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Yhelth was praying, eyes closed in deep meditation, when he was teleported to the testing ground. A sensation like falling, like the moment before passing into sleep, and then he opened his eyes and there was a forest where the walls had been, and stillness replaced the rumbling of the great ships engines, which he had never heard until they were gone.

Unsure of what to do, he did what he always did. He gave thanks to Sabath'ni for the gift of eyes to see the Gods' creation and looked around. A great orange half-sun hung on the horizon, painting the wine-dark trees with flame and covering the ground with a thick, velvet carpet of shadow. He gave thanks to Maha for the gift of ears to hear the Gods' words and listened for the sound of footsteps. From behind him he heard a faint whirrrr and turned to see what appeared to be some sort of bee-like insect fly past him and land on a leaf. Its legs were full of crystals which it deposited on the sunlit side of the leaf. After a moment in the sun, the crystals melted to liquid and the insect drank from the gleaming droplets--water--then flew back into the darkness. The slight residue of moisture remained on the leaf surface.

"That's how the insects water the plants," said a voice from the shadows of the trees. "They collect ice on the dark edge of the forest and bring it to the sunward side to melt."

Yhelth gave thanks to Biiyat for the gift of a mouth to speak truth and said, "Show yourself." He peered into the forest, trying to remember his opponent's appearance from the holobroadcast, but somehow the memory was vague, like a figure in a dream recounted to a Confessor the following day. "Show yourself!" he commanded again, and the figure stepped forward.

"I only know this," it said as it emerged into the light, "because because the exobiologist who discovered the species wrote a poem about it in a message to its conjugal group back home."

He felt his skin grow momentarily opaque with shock. The creature facing him was no Heathen, but rather a Servant like himself, only naked, with unbound hair and translucent skin that gleamed faintly from under the leaves. The face was strangely familiar, and that disturbed him. The voice, too, was familiar, intimate, but he could not remember where he had heard it before.

"The isolation of space inspires some beautiful love poems," said the other Servant, "too bad that wasn't one of them." He shrugged. "They appreciated the sentiment nonetheless."

Asking Biiyat for blessing upon his words, Yhelth called out to the other, "Servant, will you hear and acknowledge the Holy Text?" The proper response would have been a bowed head and, "By the grace of Maha, I will hear," but instead his opponent--for surely this was his opponent in this holy struggle--simply shrugged and sat cross-legged on the ground.

"Certainly. It was good work, and I always enjoy a good recitation."

"You know the Holy Text?"

"Of course," said the Other, "after all, I helped to write it."

"That is blasphemy!" snapped Yhelth. "The Holy Text is the Word of the Creator, and the Creator required no help!"

The Muse, for he was sure this was The Muse, whatever disguised form might it might take, blinked in surprise and said mildly, "Well, the Creator might have required no help, but the poor fellow who spent his life putting it all down on tablets certainly did. Translating religious visions into words is no easy business." The Muse sighed at the memory. "After a while one runs out of synonyms for 'glory.' Still," it added, with a fond smile, "it was exhilarating, the sheer technical challenge of such an expansive piece of work. And it is so rare to encounter such singular devotion."

Yhelth was a little mollified by The Muse's apparent reverence for the Holy Text. A quick read of its emotions revealed a deep longing, and...love? Yes, it was love, he realized, but love of what? The Holy Text? The Creator's Scribe? He wasn't sure. He would need to probe deeper. Still, it was blasphemy, and could not be allowed to stand. "So," he said a little more sarcastically than he intended, "you claim to have been present at the Divine Revelation? Perhaps you were there when Sabath'ni, Maha, and Biiyat created the First Servant as a gift to the Creator too?"

"Oh no, I wasn't there for your creation. I came later. We always come later." The Muse's skin was like milky water, its heart clearly visible underneath, a red sun behind behind the clouded breastbone. It pushed its hair back from its face and when its eyes met his, the sense of recognition he felt was overwhelming--but where? Where had he seen this creature before? It knew him, he was sure of it, and he knew it, but he couldn't think how or when.

"Do you love this world?" it asked him.

"What?"

"Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?"

At first he had no answer to such a strange and unexpected question. Cherish? Adore? Yhelth searched the other's emotions for some clue, but again, there it was--the longing and the love. No clue as to what it was really asking, or why. "All the Creator's works magnify the glory of the Creator. In Him is all our virtue and I strive to be worthy of His blessings."

"Is that possible? Is it possible to be worthy?"

"All fall short of the glory of the Creator, but we must strive to be worthy nonetheless."

They lapsed into an awkward silence. The Muse was staring at him intently, radiating a kind of excitement Yhelth had never felt before. It was like the excitement of a child the night before the Festival of The Three, but almost painfully keen. He readied himself for...what? An attack? It was obvious his opponent--opponent? Suddenly the word seemed ridiculous--had no intention of attacking him.

"And how does one become worthy of one's Creator."

"By following His commandments, studying the Holy Text, and by prayer."

"I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?"

The edge of The Muse's exhilaration began to wear at him, like the beginning of an itch or a headache. It made him irritable and a little ashamed, for reasons he couldn't name and didn't wish to think about. Still, this creature, whatever it was, seemed willing to learn. Surely bringing it into the Light of the Creator would be an act of great virtue.

"Idleness is a sin. You should labor in penance, and strive to deserve the Creator's forgiveness."

"Why?"

