, harder in others.

“Mr. Ashe, there is no reason why we can’t record our consultation, yet there is no reason to do so either…”

“Dr. Wynn, please indulge me. I know that my account of my life seems fanciful, and gives ample justification for my admission to your institute. Yet, if you will allow me to repeat it here in just a little more detail – I won’t take much of your time – you will certainly come to see the purpose of the recording. It is not to be a video record, merely voice.”

“Easily done.” Dr Wynn fiddled to set his computer for recording. “Please, Mr. Ashe, proceed. We have a few minutes.”

“Thank you. I’ll be brief.”


I was born a Jew in Egypt shortly before Queen Cleopatra’s dalliance with Julius Caesar, which gradually allowed that extraordinary lady to confirm her power over Egypt. I was very young when she poisoned her young brother – and husband! – Ptolemy, to become undisputed queen. Can one refer to a woman and Greek as a pharaoh? Certainly, she deserved the title.

I know, Doctor. I’m rambling already.

As a youth whose father was a minor royal physician, I had the great luck to grow up around the court of Alexandria. Sometimes I was included in the feasting and entertainments, when Mark Antony and the queen delighted and scandalised the world with their extravagance.

Alexandrian nights! Never again such refined abandonment, never again, such study of the sensual. I smell it even now, weakly, when newly poured wine is placed near flowers on a warm evening. Ah, but so weakly now…I had my youth, Dr. Wynn!

My father and I were on one of Antony’s vessels which was wrecked in that last battle, at Actium. My father perished, I swam ashore – to nothing.

So began my wanderings. Not knowing what fate awaited me under Octavian in the newly annexed Egypt, I began to wander around the gulf of Ambracia, then north, then east. Because I had acquired an educated manner as well as a true foundation in medical matters, I was able to practice and earn as I advanced. It was natural for a curious young man to go east, and still more natural for a Jew. My identity changed to that of a mature professional. Octavian, now Emperor Augustus, more wise than cruel, would never have cared that my father had been a physician to his enemy.

Still, I wandered, established no family, made brief friendships only to be torn away by unexpected problems or opportunities. It puzzled me, this lifelong ananke, this necessity or compulsion, which seemed at work even then, in my first century of life, to move me along.

I only settled among those of my own religion in old age. Far away in Rome, Tiberius was emperor. At eighty, I was an almost retired physician living in Jerusalem. There, as I emerged one day from a shoemaker’s shop, a trivial event, to which I paid little attention at the time, was to bring about a peculiar physical change in me. Or so I think. So trivial was the matter, that if it were not for subsequent rumour and myth-mongering, I should have trouble remembering it. In fact, there is so little to tell of the moment, that I shall leave it aside.

Nonetheless, I seemed to stop aging after the age of eighty, whatever the cause. It was something I scarcely noticed at first; soon I was to regard it as  a blessing, for, not only did I not age in any visible way, my health and energy were stable.

My history after these years are the history of my race. In a word, survival in dispersion. I have been over and about the whole world, Dr. Wynn, and experienced most things – but not death. There you have it: my madness.

Over centuries, working still as medical man, but often as labourer or scholar or teacher, I wandered.

Briefly in the service of the emperor Hadrian, as a consultant in antiquities, some force made me whisper to him: “Enough war”. Those were not my words, rather my message, which was conveyed…Well, you’ll see how my message is conveyed.

At the time of which I speak, the stabilising of empire by Hadrian and his successors was undertaken. To think that I lived through that great Roman peace under him and Antoninus Pius and Marcus Aurelius! How I relished those far-flung friendships and untroubled journeys over half a world, with a single language and currency. Peace seemed an automatic thing then. I alone knew that nothing, however durable in appearance, lasts longer than its moment.

When I speak of knowing emperors, do not think I have the power to approach and persuade the great. I have the power to find words when some force lets me confirm what an enlightened man or woman has already conceived. How I often come near to exalted persons is as mysterious to me as is my lack of mortality. Remember also that it is not only the exalted with whom I have such contacts.

