“What?”
Kingston and I say it at the same time, which elicits a softapologiesfrom Kingston. We’re huddled in Emrys’s classroom, no texts out or notes taken, having spent the bulk of the instructional period relating all the details we can think of our—my—encounter with the Lady, of what she said and what she asked, of the riddle I can’t seem to answer.
“Bit of a mouthful, no? A-re-ta-lo-gy,” Emrys repeats, sounding out each syllable slowly. “From the Greek.”
I think for a minute.Areteis like…virtue, or excellence, something along those lines. One of those uniquely Greek abstract nouns that seems to speak to a concept we’ve lost sight of in our hectic modern lives.
“The study of excellence?” I venture. Emrys nods.
“Literally, yes.” He steps to one of the many bookshelves, scans it, then selects a volume from a high-up shelf. “In specific, however, it refers to a literary form that describes the wonders of some divine being from a first-person perspective.” Back athis desk, he opens the book—The Greek Magical Papyri in Translation, I glimpse on the weathered green spine—and flicks through the pages. “Here.” He spins the text around and pushes it to Kingston, who frowns, but reads aloud.
“‘I am Isis, the mistress of every land. I gave and ordained laws for men, which no one is able to change. I am eldest daughter of Kronos. I am wife and sister of King Osiris. I am she who findeth fruit for men. I am mother of King Horus. I am she that riseth in the Dog Star. I am she that is called goddess by women…’” Kingston looks up. “It just goes on like that.”
“Precisely.” Emrys nods. “Fortunate for you and your elementary grasp of Greek, Mr. Pendragon, that I have only the English translation at hand here, eh?” He takes the book back and snaps it shut. “The aretalogical hymns are exactly thus: a series of statements. I am this, I am that. I am she who begat whomever, I am she who created thus and so.”
“Is it always ashe?” I have to ask.
“Not always,” Emrys says. “But frequently. Until, at least, a certain carpenter out of Galilee.” He sets the book on the table, lifts a piece of chalk, and dashes out seven letters on the board.
EGO EIMI.
“I am,” I translate—just to beat Kingston and hiselementary grasp of Greekto the punch. “Or, arguably,it is I, depending on whether you’re interpreting the verb as copular or existential…”
I trail off.Shut up, Gwenna, I think.We get it.
Emrys, however, simply drops the chalk and dusts off his fingers with a nod. “Yes. And exigetically? Where does this phrase occur?”
This, I don’t have as quick recall on. Memorizing scripture was never my forte. But Kingston does—already paging through the leather-bound Bible I realize he must always carry with him. He flips a whisper-thin page, then another, and then points and starts to read aloud.
“So when they had rowed about five and twenty or thirty furlongs, they saw Jesus walking on the sea,” he narrates. “And they were afraid. But he saith unto them, It is I; be not afraid.” He looks up. “John 6. That’s one, isn’t it? An example of that phrase?”
Emrys nods.
Kingston waits.
“And?” he says, after Emrys makes no move to speak. “Where are we going with this, exactly?”
He looks at me. I can only blink—I’m not sure, either.
“I wonder,” Emrys says, “whether, in posing that question, in that location, your Lady is inviting you to respond in such a form.”
“Aretalogical,” I sound out.
“Yes.” Emrys smiles faintly, tapping his chin. “Quite clever of her. Poetic, really. I envy a mind that can come up with such a neat puzzle.”
“But…” I’m struggling to piece together the logic.But what does that have to do with anything?I want to say. Instead, I settl for: “Okay?" I clear my throat. "I mean, that still doesn’t give me theanswer.Only theformof the answer.” I pause. “And, for that matter, it’s not exactly revelatory, is it? That I the answer to awho are youquestion should start withI am?” Duh, for lack of a better word.
Emrys frowns. “To awho do youthinkyou arequestion,” he amends softly. “But no, I suppose not. I may be stating the obvious.” He shrugs. “Or, perhaps, what I am inviting you to consider is that the answer she seeks is anontologicalone.”
"Ontological," Kingston repeats, the barest edge to his voice. "As opposed to?"
“Teleological,” Emrys says, as if it’s obvious. “Or utilitarian. Instrumental. Functional.” He spins a hand in the air as if grasping at synonyms. "You know, ah--"
I don't, actually. EvenIam getting lost here. “Meaningwhat?” I interrupt.
Emrys stops.
“Meaning,” he says, slowly and gravely, “that the Lady is asking what you are, not what you arefor.”