"Why--?" By the Three, it was mocking him now! Except it wasn't, he knew it wasn't. "You should know, if as you say, you know the Holy Text--"

"I know a great many Holy Texts."

"Heresies!" He stepped forward and raised his hand to strike the strike the words from its mouth, but The Muse never flinched.

"You never answered my question," it said.

Yhelth lowered his hand, a little embarrassed, and pulled his sleeve back down over his wrist. This creature might know the Holy Text ("many Holy Texts" indeed!) but there was a difference between knowing and understanding. "We commit acts of penance for three reasons," he said, as though the creature were a small child learning its catechism.

"No, not that question. My first question."

"Your first question? What--?"

"Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?"

Everything in the creature seemed to hang on his answer. Letting its emotions flow into him, he felt like he might burst into tears or laughter.

"Tell me," it insisted, "what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?"

Not knowing what else to do, he withdrew his thoughts from it. Knowing it, knowing why it looked at him so, knowing where he had seen that face before, knowing what it wanted from him seemed both absolutely necessary and impossibly dangerous. He stared at it. "Why do you ask me such things?"

"Do you think I know what I am doing?" it asked him in return,
"That for one breath or half-breath I belong to myself?
As much as a pen knows what it it writing
or the ball can guess where it is going next."

No, no, no no no. This was no good. The adoration he could feel this creature lavishing upon him was irrational, and probably sinful--to both of them. "Set the singleness of your heart upon the Gods and upon the Creator," Yhelth spoke the verse aloud without realizing it. "Love the Gods with all your heart, glorify them with your deeds, for that is the purpose for which you are created."

"But you are my Creator," cried The Muse, leaping to its feet. "You! All of you!" It pointed to him and then swept its arms skyward towards the pinpoint stars and the uncounted multitude of beings that lived in their orbits. "Before you spoke, I did not exist. Should you go silent, I will cease to be. Don't you see? People have spoken of me as a god, but it is the opposite. You are my creators, my gods. My sole purpose is to glorify you. I love you because I must. I am made in your image.

We are the mirror as well as the face in it.
We are tasting the taste of this minute
of eternity. We are pain
and what cures pain, both. We are
the sweet cold water and the jar that pours."

And that's when he realized where he had seen its face, why the voice was so familiar. The face was his face. The voice was his voice. This was some trick, this heretic with his face, speaking blashphemy with his mouth. He snatched a rock from the ground.

"I want to hold you close like a lute,
so we can cry out with loving.

Would you rather throw stones at a mirror?
I am your mirror and here are the stones."

He flung the rock at The Muse but his vision was fogged with rage and it merely struck a glancing blow off the creature's shoulder. The pink of the bruise started to rise through its skin and he stooped to pick up another rock. Sabath'ni guide his arm, Maha give him strength, and Biiyat give him courage, he would bash this abomination's head in, in the name of the Creator, he would! "I will kill you!" he cried.

The Muse laughed.

"I would love to kiss you.
The price of kissing is your life

Now my loving is running toward my life shouting
What a bargain, let's buy it."

But instead, The Muse turned and fled. He chased it through the forest and it ran ahead of him, never out-pacing it but always out of reach. He chased it out of the forest and into the sun, until the heat drenched his robes with sweat. He pursued it through the forest and into the night, until the sweat stiffened his garments with ice and the cold was a knife in his lungs. He ran on and it ran ahead of him. The sun rose and set on his anger for weeks, years, dawn and dusk whipping his face with branches. Stumbling winded to the edge of day, he stopped. There was no water here. His throat burned. The Muse stopped too, just out of reach, panting and smiling.

"I don't grow tired of you," it said. "Don't grow weary
of being compassionate toward me!"

Compassionate? What was that supposed to mean? He intended to bash its head in! That's when he realized that at some point he had dropped the rock. He could not remember when and somehow it did not seem important. He looked around for another rock but could find only pebbles, and somehow that did not seem important either. Sucking air into his desiccated lungs, he started after The Muse again in an exhausted lope straight into the sun, unsure of what he would do when he caught it, only knowing it was impossible to let it go. It ran from him, still, but now barely out of reach.

He was not sure how far he had run when he finally collapsed. He could not see the forest anymore. The ground was perfectly flat, the only relief from the sun was the shadow of The Muse as it stood over him. All strength left him and the heat pressed in on his eyes, narrowing his vision to a red tunnel. "Leave me," he said, defeated.

"How does a part of the world leave the world?
How can wetness leave water?

Don't try to put out the fire
by throwing on more fire!
Don't wash a wound with blood!

No matter how fast you run,
your shadow more than keeps up.
Sometimes, it's in front!

Only full overhead sun
diminishes your shadow.

But that shadow has been serving you!
What hurts you, blesses you.
Darkness is your candle.
Your boundaries are your quest.

I can explain this, but it would break
the glass cover on your heart,
and there's no fixing that."

Yhelth closed his eyes, rolled onto his back to expose his heart, and commended his soul to the mercy of The Three and the judgement of the Creator. He gave his life for the Creator in this desert. He hoped it would be enough.

The Muse sighed and looked off into the distance.
"To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee,—
One clover, and a bee,
And revery."

From the edge of the day came came the whirr of tiny wings. A bee landed upon Yhelth's lips, left an ice crystal, and flew back to the forest. The crystal melted. The drop rolled slowly into his mouth.

"And revery alone will do
If bees are few."

And The Muse turned and walked back to the forest through the haze of bees that swarmed toward the good and faithful Servant.