As he stepped through the door, he saw a single chair in the middle of a large room facing a long table. Behind the table sat three men. They seemed to be writing on the stacks of paper before them.
“Sit there, please,” said the woman, pointing to the chair and closing the door behind Harold.
His steps echoed as Harold went to the chair. He was holding his briefcase and still wearing his coat and hat. He placed his briefcase beside the chair, removed his hat, and sat down. The chair scraped the floor and squeaked a bit as he settled into its hard wooden seat. He was sweating. He retrieved a handkerchief from his coat and wiped his brow.
Silence hung heavily in the room. Only the ticking of a clock on the wall could be heard. None of the men noticed all this, or even looked up from their writing. The scratching of pens on paper echoed in the room.
After about five minutes, the man in the center stopped writing, looked up from his papers, and settled his eyes on Harold. He maintained eye contact for a minute before he spoke.
“Mr. Harold Duncan, I presume?” he asked in a deep baritone that seemed to fill the room.
“Yes, sir,” Harold responded.
“You are here to interview for a position with Liberty Publishing?”
“I am.”
“Good. Then let us begin.”
The interview lasted for about thirty minutes with the men asking questions and Harold answering them confidently. Soon it was over, and he was ushered out as quickly as he’d come in.
“Thank you for your time, Mr. Duncan. You may leave now,” said the man in the center of the table, as he looked down at the paper on his desk, waved his hand dismissively, and began writing.
Harold stood up.
“Thank you for the opportunity, sirs. I look forward to hearing from you,” Harold said. He stood there for a moment.
“Mrs. Donaldson, next gentleman, please!” yelled the man in the center of the table.
Mrs. Donaldson opened the door and entered the room behind Harold.
“This way, please,” the woman said, pointing to a different door than the one Harold had entered by. This door led to the hallway instead of the waiting room where so many others waited anxiously for their turn.
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you,” Harold said as he bent down to grab his briefcase and gather his coat about himself. He donned his hat and walked toward the door.
Harold left the building, unsure whether he had done well in the interview. The interviewers were inscrutable.
“What do I do if I’m rejected?” Harold said out loud while passing through the main lobby.
“You try again,” said a passerby. “Never fear.”
Encouraged by the thought, but still worried, Harold headed for the train station.
By the time Harold arrived in Edinburgh, the day had clouded up and it was raining. Harold was so lost in thought that he forgot to open his umbrella and was getting soaked by the downpour.
He made his way home, unlocked the door, and went inside.
The happiness Harold had about getting the interview had now completely worn off and been replaced by worry. He went about in kind of a daze, feeling a bit lost as to what to do next.
News
A couple of days later, a knock came on Harold’s door. Harold got up from his desk in the study, went down the stairs, and opened the door slightly, peeking out. He was greeted by a smiling messenger standing in the cold, shivering.
“Hello, sir. I have a message for Harold Duncan. Is that you, sir?” he asked, opening his bag and moving some letters and other documents around inside.
“Yes, I’m Harold Duncan.”
“Here it is,” said the messenger, retrieving the envelope and holding both hands out to Harold. The envelope was in one—the other was empty and palm up.
“Can you tell me who it is from?” asked Harold. He was still worried about getting an eviction notice.
“Yes,” said the boy as he turned the envelope toward himself and read the sender’s address at the top of the envelope.
“The Liberty Publishing Co—”
Harold reached out quickly and grabbed the letter from the boy.
Harold turned away from the boy, mumbled, “Thank you,” and let the door drift shut.
The messenger boy blinked, stood there a moment, then turned back to the street and said to himself, “Boy, what a cheap bloke. This is the last time I deliver anything to him.”
The messenger walked over to his bicycle and mounted it. Just then, the door opened and Harold tossed him a coin.
“Thanks!” Harold said. “Sorry; I was distracted.” Harold couldn’t afford the tip, but the Universe seemed to be helping him out right now, so he didn’t want to blow it by being a rude miser.
Harold tore open the envelope and read the letter.
Dear Mr. H. Duncan,
Your interview was stellar, and you definitely fit the position we have in mind.
We, therefore, invite you to join our firm as Senior Clerk, at a salary of £850 a year in our new office at 56 Clarence Street, East Edinburgh.
Please consider us, for we have been in business for eighty years and continue to grow our business every year.
Please address your response to our office in Glasgow as soon as possible, as we are anxious to fill the position and begin operations in East Edinburgh.
We would be honored to have you on staff.
Sincerely,
Mr. P. Jones
Liberty Publishing
36 St. Vincent Place
Glasgow
Stunned, Harold just stood there staring at the letter. Then, like a volcano erupting from the very depths of the earth, he shouted as loud as he could, “Yes! Thank God!”
He jumped up and down, up and down, gripping the letter tightly, while weeping tears of joy. He immediately reopened the door and dashed outside, trying to catch the messenger riding away.
