But that’s alright, because it turns out that all knowledge is always preserved, even if old Pharaoh eventually forgets. For it is written that Joseph did some travelling back in his day, out of Egypt and unto the land of the Hittites, and did go to Kadesh, where he knew the satrap named Ammuna. Knew him not in the biblical sense but rather in the collegial sense. For Ammuna the Hittite aspired to be an interpreter of dreams and wished nothing more than to be schooled by the one whose skills were divinely inspired. And so schooled he was, and he venerated Joseph, and learned from him and came to equal the master in both skill and authority.

This relationship is not recorded in either Genesis or Exodus, as it is incidental to the story arc. But it is recorded in the Akashic Record, which is every bit as historically accurate. Ammuna’s miraculously long career as dream interpreter to a succession of Hittite kings is also recorded there, as is his eventual and, given his propensity to speak truth to power, probably inevitable demise at the hands of a king who valued not the truth.

Now, in the good-news-bad-news way of a Lord that both giveth and taketh away, the Akashic Record has it all, right there in the ether. Whatever was bid during bridge last Wednesday and who did the bidding is there. Whatever you dreamed on any night – and what it meant – is there. But you can’t get to it. Not without help. Fortunately there were those few ancient souls like Ammuna the Hittite who could directly communicate the contents of the Akashic Record. And there were their channelers, those few modern souls who could communicate with those who could communicate the contents of the ether and thus let a little light into a Dark Age that featured Nixon, the war in Vietnam, the threat of nuclear holocaust, and disco.

Most people who channeled ancient spirits wrote books and appeared on Phil Donahue. Starbright Sierra Arcangela was unusual in that while she ran a paid service, like all real professionals she eschewed advertising beyond a simple notification that her service was available. Her ad in the Willamette Week just said “Dream Interpretation by Ammuna” with her name and number.

One dripping winter day Yuri was home from work with a head cold. She spent most of the morning in her floor length night gown at the kitchen picnic table with Bow Wow the dogs at her feet, huddled with a towel over her head over a big mixing bowl of steaming water poured onto crushed eucalyptus leaves and slices of ginger root, and reading Ursula Le Guin. The steam was getting her nowhere, and it may be that The Left Hand of Darkness isn’t really the very best companion reading if you’re already feeling badly about how badly you’re feeling. When the clock chimed noon she got up, walked barefoot through the drizzle out to the garage, took the canvas tarp off the little black and white portable television set, lugged it back inside and set it up on the coffee table in the living room.

She kept turning the channel selector and adjusting the rabbit ear antenna until something appeared that wasn’t a commercial. It was a talk show. A middle aged woman with big glasses was welcoming a slender younger woman onto the set. The young woman sat cross legged in the guest chair. The host told the audience that her guest claimed to be able to channel the spirit of a three thousand year old Hittite priest. Well, actually, a little bit more than three thousand years the guest interjected with a demure smile. Closer to three thousand five hundred, according to the Bible. And this ancient spirit has the ability to interpret dreams? asked the host. Yes, said the young woman with another demure smile. And today, explained the host, our ancient spirit is going to help someone in our audience, help her interpret a dream that she’s had recently. The young woman nodded earnestly. So now I must ask our audience to refrain from talking for a moment while Miss Arcangela readies herself.

To Yuri, it looked like the woman was napping. She closed her eyes and a moment or two later her head nodded down, her shoulders slumped and she was motionless. Then suddenly her back straightened, her head came up, her eyes opened wide, her left hand rose up, palm out while her right made back and forth circular motions. A rasping high pitched voice with a very strange accent said, “Dreamssss are the guiiiiide. Dreamssss are the place of knooowwwledge of sellllllf. Now, you may aaaaasssssssskkk.”

A woman in the audience, holding a microphone, described a dream in which she was at work and something embarrassing happened in front of her coworkers, while the ancient Hittite priest, via his channeler, nodded slowly and deeply.

To Yuri the performance was wrong in every way that it could be wrong. The accent was terrible. The hand gestures were terrible. The body language was terrible. Even the psychobabble that Ammuna the Hittite used on the audience member was second rate. This had to be the worst channeler in all of pagandom and Yuri noticed that as she sat on the couch watching, her own legs were wound tightly around each other and her hands were balled up. She was experiencing intense vicarious embarrassment for the young woman.

“That lady doesn’t need an ancient spirit,” she thought. “She needs a friend.”

The next drive-by free food extravaganza was wet and the picnic table sat under a big awning. Cars drove up and Bekka, who’d found the sort of cap that a car hop would wear, ran out and passed paper plates of food in through the passenger window. Sometimes the cars would double park so the drivers could chat across to each other while they ate. George had the Weber going with Phil and Yuri standing by using it to warm their hands. Quinn and Sheila and Danny and Arlene were at the table with the one pedestrian who’d come by in the drizzle, walking two huge dogs, and who ended up staying while the dogs raced around the yard with Bow Wow.

