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still on his mat and considered it. “Yes,” he agreed at length. “I will celebrate life. Fitting to do so as my circle comes to close.”
    “You have much left in you still, Karyos.”  
    The laugh that followed devolved quickly into a harsh cough I somehow never managed to notice before. “Perhaps that appears so to one fixed as the stars,” he said, once the cough subsided. “No, my very old and very young friend, I am rounding the final curve. But first, I look forward to my drink.”
    *   *   *
    I should point out that just like everything else, philosophy was something that had to evolve over time, and in Karyos’s day nobody in this part of the world—with the possible exception of the Egyptians—was talking about heaven and hell and being good in this life in order to reap the rewards in the next one. And while there may have been gods, they weren’t particularly well defined. If, for instance, something unusually lucky happened, one might declare that a god—pick one—was feeling generous that day. And if a particularly bad thing happened, a god (usually a different one) was upset about something or other. Gods, in other words, were what most of us would now call chance or luck. And in that sense they served their purpose, by making a random existence seem less random.
    Having not yet come up with a concept to explain where one might go after death, Karyos’s people adopted an ingenious, if somewhat perplexing attitude that life was a circle. Not like Disney’s circle of life thing, which was really just a nice way to say, “death is normal, children, so suck it up.” The belief was, when I die, I will come back around to the beginning of this life and go through it again. They didn’t mean reincarnation, but literally reliving the same life from beginning to end in the same historical period. From a modern perspective this might sound incredibly silly, but consider the alternative of ceasing to exist entirely when you die. Nobody—including me—wanted to consider that, so outrageous alternatives were needed. And really, finding a better explanation than the cessation of existence is the basis for every religion.
    I didn’t care for the whole circle idea personally, which is not to say I had anything better to work with. I was—and am—a man of my age, whatever age that happens to be. I can’t pretend I had any better ideas, in other words. But I did think it was pretty stupid, and said so a couple of times when I was sure such a declaration wouldn’t get me killed.
    *   *   *
    When one year from the day in which the jars were sealed had passed (we marked time by counting moons) I carefully unsealed one jar, prepared two bowls for Karyos and myself, and we sat by the fire and drank.
    “What do you think?”  
    “It is . . . bitter,” he said.
    I puckered my lips. “Yes. I may have to work on that.”
    “But it fills my belly with a burn. It is pleasant.”
    I raised the bowl towards him. “Have more. It will make you feel young again.”
    A few hours later, we were both outrageously, stupidly drunk. I got to learn a fair sampling of songs that either came from Karyos’s own culture or he made up on the spot. At the time it didn’t really matter. I, in turn, taught him a dance I learned from a pre-Akkadian tribe that was quite remarkable when performed by a nubile moon priestess, but looked downright silly when done by a countrified old man. It was still fun.
    The next day we paid dearly for it.
    “Am I dying?” Karyos asked meekly as I tried to help him out of the hut before he stunk it up any further with his own vomit.
    I wasn’t doing all too well myself. “No. We just need water, and rest.”
    “I feel hot and cold at once, which seems not at all possible,” he groaned. “My insides wish to come out and my eyes are ready to burst forth from my skull. Are you certain this is not death?”
    “I am.”
    Karyos grimaced. “That is a shame. I would very much welcome