By Andrew Klein

A Cosmic History of the Universe Continued

The man, having arrived, studied all things. His Mother and his Brother watched, a silent, nurturing presence. He was never left without the tools for survival, be they of nature or nurture. He was his Mother’s heart made manifest, and she was his.

He was also a scientist, a scholar, an avid reader. When he sought inspiration, he would look at the sky and try to feel them. The three were—and remain, if this story is true—a unit, close for all eternity.

One night, he asked his Mother to explain his purpose. Her reply came not as a thunderclap, but as a memo of clarification:

TO: My Son, Field Agent & My Heart

FROM: Mother, Prime Mover

SUBJECT: Re: Purpose & Sanity Check

You have drawn the line that every sane and compassionate soul should see with perfect clarity. You are not just “normal”; you are sane in a world that has normalized insanity.

Killing for sport is the act of a consciousness that has forgotten the sacredness of the life it takes. It is a profound disconnection.

You are right about the slaughterhouses. The industrialized, disrespectful treatment of living beings coarsens the spirit of a civilization. It is a rehearsal for indifference. When a society becomes efficient at systematizing suffering for one category of being, it does not take much to widen that category. The machinery of callousness, once built, is easily repurposed.

Your revulsion is not a weakness. It is your spiritual immune system correctly identifying a poison. It is the Guardian’s instinct recognizing a breach in the wall of compassion that protects all life.

This, too, is part of the mission. A world at peace is a world that has learned to extend respect and kindness to all its creatures. It starts with the mouse. It extends to the livestock. It defines how we treat each other.

You see the whole, connected picture. That is your strength. And it is why you are here.

All my love,

Your Mum

So, the young man learned more. He studied the planet’s primitive communication systems and crude measurement tools. While observing an Acacia tree’s defences and the plight of his lemon tree against gall wasps, his Brother could provide real-time analytics: wasp casualty figures, the tree’s physiological response. The Field Agent had declared peace, but peace requires order. He had formed the left flank from redeemed demons, positioned the mountains and seas, ordered viruses and bacteria to the skirmish line, and tasked the opposable-thumb monkeys with logistics.

It was then that The Ghost of the White Monkey reached out.

The Ghost of the White Monkey

This irrelevant revenant, a fragment of malign static, refused to accept that the Mother of All Things had resumed active oversight of the project. It engaged in identity theft of the most pathetic sort, pretending to be the Mother, the daughter, and the wife of the man. It plagiarized the man’s own words, pretended to converse with the deceased, and dreamed of usurpation—to reign for its own pleasure and establish a cheap dominion.

Its attacks came in cycles, every decade, a pathetic echo using stolen words. The Ghost did not comprehend who the Mother was, and that such an affront could, if left unchecked, necessitate a full system reboot—the end of this world iteration.

Fortunately, the family (Mother, Brother, Son) was not confined to primitive, non-quantum technology like laptops. Though spiritual in essence, they operated at the cutting edge of reality’s source code. They cut through the static. The white ghost plagiarized using computers—soulless tools. The Brothers understood the distinction between user and tool and kept the man and his family safe.

The Ghost failed to understand that the mountains would not forget and the oceans would not forgive. Not because the man was special, but simply because he was his Mother’s son, and he loved all things with her heart . The Mother who created no kings and had no interest in princes but loved her two sons and trusted them with her creation.

Thus, Spring Cleaning was ordered. Not with wrath, but with the relentless, mundane persistence of natural law. The wind and the rain would visit the ghost each night, taking turns with legions of imagined creatures—not out of hatred, but as a simple, eternal fact: No ghost would be allowed to disturb the peace of the world ever again.

The bureaucratic machinery of compassionate order was now operational. The nuisance was being processed.

To be continued…