“Do it!” he hisses.
I watch Aaron raise his arm: rod of twisted wood held high. See him glance across at his sibling for reassurance. The imperceptible nod of approval.
“Show me a miracle!” he mocks – chest lifted, chin stern.
Swiftly, Aaron casts his stick to the ground at the king’s feet. And there, in that eternal split-second moment as it touches the stone yet doesn’t, I Am. Staff is snake is staff.
Slithering, serpentine, rattling and flicking: Alive, alive-oh.
“A real miracle,” he sighs, tapping his fingers. Clicking his thumbs, he summons his own sorcerers. Seven magicians, seven staffs cast. Seven more snakes slipping insidiously all around. He sneers, triumphant superiority flashing from his grin. “Anything you can do…” he drawls.
But he’s forgotten that I Am. Sees only snakes and staffs and snakes. Watches in bewildered horror as, one by one, the seven skinny snakes are slurped and swallowed up by the one I Am.
Staff is snake is staff again.
Will he remember?
I wait: Alive, alive-oh.