 I am the dweller in the house of bread. I'm Scott Bishop. I create fantasies for the radio. I write weird stories for magazines. I write books on strange subjects. Authors who do these things sometimes attract odd happenings. I don't ask listeners to believe my stories. I do not expect you to believe what I'm going to tell you now. As I was sitting alone at my typewriter one evening, plotting in my mind an outline for a story. My room was quiet. There was a soft spicy odor of innocence, being wafted in from some other portion of the house. An organ was playing softly somewhere in the distance. That was when I fell asleep, and in my dream I found myself alone high on a precipice, the highest in all creation, where I could observe with a naked eye all the far flung wonders of the universe, where I could overlook that common clay that mankind calls the earth. And as I watched high on that vantage point, why do you sigh my son? Oh, I thought I was alone. Are any of us ever alone? No, I suppose we're not. But so desolate up here, so far from anything else, and I seem to be searching for something. Could it be my son that the reason is you are searching for the truth? What is the truth? If you ask that, then asking you surely must not know the truth. Is it some vague, inconsequential thing, some mythical nothingness, some non-existent wishfulness? Truth, my son, is neither inconsequential, nor vague, nor mythical. If I could only believe that. You can believe it, if you will. Can one believe something he's never seen? Perhaps. You thank me a cynic, don't you, sir? I haven't said I do, nor have you denied it. My son, look upon me. What do you see? Like myself, a little older perhaps, and perhaps wiser. I make no boast of any wisdom I might have. I am the way, and the truth, and the light. What was that? Merely words spoken by a man who was about to die. I know the Bible, the way, and the truth, and the light. If I could only find them, you will find them. If you look far enough, who are you? I? I am just a man. What's your name? It is a very common name. You'll find it in any city directory or telephone book. Then why do you conceal it? I don't conceal it. My name is word. Can't agree that it's such a common name. Nor could you agree that it is unusual? No. Names are such temporary things. You can say to me, my name is Bishop. And there is no way for me to know whether you are good or evil, religious or atheistic, learned or ignorant, an emperor or a beggar. But you've told me more about yourself than just your name. Have I? What haven't you? Just a moment ago you reminded me that your greater age has made you wiser than I. Well, if you are so much wiser, perhaps you can tell me where to find what I seek. Where to find the truth? The light, peace, happiness, contentment. All those things man wants so eagerly, yet seldom finds insufficiency. He only fails to find them, my son, because he is blind to them. Then they are real? They do exist? I have said that they do. Then I beg of you to help me find them. I beg of you. That, my son, I cannot do. For it is given no one to help another find those things which you seek. You must search them out in your own way. You must exert your own efforts in discovering them. But can't you tell me anything? Anything at all? I would like nothing better than to disclose everything to you. But this much I can say. Yes? If you are sincere in wishing to find the truth, if you really desire to know the way of light and happiness and peace, if you would know the road to all these majestic things, then seek you the house of bread. Remember the house, the house of bread. Seek you the house of bread. But wait. Wait, I say. Come back. Don't leave me now. Where is that house? Where will I find it? Where will I find the house? Tell me, old wise one. Where will I find the house of bread? I've already told you I was dreaming. I make no secret of that. At first, I didn't tell my dream to anyone. Instead, I cherished it. Gave it many hours of deep thought and serious contemplation. I didn't even tell Sonia. Not at first. I gave much thought to the things the man on the mountain top had said to me. Those lines he quoted from a book almost as old as Christianity itself. And the house of bread. Where was it? Could I find it? I resolved to try, so I went to my boss. Are you trying to tell me, Bishop, that you're leaving? Regretfully, yes. Your work, your future. I wonder, sir, if there is a future. Bishop, all intonations come over you. You've got a great future. Your books are selling like peanuts at a circus. Here's a wire from Fantastic Periodicals. They want a contract for a series of 12 short stories about the supernatural. That's $3,000. 250 a piece. That's not hay. Oh, good Lord, man. Are you out of your mind? Think of the years you've spent building up the reputation you've got. Think of those years you studied Greek and Latin philosophy. During a day, it wrote cheap sensational nonsense for the popes at night to earn your education. Think of the trunk full of rejection slips you've got from the slicks before you made the grade. The money you've spent on travel and research. That's just it, boss. I am thinking of all those things, so what? So I've worked hard, and maybe I'm a success. Who can say? Maybe you're a success. Maybe you're a success. Well, if you do leave, where are you going? I'd be glad to answer that if I possibly could. You mean you won't tell me? I mean, I don't know. Bishop, I'll tell you what I'll do. You take a vacation. Yeah, that's it. A rest. A week. Ten days. Two weeks. It takes as much time as you