Lucinda wanted to make her first test, easy to complete and easy to verify.  Beginning with an opening prayer and a short meditation, Lucinda took forty-five minutest to complete her first task, managing to write the on to the Tablet of Truth.  It was written using the Noble Truths pen.  Once the word wealth ink was allowed to dry, she covered the tablet with a silk cloth as the manuscript had directed.  If legend were true, the words would manifest themselves within three days, the time required to cross the Bardeau Plain when one passes from this life to the next, this according to the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Monday and Tuesday were uneventful days for Lucinda.  Work, lunch, supper out with a friend.  She met her friend Marley on Monday at the Clover on Feral Street.  Clover was a bit out of Lucinda’s budget, but Marley had insisted, and she could be quite persuasive.  The meal was amazing as was the visit with Marley who seldom found down by the waterfront as she worked at Suffolk University on the other side of town.  Marley’s job was demanding, leaving little time for play, so when Marley said let’s meet, you jet.  Tuesday was much more casual but no less fun.   Oscar, the quirky Russian from the mail room was always entertaining.  Appetizers and drinks were enjoyed at Marco’s, a little bistro just two blocks from the Globe.

Wednesday morning, Lucinda was summoned to Mr. Ashton’s office.  The last time she was summoned to his office was to justify the scathing remarks in her report on the, Real Rats of Boston.  In the end, the story ran unedited much to the chagrin of those she had named.  Her source, who remained anonymous, had provided accurate information.  The damage to the reputations of those involved was catastrophic.  Terminations, lawsuits, and stock plummets ensued creating several additional stories.  It was a major victory for Lucinda as a journalist.

“Good morning, sir,” said Lucinda cheerily.

“Morning, Lucinda.  Thank you for coming by.”

Lucinda laughed.  “Not sure I was given a choice.”

Colin returned her laugh.  “True, but good news follows.  Your stories are solid.  Better than solid.  Bordering on excellent.  Feedback from the mail room is nothing short of remarkable.  You touch people with your writing, Lucinda.  That is a gift that you cannot teach.”

“That is very kind of you, sir.”

“Truth is what it is, Lucinda and truth should be rewarded.  There will be a bonus on this week’s cheque and an increase of $100.00 per week to your salary.”

Lucinda was ecstatic.  She enjoyed writing.  Earning a nice wage while doing it was a nice touch.  It was until she arrived home later that evening that she dared to hope it might be more.  There, beneath the silk was the word wealth.  Three days to manifest itself and today was the third day.  Coincidence?  Perhaps.

It was after midnight when Lucinda laid down the Pen of Truths.  She took one last look at the word, justice, that she had written on to the tablet.  She, once again, covered the tablet with the silk cloth.

Thursday morning, a thick folder lay on her desk as she arrived.  Upon opening the folder, she was shocked to find detailed accounts of abuse involving several women of different ethnic origins.  The shocking part was not the abuse itself; it was commonplace in a city as big as Boston.  It was the alleged abuser that had Lucinda speechless.  Barry Scheck, co-founder of the Innocence Project, a man renowned for helping those unjustly prosecuted was being accused of various levels of abuse ranging from verbal to sodomy.

Lucinda spent all day Thursday researching, double checking her facts, and confirming statements with two of the alleged victims.  Friday morning, she penned a half page article detailing the allegations against Scheck, using supportive statements from his alleged victims, using the Me-Too Movement as her basis for the story.  It was a perfect fit.

The story ran in the Saturday morning addition.  By Saturday evening, five other victims, including one male with video proof had come forward against Scheck.  Mr. Ashton called Lucinda late Saturday evening to congratulate her on such an effective piece of writing.  She was beside herself.  As she sipped on a glass of chardonnay in front of the fireplace, she was drawn to the easel in the corner where the table sat beneath the silk with the word justice.  A second coincidence?  Unlikely.  Why that assignment on that day?  Did she put the motion forward in her own mind by creating the word justice or was the universe at work here?

She went to bed just after midnight, but sleep did not visit her until the wee hours of the morning.

The next morning after her tea, she took time for some deep meditative reflection on her yoga mat, after which she returned to the tablet, wiping it clean before beginning to start the calligraphy that would form a more challenging word.  For some reason, she struggled to write the word, taking nearly double the time she had previously spend writing a single word.  The word that had came to her during her meditation was as a surprise to her, but one should never refuse a gift from the universe.  The word was redemption.