“Messenger boy! Come back! I have a letter for you to take back!” Harold yelled, waving his hands in the air.
The boy looked over his shoulder at Harold and thought, Oh, bugger, what does this nutter want now? But he slowly stopped his bicycle and turned around, heading back toward Harold.
“Just wait a few minutes while I draft the letter, please,” Harold said.
Harold quickly ran upstairs, grabbed some paper and a pen, and started writing his acceptance letter.
Sirs,
I accept your offer with gratitude. I would be honored to work for you as a Senior Clerk in your new office in East Edinburgh starting next month. Please send me the particulars at your convenience.
Thank you.
Sincerely,
Harold Duncan, Esq.
Harold signed the letter, stuffed it into an envelope, addressed it, and ran downstairs. He opened the door to see the messenger boy leaning on his bicycle, waiting.
“Here you go, my boy,” Harold said, handing the messenger the envelope containing his response. “Thank you for waiting. Here is a shilling for you and two pence for the cost of postage. Please get this off quickly!”
The boy’s face lit up with a broad smile as he took the shilling and the envelope from Harold’s hand and stuck it in his bag.
“Thank you, sir! Yes, of course, immediately, sir. I will go post this right now and ensure it is sent out right away!”
The boy hopped on his bicycle and rode swiftly down the street, yelling at people to make way for him to speed past.
Harold watched him go, then turned and went back through his door, closing it behind him. He immediately ran upstairs to his bedroom to look at the drawing he had on the wall.
There it was: the ideal job he had envisioned. He carefully removed the drawing from the wall, went to his study, and placed it in a file marked Received.
Work
The next month arrived swiftly.
Harold made sure he knew where the new office was located. In fact, he visited it even before he was supposed to be there.
On his official first day, Harold arrived at the new office with its large windows and brightly painted signage announcing: Liberty Publishing.
Harold opened the door and went in. The office smelled of fresh paint and new furniture. The clattering sound of typing from several typewriters rang in the air. He stood there for a while just smiling.
A man approached him, thrusting out his hand.
“You must be Harold Duncan. Welcome. Come this way, please,” the man said as he shook Harold’s hand, then turned and led the way.
Harold quickly followed.
Harold was situated at a new desk by a window with a shiny new typewriter sitting on top. He was given some work to do and got started with enthusiasm. So it was the first day of work.
Each day that Harold worked, he seemed to be able to do more, but the work did become routine.
However, Harold never complained.
After work each evening, Harold continued using drawings and statements on the wall near his bed to remind him about the power of visualization he had learned. Harold also remembered from the dream travel that the great universe has rules, and one of these was: As you think you are, then so shall you be.
Harold decided to follow this rule because the others he had learned had worked, so why not this one? It was a different mindset than he had known before. It was more about a way of thinking about oneself.
Harold had always wanted to be a writer, so he began to think of himself as a writer. Every day in the morning and in the evening, he would tell himself, “I am a great writer. My writing is read, appreciated, and requested by others.”
An opportunity came up at his new position where the company needed an article written and their regular writer was unable to do it, so they sent Miss Ellison, the secretary, to him with an outline of the article they needed.
As Miss Ellison came by his desk with a paper in her hand, Harold looked up from his typing. “Harold, we want you to write this article for us,” she said. “Can you do this?”
She showed Harold what it was they needed. He quickly scanned it and said, “Yes, of course, I can write that for you. When do you need it?”
“By the end of the week would be great,” she said.
A great smile spread across Harold’s face. He eagerly took the piece of paper describing the assignment. He immediately started outlining what he was going to write. He worked on it for the next couple of days and was finished mid-week.
When Harold handed the article to Miss Ellison, she was surprised to receive it so quickly.
“Why that’s wonderful, Harold! Thank you for doing it so quickly. We will review this and let you know if any changes are needed.”
The article impressed the reviewers. They were so impressed that they asked Harold to write another article. He quickly agreed and began writing again.
“Harold, done so quickly again? That is wonderful! We will review it right away,” Miss Ellison said.
Harold was assigned articles steadily for several weeks. His employers were so impressed with his writing that they asked him if he would consider being a staff writer.
Harold was elated. He accepted and became a writer like he had always wanted, and he felt so good.
In short order, Harold went from being a clerk to being a staff writer. His thinking of himself as a writer and believing he was already a writer allowed him to become a writer.
Harold felt better than he had for as long as he could remember. He enjoyed his work, and at night, he continued using the pen. The script flowed from the pen as if it were anxious to get out and onto the page.