I was not always a Jew. In France, I was never Jewish, for some reason. When the great monastic movement of Cluny began, I was fortunate to be a respected monk who had the ear of Duke William. What a joy to see Cluny flower, its ideas coursing like new sap into an awakening Europe. Then the sap congealed. What became of Cluny is what becomes of all institutions. Those who are shocked by the demise of Pan-Am or Polaroid should try living as long as I have lived!

And even while Cluny decayed, as a chief pharmacist and lay brother, I was able to watch over the birth of the Cistercians. Ah, the spirit of Cîteaux: discipline which leads to the cultivation of the stubbornest mind and soil. (I was more recently able to transmit my experience of Cîteaux to the Boers.) Yes, when Clairvaux was just a bare valley, it was I who whispered “Reform, make new” to the illustrious Bernard. Yet he was ready for the word. I change nothing on my own.

Whether to the famous or the obscure, it was always “Reform, make new” which I whispered: the idea, if not the words. Nothing lasts. Make the best and watch it decay. So reform, reform and reform again! As the centuries pass, I find it is my story which convinces best, when believed or just part-believed. As I soak up experience of constant decay and reform, it is my simple story which carries the message, rather than a philosophical discourse.

In the fiercely independent strongholds of half-barren Tuscany, in Lucca, in Siena, I toiled – don’t think me greedy – for a new economic way called capitalism. Empire, slavery and the manor would not give way quickly to this new spirit, nor would that new spirit reside long in Italy. But there, where men called me Lombard rather than Jew, there your economic world was born. Don’t thank me yet.

I was always a Jew in Spain. (Strangely, if I have a country, it is Spain.) When the counts of Castile looked over their empty territorial gains after the Muslim tide surged back, it was population and thus trade which they needed. I became a fosterer of trade, above all, in those slowly rejuvenated borderlands. Religion was in excess, war had been the norm. So I put aside war and even religion a little and traded, confected. I personally taught those western Castilians, who spoke a kind of Portuguese, to make hams and pastries from the meat and fat of beef, till the product was sought out by all, Christian or Jew. They still pay more for those products than for the pork equivalent!

On the bare meseta, along old Roman roads of Trajan (whom I’d met nine hundred years before), the east-west trade came and went. Dissecting this line, through Burgos, passed wool and other riches between north and south. I was even at the ocean’s edge, to haggle with shy Maragato traders, mysterious little race of both mountain and sea! How I loved Spain! My all too brief years in the Juderia of Segovia! What stern elegance!

Truly, I think I am a Spaniard, if I am of any nation. As we prospered there, so we Jews became suspected for our real and imagined excesses. (Please do not think me a defender of spider-like usury, but rather of actual commerce which drives men to frozen peaks and rocky coasts for gain and curiosity; yes, actual commerce, long lost in economics.) Soon Spain could afford intellectuals and regulation. We were dispersed, the good with the bad, the useful with the parasitic. Trade withered, even as gold poured pointlessly in from the New World.

I passed on to the north of Europe, to Germany and Poland and beyond.

Sometimes I found an ear, to which I could whisper my message. More often, of course, I did not. But among protestants of the north, wherever men were breaking free of remote authority and absentee landlords, I was able to help transplant a little that capitalist spirit which took root first in Italy. I have no power of my own. I speak to the disposed.

When I drifted to the New World – now you will see how fanciful I can be, if your diagnosis of delusions is correct – I was no longer merely a capitalist and protestant. I was also a Quaker! I was actually whipped behind a cart for my abolitionist views! Normally, I avoid such scenes, and I have no idea what purpose was served by the unpleasantness. Perhaps there was an onlooker on that day who was to be impressed by my bloodied back. Luckily, I heal well.

And when I first came here to Australia, as a shrewd Yorkshire cloth merchant, I was able to catch the ear of Governor Macquarie. He was in a wretched state, and would remain in a wretched state. Frustration, opposition and guilt over his own brutality and errors were gnawing at him. But I was able to confirm him in his intention to overstep, to defy, to make this country an abruptly formed, rough-hewn nation for all its inhabitants, rather than a plantation for remote investors.

