In appearance they were like I had seen from afar: hairy and
stooped, almost using their arms as legs, but not entirely. Their skulls
were large and oddly shaped and their mouths were pushed out from their
faces like an ape's. A limp, furry tail hung down from their lower
backs, and their hands had a tough, leathery appearance.
There were eight of them, and when they drew near, the foremost hailed
me with an eager gleam in his eyes, like one who has long hoped and long
been denied. His voice was low and gravelly, but not at all uncivilized
sounding, as one would have expected by his appearance, and his facial
expressions were equally as livid and distinctly humanoid. He began:
"Hail, the White Eagle, sent by the gods to deliver us! Hail the
redemption from paradise, coming to bring us home." With that he held
out his arms and embraced me in a very warm, heartfelt manner.
"Hello," I replied, somewhat embarrassed by my lack of authority.
"I am Ramma, leader of the Munams," he told me, "And I welcome you in
the name of us all."
"Greetings, Ramma," I replied, "I am Jehu."
"We are joyous at your arrival, oh Jehu of the White Eagle."
When he said this I had a flashback, a moment of memorial deja vu, when
the present and the past are morphed together by one thought, when one
idea from the past and the present exists in such a way as to connect
the two times around it, forming a nexus between the two moments.
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