Was early in the summer when that strange man appeared in our church, sitting quietly in the back, observing, moving his lips and bowing his head at the appropriate times. Everyone kept eyeing him through the service, everyone but the preacher who was intent on delivering our souls from the hands of the Devil--far more intent on delivering us than many of us were on being delivered, I might add. But everyone noticed pretty much the same things, which emerged in that gossip small towns are known for--half the reason I moved out of Chicago and into Leary, Iowa--that, despite his sincerity in every gesture, there was also some sort of aloofness in his eyes, as though he were far above the service and religion, yet totally immersed in it as well.

Directly after the service, people formed their usual clusters, coagulating like platelets into blood clots. (Pardon me if on occasion I carry a negative few of these folks, I do come jaded from gritty cities, Chicago, New York before that.) Generally, clusters tend not to form around me, so I pushed my way around a couple and found Dish in a corner, leaning against a post, eyes scanning the crowd with amusement and curiosity. Ah, someone else beat me to him for introductions--

"Hi, I'm Roberta Agnes," the elder woman said with her usual smile. "I just wanted to welcome you to our church and invite you back next week for the service. Oh, and there's a Bible Study at my house on Wednesday nights, and you are invited."

He gave a bow and said in a clear voice, "I would be honored to attend. Where and when?" She handed him a page from her notebook--already scribbled up for the new victim--and then left in a hurry to schmooze with other churchgoers. Leaving him for me.

"Don't mind her," I said, "she's sort of the church busybody."

He looked in my eyes, tossed back his long hair touched by blond streaks, stroked his beard, and quietly answered, with a shrug, "She is not unlike many others, in many small towns." The faintest hint of a smile caressed the sides of his lips.

I extended my hand. "Jim LeMay. Pleased to meet you."

With a slight bow, he shook it--did he spend time in Asia, bowing all the time like that?--and said, "Jordan Dish. Glad to make your acquaintance."

"Jordan Dish? I thought you looked familiar. You are the author, right? The science fiction author who writes about time travel and stuff?"

That cracked those chapped lips into a wide grin. "Yes, that's me. Shall we walk?"

Pushed through the doors, stood outside in the sun, that sun that would grow only hotter as the days continued. Ah, midwest weather. Maybe I should move to San Francisco. I've always liked the weather there, whenever I've visited. But I'm too old to move, now. "Where are you staying?" I asked.

He motioned towards a rusty red VW microbus. "That's my home."

"Oh, that won't do at all. You are welcome to stay in my house, my friend, for awhile. How long you planning on being here?"

He shrugged again. "Until what I need to do is complete."

"What do you need to do?"

"I don't know yet."

I would soon discover that he often made cryptic remarks like that, and meant every one of them.

Jordan meshed into our home life quite well. He taught my kids t'ai-chi, a martial art from China. Cooked meals on odd nights, sharing in the chores of maintaining some semblance of order in our household. Began to teach the local women's group, and anyone else who wanted to learn, Hatha Yoga. Attended church, semi-regularly, but I soon discovered he wasn't really a Christian, any more than I was a Driver simply because I drove my car once in awhile. He gave all religions equal credence, and seemed to practice all.

This came out in a fascinating manner during those Bible discussion groups Roberta ran. Turns out Jordan has a Ph.D. in Religious Studies, and provided a lively element of diversity to the talks. His tactic was fascinating. He knew the Bible, like every other religion, inside and out, and could out-argue Roberta when he flat-out disagreed with her point. But then, other times, he would find Biblical quotes to support what she was saying, arguing on her side--and then he would throw her for a loop and bring in another religion, usually quoting texts or practices that were identical to the essence of the Christian practice or quote they were talking about, and confuse her. On other occasions, he would remain silent, watching the labyrinth of words twist around the table, and when his opinion was asked, he would simply utter some nonsensical word or statement. "Fnord" seemed to be one of his favorites.