The thought was his, the governor’s. I merely whispered a confirmation by telling him my story. By this point, lessons and discussion were seldom needed. People like stories, Dr. Wynn. After so many centuries, it is now mostly just the story. Questioning men can find their answers somewhere in my past, now it is such a long past.

You’ll wonder how I persuade such active, practical people of the truth of my immortality. Soon you will see how.

Doctor Wynn, I could go on. You are a man of extended interests, and I sense that the history element of my account is actually entertaining you a little. Such breadth of mind bodes well in a scientist – in this age of the computer model and the facile statistic.

I don’t always tell my story with impunity, but in the era of psychiatry, for example, where there is no risk of torture or incineration as a magus…the worst that can happen to me is hospital food and a forced rest? I’ll risk that.

But I can also see that the practical man in you is resisting the spell. I would expect no less. I am a physician myself. This is the end of the interview, is it not?

Before we end, can I ask you to do something? I’m aware that you have not recorded our conversation. No. Please don’t excuse yourself. I’m a doctor too. Having assumed I am mad, you have merely humored me. You have also assumed that an elderly man has no knowledge of the advanced aspects of computers. But you know what they say about Jews and IQ! No, it doesn’t matter. I simply ask you to hit any key on your computer after I am gone from this room. You can hardly avoid it, I suppose! I’m not sure it will work, but, after long experience, I sense it will. There will be a recording of my voice, though you are shaking your head a little skeptically.

And now, Doctor Wynn, if you would not mind lending me a copy of your own published work on trauma and delusion. It’s just behind you, on that higher shelf, is it not? I shall treat it carefully.


Doctor Wynn thought for a moment, then decided to lend the book to the old man. The response of Mr. Ashe to his text might well constitute a type of research. He turned, reached up, took the book, and turned back to his patient.

But Mr. Ashe was no longer there.

For a few minutes, the doctor patrolled his room, even looking under furniture and into cupboards. No sign.

Next he opened the door to his rooms, and asked his secretary, Mrs Gibbs:

“Did Mr. Ashe come past here?”

“Mr. Ashe?”

“My elderly patient, Mr. Ashe. Has he passed?”

“Has he entered?”

“Of course he entered. Did he come out?”

“Doctor, I remember a Mr. Ashe among the patients. But…no, I can’t recall him coming to your rooms.”

Doctor Wynn was never impatient or sharp with staff. He simply went tense, muttered a vague “thanks”, then went back inside.

Now he tried to find the old man in earnest, even checking windows, which were hermetically sealed in the air-conditioned premises.

He slumped against his desk and thought, while his eyes prowled still. At last he walked round the desk to his keyboard. A hesitant finger paused over the Y key, as if it were explosive, then he depressed it.


By now, doctor, you will have sought me and not found me. You will have noted that I have only left behind a vague memory of me in your staff and patients. Had you tried to record my account of my life, you should have recorded nothing, except these words I now utter. And there will be no record of these words, except in your mind.

Please do not think that I am in control of any of this, or that I am endowed with special knowledge. I am a man, I am real, I was really here. What I have is a story, that is necessarily more compelling with time and the aggregation of new experiences. I am the Past, I am History and I have a purpose.

I was not the patient. You were my client. Yes, you were meant to hear my story. The reason is not clear to me, since I am not in charge of this force, this destiny. Through my story, I am meant to whisper something to you, the same thing as to all the others: Reform and make new. But the nature of that reform is unknown to me, especially since I was only meant to be with you briefly. With my next client, I may live and work twenty years, and I may never tell him or her my story. Sometimes I am to acquire new experience laboriously, since I am still a human, with the common human burdens of learning and blundering. Sometimes I tell my tale and I am gone in minutes. Mostly, now, it is just the tale. People so like stories!

