In a dark room of the Blue Mountain, atop Bimini Hill, sat a middle-aged man of high station. He was a man richly endowed with great wealth, majesty and power, and he held the people's respect. This man had taken pride in his accomplishments but he had become saddened by his inability to present himself to the citizens in the way that they revered him; as living strength. Brook had long since known the problems of the noble land in which he lived and reigned. He pondered its past and its future while he aimlessly stared out of the window at the warming sunset. In his mind flashed a memory of an old writing that expressed in an awesome detail the fear and the agony of oppression that the whole world must have felt in the final days, when the prophesied great abolition had come to pass. Entranced, his thoughts were prolonged as he sat and watched the sun disappear into the earth; its light casting a reddish hue over his light beard and reflected cooly from his vacant blue eyes. His mind embraced time. It drifted along its tenses, all at once, as if they were all merged into one music; a music that played continually, along with the troubled voices that cried, only to him, for help. Caught up within his own thoughts, he payed little attention to the servant boy that set a drink on the table by his chair. Without a word the boy flamed the gas torches and the room no longer remained dark. Quickly, he left the room. "The sun was resting," thought Brook, as he reached for the chalice of ale beside him. He took a drink and the ale soothed his soddy thirst, and his parched manner, much like the milk of a mother's milken breast soothes a distressed babe, thus letting it sleep. But Brook could not sleep. Brook waited for the moon and he finally welcomed its cool radiance at midnight when he saw it rise over the junipers. Its silvery light reflected its beauty off the scanty layers of the farming terraces. Brook's eyes were fixed on the view outside his window. He tried to envision himself living a thousand years ago gazing out of the same window, marvelling at the sights that may have been there. In his heart, he recited a badly remembered poem that was written just prior to the War of Wars: A torn heart dying within the mind A failure to the reckonings -- Yesterdays, todays and tomorrows." He lifted the palms of his hands to his sweaty face desperately trying to keep from screaming out his tortured agonies. He believed that he couldn't tell a soul about the truth concerning the past. He knew that the Law was explicit: