Thief of Time

and discarded when not.”
    “Will I have to wash it?” said Clodpool.
    Wen gave him a long, slow look.
    “That was either a very complex piece of thinking on your part, Clodpool, or you were just trying to overextend a metaphor in a rather stupid way. Which, do you think, it was?”
    Clodpool looked at his feet. Then he looked at the sky. Then he looked at Wen.
    “I think I am stupid, master.”
    “Good,” said Wen. “It is fortuitous that you are my apprentice at this time, because if I can teach you, Clodpool, I can teach anyone .”
    Clodpool looked relieved, and bowed. “You do me too much honor, master.”
    “And there is a second part to my plan,” said Wen.
    “Ah,” said Clodpool, with an expression that he thought made him look wise, although in reality it made him look like someone remembering a painful bowel movement. “A plan with a second part is always a good plan, master.”
    “Find me sands of all colors and a flat rock. I will show you a way to make the currents of time visible.”
    “Oh, right.”
    “And there is a third part to my plan.”
    “A third part, eh?”
    “I can teach a gifted few to control their time, to slow it and speed it up, and store it and direct it like the water in these streams. But most people will not, I fear, let themselves become able to do this. We have to help them. We will have to build…devices that will store and release time to where it is needed, because men cannot progress if they are carried like leaves on a stream. People need to be able to waste time, make time, lose time, and buy time. This will be our major task.”
    Clodpool’s face twisted with the effort of understanding. Then he slowly raised a hand.
    Wen sighed.
    “You’re going to ask what happened to the coat, aren’t you,” he said.
    Clodpool nodded.
    “Forget about the coat, Clodpool. The coat is not important. Just remember that you are the blank paper on which I will write—” Wen held up a hand as Clodpool opened his mouth. “Just another metaphor, just another metaphor. And now, please make some lunch.”
    “Metaphorically or really, master?”
    “Both.”
    A flight of white birds burst out of the trees and wheeled overhead before swooping off across the valley.
    “There will be doves,” said Wen, as Clodpool hurried off to light a fire. “Every day, there will be doves.”

    Lu-Tze left the novice in the anteroom. It may have surprised those who disliked him that he took a moment to straighten his robe before he entered the presence of the abbot, but Lu-Tze at least cared for people even if he did not care for rules. He pinched out his cigarette and stuck it behind his ear, too. He had known the abbot for almost six hundred years, and respected him. There weren’t many people Lu-Tze respected. Mostly, they just got tolerated.
    Usually, the sweeper got on with people in inverse proportion to their local importance, and the reverse was true. The senior monks…well, there could be no such thing as bad thoughts among people so enlightened, but it is true that the sight of Lu-Tze ambling insolently through the temple did tarnish a few karmas. To a certain type of thinker the sweeper was a personal insult, with his lack of any formal education or official status, and his silly little Way, and his incredible successes. So it was surprising that the abbot liked him, because never had there been an inhabitant of the valley so unlike the sweeper, so learned, so impractical, and so frail. But then, surprise is the nature of the universe.
    Lu-Tze nodded to the minor acolytes who opened the big varnished doors.
    “How is His Reverence today?” he said.
    “The teeth are still giving him trouble, Lu-Tze, but he is maintaining continuity and has just taken his first steps in a very satisfactory manner.”
    “Yes, I thought I heard the gongs.”
    The group of monks clustered in the center of the room stepped aside as Lu-Tze approached the playpen. It was, unfortunately, necessary. The abbot had never mastered the arts of circular aging. He had, therefore, been forced to achieve longevity in a more traditional way, via serial reincarnation.
    “Ah, Sweeper,” he burbled, awkwardly tossing aside a yellow ball and brightening up. “And how are the mountains? Wanna bikkit wanna bikkit!”
    “I’m definitely getting vulcanism, Reverend One. It’s very encouraging.”
    “And you are in persistent good health?” said the abbot, while his pudgy little hand banged a wooden