I have made a guess. I have guessed that the human mind will be the subject of study in the coming age. Its capabilities, its disorders, its contradictions will soon be examined in the light of parallel new knowledge: artificial intelligence, physiology, accelerated evolution…but what do I know? It is time for old things to be proven wrong before new things are assumed right before those new things are old and proven wrong. This I know, because it never changes.

My guess is that you will be at the centre of this explosion of research and interest, which will dwarf the efforts of the twentieth century in the field of mind. My story is meant to correct and balance, but only you can determine how. Reform. Make new.

Is it the spiritual that will be lacking? Not necessarily. I am no God botherer. Neither is God a New Ager. Perhaps you just need to know that the immediately visible and ascertainable are not truth, they are merely what they are. They are good enough in their cramped way, but they are not truth. It is extraordinary how many men who call themselves scientists lack this most fundamental of understandings. The eclipse of so many hard-held theories never gives them pause, as they rush to publish and dogmatise anew. Now they have computers!

That you should advance patiently without hubris. That you should gape at the black enormity of what you can never know…and still advance. This is my best guess at why you have been made my client. But look more to my story than to this sketchy interpretation. Reform. Make new.

I am a kind of midwife, placed where there is great groaning, a great pregnancy of the spirit. The stiff, habituated mind resists. And that is when I whisper, as I whisper to you now: Renew. Change. Make change, Dr. Wynn.

Make change and yet do not be changeful. The changeful mind is peevish, unobservant, claiming certainty, rushing ahead of change. Do not pursue the novel, because it will too soon be stale again. Let all things ripen, fall in their time, and then…make new! Observe the time. Be watchful by the vat and kiln. Let every brew ferment and expend its bubbles and its warmth. Let every kiln cool slowly, so slowly…Ah, but then seize, act, control, exert!

This is what I have learned, and what you needed to hear.

Please believe I was actually here. I, History. I, the Past. How you interpret my words is up to you. But my words are, as always: Reform and make new!

Everything decays. Everything! You must reform and make new!

I have a real name, not Ashe, though I have gradually ceased to use it since a chilly spring day in Jerusalem.

You see, as I walked out of a bootmaker’s shop in my eightieth year, I stumbled across an execution procession. The Romans were the most extraordinary mix of the brutal and refined. Crucifixion may seem coarse, yet consider! After a messy and showy preparation, a victim dies by toxic shock or suffocated by his own weight at a very slow rate, even over days. So Roman.

The victim in this procession would not last days, so appalling was his state. As he chose to rest right in front of me, I, as physician, simply said: “Go quicker, fatigue yourself, lose blood and end it sooner!”. My comment has been reported as a complaint at having my way obstructed, but it was not so. Quite the contrary.

Yet it really does not matter whether I was impatient or compassionate. The victim said something like: “I shall indeed hasten, but you will stay till the end of the world.” I took that to be a delirious comment, thought little of it, and removed myself from the pitiful scene.

It was a brief occurrence, to be put out of mind, since I am not the type to linger over painful spectacles. And I do not now regard myself as having been cursed. Knowing now who that victim was, it seems unlikely that he would be interested in cosmic paybacks and ironies. Rather, it seems to me that this was always to be my lot: a life of wandering and a life which does not end. Some people would like that! For me, it is just my role. As the Greeks of my youth might say: it is ananke, it is necessity. And, through this ananke, I say this final time: Reform and make new!

I am History. I am the Past.

I am Ahasuerus, of whom you may know, mistily, through distorted legend.

I am the Wandering Jew.

About mosomoso

Growing moso bamboo on the mid-coast of NSW, Australia.
This entry was posted in FANTASY/SF, HISTORICAL. Bookmark the permalink.

23 Responses to WANDERER

  1. Beth Cooper says:

    Thx, mosomoso, I think I like this as much as ‘The Peace of Careme.’
    speaking to the disposed.

    • mosomoso says:

      Thank you, Beth. I’ve only been cranking out this stuff for a year and I have no idea which stories entertain best. I’ve noticed some stories get read a lot and others hardly ever, but that may be due to links etc. It’s good to know these things.

