The Meeting of Minds

What is this? An abandoned mall all falling to pieces? One store is still open. How can this be? And what do I hear? The angelic strains of Christmas music getting louder as I near the store. “We’ve been waiting for you,” a cheerful sales lady says as she waves me over. “Quickly now!” she says, bustling me into the store, “the ritual is about to begin!”

Ritual? Astounded, I watch as ten little girls tiptoe towards me each bearing a lit candle. They look perfectly in control.

“We are lighting the way for the Christ Child to find his way in the dark. All the other stores are gone, but we must keep this Christmas tradition.”

The sales lady says: “we have heard that you place great importance on rituals and tradition”, “not necessarily in that order”, I add. “But yes, you are right. Children need them to understand their place in the world.”

“And what if it’s not always about children? What if one doesn’t want any?” 

I looked at the young woman in her long skirts. This boho fashion was almost modern – but what was these days?

“I, personally, don’t want any,” she said. They would interfere with my brilliant career. It’s all in the book, you know. Well it was brilliant but then it went Bung. Now I’m onto something new. Sufragetting for workers’ rights, and I write for a rightwing newspaper to bring Australia to its senses. No room for children there.”

“And you are?” I said.

“Franklin, Miles. Miles and miles of me. And you?”

“Montessori, Maria. The Saint of children’s education that will become the norm all over the world. It will have to for from education springs peace.

“I know of an online group that discusses the pros and cons of the right, do join us. Tell us about the children, for theirs are the voices of tomorrow.”

“There is tradition and rituals involved,” I said, wondering if I could get my dear friend Benito on board. “So where is this group?”

“Well, since I am from the Antipodes, we’ll have to meet up in a special place open to what we might say. There is a cupboard perfect for this. Located in the birth house of Engelbert Dollfuss.”

“But he was murdered,” I say.

“His spirit lives on in many parts of the world,” Miles retorted. “First you must have a password, our own little ritual, and then we shall see where our discussions lead.”