Roberta formulated her opinions, and shared them as always. "He is such a nice man, he could be such a great Christian, if it weren't for those Other Religions. Oh, I pray for him, that he might be turned to the Truth."

Presumably, Jordan formulated opinions as well, however, he kept those to himself. I asked about her a couple times, when we were sitting around the dinner table talking, and he would shrug his shoulders, and that would be that.

Usually, around the dinner table, and more so when we were alone, he would ask me about myself. What are my dreams? What do I want to do? I hesitatingly admitted I had always dreamt of becoming a writer. Just to toy around with ideas, get them on paper. He had noted my bookshelves, lining most of my walls, and maybe he could see that hunger in me, the thirst for literature. For experiences to write about, for words to tack on those experiences I already possessed.

He spent a lot of time with my computer. Every so often, when I would get on, I would notice some sort of improvement, something about its operation was now smoother. I asked him if he were writing a new story, somewhat giddy at the prospect of having a Dish Original written on my machine, but he said, "No, not this time. This is your story to write."

I did once peek at what he was doing, late at night, on my computer. Turns out he was engaged in many tasks at once. Multitasking. He had open a window and was chatting with various persons from around the world. Another had mail. And another had a jumble of characters, and this is the one he was interfacing with the most. Turns out he was hacking. Asked him about that, too. He gave me one of those damned shrugs which I had come to realize he was going to hold back, and said, "Just curious as to how the systems work. Poking around. Seeing how they are made, what goes on in them." But this time, he let out more. A sort of impish look took him, and he tapped his skull and said, "And you realize, of course, that computer systems aren't the only type of systems to be hacked? That any system of sufficient complexity..." and he trailed off, bade me good night, and went to bed.

It happened at the beginning of the fall. The leaves were beginning to curl and brown, touches of color brushed on by a light stroke of the Painter. Wednesday night, a Bible Meeting.

Jordan had been more active than usual in that discussion, and kept steering the subject around to the Resurrection, the dynamics of death and rebirth. He and Roberta went around and around on that one, she elucidating obscure doctrines to patch holes he kept finding, when finally he brushed his hands around and shouted, "Words words words."

"What?"

"Words! That's all you are using! Can't you feel the Resurrection? Don't you see how the words barely veil us from a great experience in the Universe next door?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Have you ever died, Roberta?"

"No, of course not! Why--"

"Well, then, it's about time. I'm going to do you a favor. I'm going to put you in a place where words will not be able to help you, or hurt you...take you far beyond words, where you will only have your instincts and what you might call the Truth to guide you." From his inside trench coat pocket, he pulled a gun and pointed it at Roberta. "Time to die. Any last words?"

She began to cry in fear. "No one move, or she dies. Now, Roberta, you must realize, nothing you say will change this, and nothing you don't say will make any difference as well. So, I ask again, any last words?" He cocked the pistol.

A change came over Roberta. No longer was she in hysterics, instead a calm spread over her face. I swear, she was almost glowing, radiant. Her breath was steady, and she was focused. And...no words...

He fired. She fell back. I jumped up, looked down at the body.

No blood.

Jordan stood, handed me the pistol. "She'll probably wake up in a few hours. Let her rest, don't let her talk too much about what happened. She'll need time to figure this all out. And, Jim, please...Follow Your Bliss."

He left. None of us ever saw him again.

Roberta changed for the better, it seemed. No longer was she so pushy about Jesus. A strange sort of calm strode beside her, manifested in her every move. She had seen what she had only dreamt of seeing on that night. She certainly opened up, quite a bit. I even caught her reading about Zen.

A few weeks later, I received notice from my work that I had the opportunity to transfer to San Francisco. Some weird computer quirk, it seemed. A few days after that, I received a postcard from Jordan, with the words, "A gift from a hacker" scribbled on it. I, of course, took the opportunity.

And I decided to write. This story, and others. Not making a great deal of money doing it, but who cares? It's what I want to do. Making money is what I have a job for.