  2. Beth Cooper says:

    mosomoso, I’ve since read it again. ‘Reform and make new!’ such good advice
    and much wiser than ‘Wipe the slate clean.’ or ‘( from a centralist government)
    ‘ We need a ten year plan.’

  3. Beth Cooper says:

    Here’s a bird poem that with a stretch of imagination might touch on
    yer theme of reform and make new …kinda. Long but yer can , u
    know []
    The Evolution of Birds.

    Making do with what’s at hand,
    In this case, ‘hands,’
    Used to be ‘legs,’ but they became
    Useless little arms
    With claw appendages, the kind
    You find on odd marsupials like kangaroos,
    And on that two-legged oddity
    Of the Jurassic, Dinosaur Therapod.
    By God! There’s a black swan development
    If ever there was one.

    Fossils unearthed in limestone quarries
    By homo sapien with evolutionary tools,
    Stone axes won’t do it,
    Record the evolution of the therapod hand
    From flexing wrist of Velociraptor to
    Unenlagla’s wing-like flaps and
    Primitive feathers of Caudipteryx,
    Say, there’s a giant step for birds!
    Then the momentous uncovering of
    Flight feathers on fossil Archhaeopterix
    And we have lift off!

    While precisely ‘how’ or maybe ‘why’
    The wings of birds evolve remains a mystery,
    Just when homeo sapiens think – they – may –
    Have some sort of handle on the evolution of birds,
    Tricky Nature calls up another black swan,
    Or cygnet maybe, seems some new and
    Up – to -now – unknown phenomenon
    Has been at work in the evolution of birds.
    For yet another evolutionary technology,
    X-ray C-T scanning of birds’ skulls
    Throws new light on their progression,
    Or paradoxically, regression. Progenesis,
    They call it, seems birds are really
    Baby dinosaurs. Prococious maturation of birds
    In just a few weeks, a portion of the lifespan
    Of therapods, becomes the whole life span
    Of a new, successful species.

    A new successful species. Praise be
    To tricky Nature for the evolution
    Of birds! Lords of the air, of updraft
    And perilous tumbling.
    Of utterance of sweet song, of joy
    To the world and tremulous longing,
    Of feathers rivalling in pattern and profusion
    The spangled universe, touching the imagination
    Of homo sapien, inspiring the visionary words
    Of poets, expressive of delights and lamentations
    Of mature lovers and yearning dreams of adolescents.


  4. mosomoso says:

    Now, I won’t google “therapod”. I’ll just let the word rattle round agreeably and greekly and geekly in my brain.

  5. Beth Cooper says:

    Perhaps ‘Gleicky’
    as in Peter Gleick on
    ethiics advocacy?

    In the world of mules
    There are no rules.,,
    Or in the therapod or
    Cuckoo worlds – neither,
    Both programmed by
    Tricky nature ter be
    Evo-lution-ary deceiver.

    Not as good as Ogden Nash
    but fun ter try..

  6. beththeserf says:

    mosomoso, ter let you know, fer what it’s worth, this
    is on me top three list. Its theme .. ‘reform, reform,’
    eleganceof expression, perceptive observation, I love
    this story. .If yer think this is too effusive, jest snip it!

  7. beththeserf says:

    What a joke above, the Ogden Nash imitation. I’d forgotten I wrote that.
    Think I’d better slow down with me publish or perish off the cuff comments,
    befitting me new role. (

  8. Beth Cooper says:

    mosomoso I’m thinking I’d like ter have this story in a thread, I have an idea but
    need ter think about it. I’ll discuss it with you if I think I can do it. .

    • mosomoso says:

      Fine to use the story, serf. Now, for your comment prob, go to comments, then “settings”, then “discussion”. (It’s all on the left under the W and your site name. Don’t go to “settings” on your dashboard etc. (Now, in settings, check to see if the wrong box is ticked or unticked. Especially, make sure you are not requiring registration or login from commenters. I can comment, because I’m a logged in WordPresser, but non WP people can’t comment if that box is ticked.