Sunday evening, Lucinda found herself at Oscar’s townhouse, enjoying a beautiful meal of Borsch soup, stroganoff, and honey cakes, served with a delightful Krasnostop Zolotovsky wine.  A lingering kiss ended the evening putting a smile on Lucinda’s face most of the way home.

Monday was an uneventful day at the Globe for Lucinda.  She completed two short articles, one of the flip sides of the Me-Too Movement, which was quickly becoming a witch hunt, the other, a bit longer piece on possible cutbacks to the GI Bill.  Oscar popped his head in the office for a brief visit around 2:00, insisting Lucinda join him for drinks after work.  She convinced Oscar to wait until Tuesday.

Tuesday morning was a bit of a challenge.  She was handed a piece on the Massachusetts Port Authority, which runs the Port of Boston.  The container shipping facility in South Boston was riddled with poor roadways to and from the facility, a problem that had existed for several years.  Lucinda took one of the company’s vans to the location to get a better feel for a story.  Her best stories came from events that she was passionate for, and this certainly wasn’t one of those events.  Lucinda managed to write an entertaining story, digging into why Boston Public Works had neglected this area for so long.

By mid afternoon Tuesday, Lucinda began to worry.  It was a faint feeling that grew stronger as the afternoon was ending.  It had been a year and a half since she slept with a man.  The downside of having a creative mind was that it could wreak havoc on you when you began to fixate on a subject, the current subject being, how many ways could sex turn bad with a co-worker. 

Oscar met Lucinda at the Beantown Pub, a short walk from the Globe.  After a drink, and a few laughs, Lucinda’s worries were forgotten.  She was attracted to this crazy Russian with his high cheek bones and brilliantly blue eyes.  His slight build added to the attraction.

The two enjoyed a bottle of wine and a few appetizers before Oscar suggested they take the subway to his place.  Lucinda was committed to seeing this through.  She felt she was ready for a relationship and Oscar was a great guy.  As they gathered their things, Oscar received a phone call from a female that sounded quite distraught.  Oscar looked uncomfortable, turning away from Lucinda who gave him some space to deal with the situation.  She sauntered slowly toward the entrance.

Oscar joined her at the entrance, reaching out to grab her hand.  His hand was clammy and warm.

“Everything alright,” she asked.

“My mother is ill.  I need to get to her house and possibly drive her to the hospital.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that, Oscar.  I hope she’s going to be okay.”

“I’m sure she’ll be fine.  She’s a tough Russian woman.  I hate to do this, but can you manage to get home from here on your own.”

“Of course.”

Oscar hailed a cab as Lucinda made her way to the subway.  Lucinda might have been mistaken but she was certain, Oscar had said 224 Bedford Street, Oscar’s home address.  Always the reporter, she paused at the entrance to the subway, waiting for Oscar’s driver to pull away.

Lucinda hailed a cab almost immediately and was off to 224 Bedford Street.  The ride was less than 10 minutes.  Lucinda had the driver pull over a ½ block from Oscar’s townhouse.  She rolled her passenger window down partway, allowing her a clear view of Oscar’s front stoop.  As Oscar stood on the sidewalk, paying the driver, a large irate woman came charging out of Oscar’s house, yelling in what was presumably Russian, slapping at Oscar’s head repeatedly.  He did not defend himself or say anything.  He simply let the rage run its course.  The woman eventually ran out of steam, storming back into the house, slamming the door behind her.  Oscar looked around sheepishly and was shocked as he locked eyes with Lucinda who instinctively ducked and ordered the driver to go!

The next morning there were flowers on Lucinda’s desk with an apology note.  Oscar worked up the courage to pop his head in around 11:00 am as Lucinda was finishing a piece on the dockworker union rebellion.

“I’m so sorry,” mumbled Oscar.

“For what exactly,” asked Lucinda.

“For being deceitful,” he managed.

“I assume that was your wife,” suggest Lucinda.

“In a manner of speaking, yes.  We are still legally married.  It was a mail order bride arrangement that went horribly wrong from the beginning.  She lives most of the time with her Ukrainian cousins in Chelsea.  She only stops by when she needs money.”