A car parked just down the block and the driver got out, unfurled an umbrella which was just slightly wider than the floppy red felt hat she wore, and walked toward the picnic table. She wore jeans tucked into knee high black boots with high enough heel to make walking across the grass awkward, a woven fabric belt tied at her side with ends that fell to mid thigh, a cobalt blue blouse buttoned to the throat, god’s eye ear rings that hung to her shoulder, a coral necklace and a tan rain coat, unbuttoned. She clutched a small rolled up piece of paper in one hand. Starbright Sierra Arcangela looked uncertainly around and said to Yuri, “I’m supposed to ask for Phil.”

“I’ll bet you’re Angela,” Phil said.

She looked at the ground and said in a soft voice, “Evelyn said I was supposed to call myself ‘High Pockets.’”

Phil laughed. “She was just amusing herself.”

“Oh. Good. I was starting to feel like I was in a spy movie.”

“Well, kudos for getting the reference. We’re cautious but not paranoid. Besides, we’re doing God’s work. What could go wrong?”

Yuri snorted. “Have some dinner, now that you’re here.”

“Sounds very nice. Thank you. But I think I’m supposed to give you this,” she said to Phil and handed him the rolled up paper in her hand. It was the You Get The Munchies They Get The Food flier. Phil unrolled and saw that the Zen circle calligraphy on the back contained a dollar sign penned in with a horizontal slash through the circle.

“Ah, a prepaid customer.”

She smiled demurely. “I paid Evelyn. I told her I was nervous about buying from someone I don’t know. I hope that’s alright?”

George had abandoned the marinaded beef tongue on the grill and was standing next to Phil and doing what Yuri thought to be a very unconvincing job of seeming nonchalant in front of an attractive stranger.

“Prepaid customers the heart of any stable business,” he said. “Course it’s alright. Now maybe brother Philip here tend the Weber home fires and you and I go inside, get you a package and complete the transaction. And if you like you can use the pipe an’ get your appetite stimulated.”

He pointed to the bunker’s side door but before he could start walking, Yuri pulled him aside and pinched the skin above his waist as hard as she could. “Listen to me. She is fragile. I don’t know how I know, but I know. No charm offensive from you. Not tonight.”

George smiled happily. “Got nothin’ but honorable intentions, boss. I’ll be good.”

“I don’t want you to be good, George. I want you to be kind.”

He nodded and smiled at her. “Alright, I been spoken to.”

Later that evening when the awning had been struck, the cleanup finished and all the red housers decamped back up the hill to the Red House, Angela stayed on, and they sat together in the living room, sharing the fruits of her purchase. In the corner, the Object asked IS IT JUST ME, OR…?

Angela was relaxed and as giggly as anyone who’s spent an afternoon smoking and eating would be. Yuri thought she looked five years younger.

And then Yuri did the one thing she would have given herself the sternest warning not to do under any circumstances if she’d had even the smallest inkling that she might actually do that one thing. She had been thinking of Ammuna the Hittite and wondering if he ever smoked dope and if he did, and got the munchies, well, what did Hittites with the munchies eat? Did they go out and slaughter a goat or just glom onto a loaf of bread, and if they had bread because she was certain they had bread because ancient civilizations had these giant village ovens, so if they had bread did they also have crackers, because if they did have crackers they would be stone ground crackers, of course, and nothing tastes better than fresh stone ground… well, fresh stone ground anything, and what would be even more delicious would be if they were herbed with a little rosemary because that was Yuri’s favorite. If they did have herbed crackers, they probably stored them in big earthenware pots because earthenware pots were pretty much what they had back then and she imagined Ammuna and his friends getting totally loaded and having these big pots full of delicious herbed Hittite crackers to eat.

Which is when she did it: she looked at Angela and said, “Hey, do you suppose Ammuna has any good recipes?” Angela looked at her curiously.

“I saw you on TV,” Yuri explained and gave the others a short introduction to Starbright Sierra Arcangela and her ancient spirit source.

Angela then did what Yuri had feared she might do if Yuri did what she forgot to warn herself not to do. “You know I never really asked about that kind of thing. It never came up. Hey! Let’s ask him now!”

And she did. And as it turned out, Ammuna was particularly fond of a lentil and lamb stew prepared with cumin and raisins, which could not be prepared without the necessary attention to the ritual details of the fire pit, which he explained at length – its exact measurements, the kind of stone to be used to line the pit, and who was allowed to do the digging and who was forbidden – and to the purification of the ingredients.

Ammuna was stressing the importance of not hurrying the stew and of waiting until “laaaater insssa afternoon before you may apply the cyoooomin and raiiiisssins, when you must alllsssoooo…” At which point Starbright Sierra Arcangela yawned a great long yawn and Ammuna the Hittite fell into a deep sleep.

“Wow. Hittites snore just like regular people,” Phil observed softly.

“That was uncomfortable,” whispered Bekka. “No, no, it wasn’t. It was just awful. Even the recipe. I’ve made that one myself for chrissakes.”

Yuri said, “Well, the cumin was an unexpected touch. I usually use cinnamon.”

“I can’t believe she charges people money for that crap!” She pointed her finger at the sleeping channeler. “That there,” she said, “That is a bad person.”

“No, my dear,” said Yuri. “She’s really a very good person.  She’s just a very bad Hittite.”