  9. Beth Cooper says:

    Well mosomoso I followed instructions as a good serf does and removed
    a couple of ticked boxes and thought it would work but no. Turns out there
    are glitches where, because of incompatibilities, kinda east meets west stuff.
    I kept getting SHOCK WAVES. There have since been some shaman
    machinations and here’s hoping. And thank you for what was really sound
    advice. Of course I have glitches meself and, ter use a cricket analogy,(?)
    am batting above me weight. Beth the serf.

  10. Beth Cooper says:

    Revisiting this story .. it is in me top 3 list. Yer tell this compelling story of the
    messenger with great sweep and concentration. and yr ending is jest right,
    I’d say. This fer instance:
    ‘That you should gape at the black enormity of what you can never know
    and still advance.’

    • mosomoso says:

      I don’t get how scientific types often just skip the Montaigne question: What do I know?

      Maybe they don’t like the answer. The hide of these people who know next to nothing about the oceans and the great mass of earth banging on about “settled science”. Gawd. Dr. Ahasuerus would have some good yiddish pejoratives for that lot.

  11. beththeserf says:

    Heck, we don’t even have a good handle on our Murray River and Lower Lakes
    history. Been doin’ a bit of reading on these and tryin’ ter get a context of the
    players and pov. It’s such a compluh-cated game. Don’t know if I’ll manage a
    SU_G on it.
    But some river poetry and music could be nice.)

    • mosomoso says:

      You could manage it, serf. You’re actually quite good at the methodical. I haven’t been methodical since 1949, but I know good method when I see it.

      As far as the undertaking being laborious, I love to watch serfs toiling into the dusk, as I sip on a nice autumn darjeeling and contemplate dinner. You have no idea how picturesque serfs can be as they drudge – at a distance, of course.

  12. beththeserf says:

    There yer go again, toff, prodding the prols inter yet another project.
    The long view …yeah, ‘Let them eat cake.’
    Say, even serfs drink darjeeling y’know. Out of a bone china cup
    wot’s more.

    • mosomoso says:

      You know, when the Empress went all trendy and Voltairean and abolished capital punishment, we toffs executed serfs by extended beating, which was not abolished.

      I’m not threatening, mind you…but isn’t it time you started work on the MDB and Lower Lakes?

  13. Beth Cooper says:

    No, I have ter git a handle on the Wentworth Group of Concerned Scientists before
    I decide ter go ahead. I’m not a historian like tony b yer know. U keep pushing me off
    the deep end.(

  14. Beth Cooper says:

    I’m not so much into magical realism as a genre ) moso but i’ve jest been
    reading ‘The Wind-Up Bird Chronical which I bought fer its title and
    because the author, Murakami, is Japanese and I love Ishiguro. Anyway
    it’s strangely compelling, rich dream scenes, time shifts, WW2 Manchuria and
    1980’s modern Japan … and having finished it I wanted ter read this story

    Say, moso, there’s a lot in yer deceptively simple paragraphs ..
    ‘How I relished the far flung friendships and untroubled journeys over half
    a world, with a single language and currency,,.’ And turn of phrase,
    ‘What stern elegance.’

    …Liked yr comment on Montaigne at JC moso.

    • mosomoso says:

      I should read more, shouldn’t I? Manchuria is an interesting subject. Been thinking about a story involving the Young Marshal, the Manchurian Prince Hal, but can’t quite get a plot for him. He only died a few years ago, got to a hundred. Has to be a yarn there.

      Your Murakami sounds good. Read on.

      Lately I’ve been reading slowly through Agatha Christie’s Mysterious Mr Quin. I just like the idea of the complementariness (is that a word?) of Mr Quin, and the fact that he may not exist. A bit like your poet mate kim.

  15. Beth Cooper says:

    Ah kim. )
    Note you have a new story which I will now read.
    Wot an industrious toff u r.

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