“Last night, it appeared as though it was about much more than money, Oscar.  Looked more like a jealous wife to me.  Regardless, I won’t hold a grudge but remove the flowers from my office and be clear that we are through, although we never actually got started.  Honesty and integrity are big in my books, and you proved last night that you have neither of those qualities.

After Oscar left, Lucinda opened her thesaurus tab on her word software, typing in redemption.  She had always used it to mean, to redeem oneself.  The actual meaning stunned her. Redemption was the action of being saved from sin.

After a light dinner, Lucinda meditated, this time lying down, allowing herself to drift to the brink of sleep.  She did not hear a single word this time, it was a phrase in Latin, iudicare non puissant et ne iudicatus, when translated meant judge not lest yea be judged.

The sun was beginning to rise on the horizon as Lucinda completed her calligraphy on the tablet of truth.  It was a challenge to fit the entire message on the tablet and still allow it to flow gracefully.  She thought briefly about calling in sick, something she had not done in her life, even working part time at McDonalds while attending high school at East Boston.  Instead, she set her coffee maker for strong and headed for the shower.

On her way to the office, she could not help but think she had misjudged Oscar and that there was more to the story, yet if the legend of the table was true, three days were required to find out the truth.  She could not think of any other reason for the message, nor could she fathom why it was in Latin.  Playing the passed week over in her mind, she was still skeptical about the tablet’s ability to foresee the truth, yet a part of her was quickly becoming a believer.

Thursday morning was busier than usual for Lucinda.  She was given three assignments with a deadline of Saturday morning.  All three pieces were connected and were earmarked for the Lifestyle section.  Her task was to do a piece on running, a second on diet and a third trying to tie the first two with improved libido.

The running article was easy.  With over forty running clubs in Boston, there pages and pages of running resources.  Diet took a little more work but many of the running links, contained links to natural health and diet links.  The running story was completed by the end of the day with a rough draft of the diet story sitting save on her computer.  On any other day, she could have completed all three but her mind as frazzled and in need of some sleep.

She arrived home just after 6:00, had a quick sandwich, drew a bath and was in bed by 8:00.  She drifted off to sleep minutes after her headfirst touched down on the pillow.  She began to dream of Oscar.  In her dream, Oscar was sitting on her desk naked, telling his co-workers, that were gathered around the desk, that Lucinda had a foul body odour, making her undesirable.  Everyone was laughing except the Aflac duck who was in the corner saying, “Oh fuck,” instead of “Aflac.”

In the dream, Lucinda fled the office running down a corridor that kept getting longer and longer.  She ran faster and faster until she could see a light at the end.  As she approached the light, she could see it was an office.  She kept running until she reached the office door.  As she walked through it, there was Oscar, her co-workers, and the Aflac duck, all pointing at her, laughing.  Lucinda looked down.  The armpits of her dress were all stained from sweating profusely and she could smell her own body odour.   The duck was still saying, “Oh fuck,” and everyone kept laughing and pointing at her.  Lucinda ran toward the duck, grabbing him and snapping his neck in the middle of an “Oh fu…”  The room went silent, and everyone stopped pointing.  She turned to say something to Oscar, but he was wearing the janitor’s mop bucket on his head, beating the bucket like a drum with two soup spoons.  On the bucket was the message, iudicare non puissant et ne iudicatus but the letters were bleeding red town the bucket.  Oscar stopped playing the spoons, dropping them to the ground. He flipped the bucket from his head, revealing a small black child with the numbers 9-1-1 etched into this skin.  He smiled a toothless grin, wiped a booger from his nose and pointed to the window of the office.  Lucinda went to the window, pausing to smell her armpits, shocked to find out she did have body odour.  Looking out the window, she could see two people down on the street, one was Oscar and the other was his wife.  The wife was wearing bright red stilettos with black straps, a matching red potato sack, a black scarf, and a nose ring.  She was running as fast as the stilettos would allow.  Oscar was chasing her on a skateboard, holding an electric mixer in his hand, singing, Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round the Old Oak Tree.  A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, striking Oscar.  His hair started to smoke, and the mixer started to go as his skateboard began to accelerate.  A second flash of lightning struck Oscar’s wife in the forehead.  She kept running but smoke started coming out of her nose and her nose ring was now glowing.  A third flash struck the building across the way, and it scared the hell out of Lucinda who jumped back…

Lucinda awoke, bathed in sweat, her heart pounding in her chest and her ears.  Her breathing was wheezy and shallow.  Lucinda laid there for a moment, gathering her thoughts.  She rarely dreamed and she certainly had never dreamed that intensely once in her entire life until now.