Tara
Harold’s vision began to clear. He was in a field surrounded by large palm trees and shrubs. A battle was raging all about him. Men were fighting on horseback, swinging swords at each other. The clang could be clearly heard. Men who were stabbed or sliced were falling, screaming, with blood flowing down the sides of the horses and onto the ground. Horses neighed and galloped away from the fallen warriors. Other men stood on the ground with spears and swords, fighting and killing each other. Arrows flew through the air, piercing arms, chests, and legs as men screamed in agony. It was a bloody, terrible, chaotic scene. Blood splattered on Harold’s clothes, as a man was speared right in front of him.
As Harold watched the horrific scene, he heard Al-Hamid in his head and spotted him nearby.
As we battled the Tahek tribe, I led a small band of foot soldiers. We were doing well in the fight. However, at one point, I found myself alone. The others in my group were nowhere to be seen.
Harold had seen these men run away from Al-Hamid, leaving him vulnerable.
I thought perhaps they had all been killed, and I alone remained.
Harold saw the enemy spot Al-Hamid, a lone commander, and quickly ride in his direction to surround him. They captured him, bound him, put him on the back of a horse, and quickly rode away. Harold stood watching them go. The battle was still raging around him as his vision faded, but he continued to hear Al-Hamid speak.
I was captured by the enemy and destined to be traded to slavers. I was kept in a tent that was guarded day and night. I was a fine specimen in their estimation. I would fetch a good price, so I was treated well to help maintain my value.
Harold’s vision fogged and cleared. He saw Al-Hamid and a beautiful woman together, sitting in a tent. The sounds of battle were no longer audible, just the sound of a breeze stirring the tent flap.
During my captivity, I met a woman, Tara, who was also a captive. She kept her hair long and avoided eye contact. She was assigned by my captors to feed me and attend to my needs.
I thought she was beautiful, so I began to romance her. Her face was covered with a veil, in the traditional style of women of that time. Her clothing, while tattered, was clean and very conservative, but her curves could not be entirely hidden.
“You are beautiful today,” I said when she brought me my morning meal. She blushed under her veil, set my meal down by my feet, and left.
When she came to the tent again the next day, I said, “Here; I thought of you and made this flower to give you,” as I handed her a small flower made of a piece of material I had found in the tent.
She took it. She looked at me and smiled. She said, “Thank you.”
When I saw her the following day, I said to her, “I know you must have beautiful eyes. I wish I could see them. Would you show them to me?”
She looked at me, hesitated, and then brushed her hair out of her face and removed her veil so I could see her eyes.
“They are beautiful. The most beautiful eyes I have ever seen,” I said.
She smiled, replaced her veil, and turned to go. I said to her, “Please, come and see me again soon. I enjoy being near you.”
She stopped, listened, giggled, and said back to me without turning around, “I, too, enjoy visiting you. I will come again.” And then she left.
She started to believe she was beautiful. She began to keep her hair up and wear better clothes. She started to look good to the other men too.
Harold found himself walking beside a line of camels, next to Al-Hamid. The sun was high in the sky and it was hot. Tara was walking close to Al-Hamid, too, occasionally brushing Harold’s clothes.
When she did, she would look at Al-Hamid, quizzically, thinking he had touched her lightly. Harold realized what was going on and stepped farther away from them.
My captors moved often. During those times, I was bound to a camel and made to walk.
Tara walked alongside me and gave me a drink of water when I asked.
At times, I was put to work. I got to know the guards well enough that they would believe anything I said, even if not exactly the truth. Tara saw me do this many times and
wondered if I was telling her the truth about how I felt about her.
When she asked me if I was telling her the truth, I said, “To you, I will always tell the truth. For only by being truthful can we trust enough to offer our hearts. I have already given mine to you.”
She nodded her understanding.
Another scene opened for Harold, as if a page had been turned in a book he was reading. He found he was standing nearby as Al-Hamid was feeding the camels. Unfortunately, he was standing too close to the camels and got spit upon by one of them.
“Yech,” Harold said as he shook off the drool.
Al-Hamid heard Harold and looked around to see one of the guards watching him. Al-Hamid thought what he had heard was the guard.
One day, when I was feeding the camels, Tara came over to me to give me a drink of water from her water bag. One of the guards grabbed her arm as she passed him. He said some rude things to her and pushed her onto the ground. He demanded she service him right there as he took off his robe and stood over her.
“No! No! Stop!” I yelled at the guard, and I lunged at him with all my strength, landing him on his back and wrestling him to the ground. I beat him furiously about his face and neck.
Tara got up in tears and ran away to hide.
Other guards heard us fighting and hurried over to pull me off what was left of the guard who had tried to have his way with my beloved Tara. I, of course, was whipped harshly and put in chains for what I did.
Harold tried to stop the whipping by holding on to the whip itself, only to have it jerked from his grip and the whip used even more harshly. He helplessly witnessed the whipping.
Tara came to me in the night and tended my wounds with a healing potion—and her tears and tender kisses. From that day forward, she truly believed I loved her, because I did.
The Pen- Sultan's Wisdom Page 11