Despite her crazy dream, Lucinda felt rested when she arrived at work.  She spent the first two hours polishing the first two stories before starting the third.  By 3:00 pm, she had finished the third piece tying the other two in nicely.  She found it interesting that the more a man exercised his prostate having sex, the less likely he was on contracting cancer.  There were many benefits of running and diet that would lead to an improvement in one’s sex life.  By 4:30, the three-part piece was complete.  As she gave it one last glance, she felt it was some of her better work. 

Lucinda found herself thinking of Oscar briefly.  It was unfortunate the way it turned out.  She suddenly realized that she had not seen Oscar once all day, odd, considering they seen each other at least several times a day, every day.

Saturday morning, Lucinda allowed herself to sleep in.  She had no plans and she felt she deserved it.  She was awoken at 10:00 am by her cell phone.  It was Marley.

“Log on to the Herald,” said Marley in a frantic voice.

“Why, what’s going on?”

“That guy Oscar you mentioned…”

“What about him,” Lucinda interrupted.

“He’s dead,” blurted Marley.

“Oh, my gawd,” exclaimed Lucinda.  “I’ll call you back.

Lucinda’s hands were shaking as she turned on her computer.  It seemed to take an eternity to run the start-up sequence.  When a last it loaded her home screen, she clicked on the Boston Herald icon.  It was common for journalists and reporters to the competitors’ publications.  She searched under homicide, assuming that his death was a read murder.  There it was on page three of the local news.  It had indeed been murder.  It was early in the investigation, but it was being considered a mob hit.  Leonid Oscar Aristov of 224 Bedford Street in Boston city proper was found dead in an alley near his home, the victim of a single bullet wound to the back of his head.  The story went on to explain that Aristov’s wife, Darya, the daughter of Andrei Kazakov, have strong ties to the Russian Mafia, known as the Bratva.  Darya Aristov was considered a woman of interest.

Lucinda has suspected there was much more to the story and there was.  She was saddened by the news of Oscar’s death, but she was equally frightened that the mafia may think she was somehow involved with Oscar.  She clicked off the computer and went to work wiping the tablet clean.  Judge not, lest yea be judged.  She was next.  Her cell phone rang, and she screamed, staring at the phone as it rang a second and third time.  On the fourth ring, it went to voice mail

Lucinda’s heart was racing.  She picked up the phone and clicked on the voice mail icon.  The message was from her boss.  She was to call him as soon as possible.

Before she could dial, the intercom button sounded.  Lucinda froze.  Her mind was racing.  Was it them?  Had they come to silence her?  A soft knock at the door startled her.  It was followed by Mrs. Harrison’ angelic voice.  “Are you okay, dear?”  I thought I heard you scream.  Mrs. Harrison had lived across the hall for as long as Lucinda had resided here.  Lucinda shuffled to the door flipping the latch and opening the door.  Standing next to Mrs. Harrison was a bull of a man with a pistol in his right hand.  He squeezed the trigger once, striking Lucinda in the throat, driving her back.  Moving forward, he dragged Mrs. Harrison inside, tossing her to the floor and pumping two shots into the back of her head.  Looking down at Lucinda who was struggling to breath, he shot her in the face.

Lucinda’s will was simple and straight-forward.  Her wealth was to be used to create a scholarship fund at William’s College.  Her furniture was to be given to a local homeless shelter and her artifacts were to be donated to the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.  The artifacts, including the Noble Truths Pen and the Tablet of Truth were placed on display in the antiquity’s division of the museum.  The curator, a Ms. Pamela Durvey, was fascinated with Tibetan art, especially the history behind the Noble Truths Pen.

After nearly four years, Ms. Durvey, a collector in her own right, purchased the Noble Truths Pen and Tablet from the museum for her private collection.  She dreamt about the pen and tablet nightly from the first day the collection had arrived at the museum.  In the end, her curiosity defeated her rationality.  She studied the manuscript that accompanied the pen.  Much like Lucinda, Ms. Durvey was proficient with Tibetan calligraphy.  She studied, she practiced and eventually she wrote her first word.  It was secrecy.