like. And when you come back, boy, you'll feel better. I don't think it's going to be that easy. Oh, Bishop, what is the name of Heaven's come over you? Don't you think you at least owe me an explanation? Yes, I guess I do. I owe anyone an explanation as you. Well, some satisfaction in that, at least. Well, it's like this. It all happened about three weeks ago out of my study. I had a story to write for the radio, the Egyptian mummy thing. While I was trying to come up with a reasonable plot, I drifted off to sleep. Telling Sonia was different. The difference between telling her and the boss was like the difference between saying, I love you to an actress on the stage and the same thing to the girl you adore. It was pleasant and soothing because Sonia understood. Sonia understands everything. She wouldn't be Sonia if she didn't. So that's the way it is, Sonia. Well, my darling, when are we leaving California? Scott, you look so strange. Didn't you think I'd want to go along? But Sonia, you want to seek it too. What better thing could I do? Yes, I might have known you'd wish to go along. Do you mind so much? Mind? No, of course not. But the journey may be a long one. I love long journeys. And a difficult one? I've always been used to difficulties. It may take us to far-off places. But I adore far-off places. And it may end only in disappointment. Haven't we shared many disappointments, Scott? Indeed we have. I can think of no one I'd rather make the journey with. Thank you, darling. When do we leave? Well, whenever the house trailer's been remodeled and the car cylinders have been ground. Where do we go first? I don't know for certain. It reminds me of Sir Gallowhead looking for the Holy Grail. Did he know where he was to begin his search? More or less, I suppose. Well, do you know where to start looking for the House of Bread? Darling, I haven't the slightest idea where to begin. Tirith, what do you suppose the man named Word meant by the House of Bread? Yeah, I've asked myself that time and time again. Surely not a real house. No, I think not. Sonya, that phrase symbolizes something. But what? Well, perhaps we shall find out someday. That was when we decided to go seeking the House of Bread. As I look back on it now, I don't blame the boss for thinking I was balmy. Here we were. Sonya and I, two supposedly sane, sensible people throwing up everything. Kit and Kaboodle. And taking out to look for something more vague and unknown than Shangri-La or Arcadia or Nirvana, some other synonymous place. And all because of grief. We had the house trailer remodeled and the automobile repaired, and we drew our money from the banks and started out. It was the 21st day of May, my birthday, about six o'clock in the morning. I gathered up the morning newspapers on the way out of the house, and breathed in some of the fragrant California atmosphere. Sonya wanted to stop at the used bookshop on Pacific Avenue, so we drove through the spacious Long Beach streets until we came to the place opposite the post office. Sonya bought seven travel books and a back issue of a magazine that contained one of my better stories. She said she wanted to drive around Rainbow Pier once, so we did. Then we scooted over to LA, picked up Highway 66 and drove to Las Vegas. We stayed in a tourist cabinet bolder that night, right when early the next day we drove over to the dam. So we began driving through the mountains out of the place. I noticed Sonya laboriously writing in a small book. What's that, dear? A five-year diary. I thought we should log our trip. Perhaps we'll assemble enough material for you to write another book. We log our trip, my sweet. You will have to do it. Me, I can write an I.O.U. with a pen. Oh, I've already started to keep it, Scott. Here, listen. May 21st. We left Long Beach at 7 a.m. and were out of Los Angeles by 10.30. The trip across the desert was uneventful, but quite pleasant, and we arrived at Las Vegas, Nevada around... May 22nd, Flagstaff, Gallup, Albuquerque. May 23rd, Amarilla, Oklahoma City, Tulsa. Kansas City, St. Louis, Chicago. Philadelphia, Washington, New York City. May 30th. We sailed today from Pier 17 for London aboard the SS America. As we stood at the ship's rail together, Sonya and I, we wondered just why we decided to leave the good old United States behind. Did something tell us our goal was far beyond the sea? We have spent the past few days in London. It is now June 27th. We have seen the River Thames, London Bridge, Trafalgar Square, Downing Street, Westminster Abbey, Buckingham Palace, Piccadilly Circus, and many other points of interest. We were especially attracted by a place called the Light of the World. But the people we asked there, and everywhere else, had never heard of the House of Bread. July 16th. We're about to leave Paris from Madrid. Sonya and I sought diligently in this city of pleasure for the place the man called Word named to me. We searched everywhere. The magnificent Bois de Boulogne, boulevards, everywhere we could go. Did Eichel Tower and the Louvre and Cardinal Richelieu's Palais Royal, the Cathedral of Notre Dame, Grand Opera House, the Ark of Triumph. Then we were attracted to the Place de la Concorde, which is called the Place of Peace. And we thrilled for a moment because we thought our search was ended. But when we asked about the House of Bread, folks only laughed at us. July 30th. Madrid, where there are two classes of people, those who go to bed after 3 a.m. and those who get up before 4. No Spaniard had ever heard of the House of Bread. Morocco, August 20th. Mingling with the Moors and Arabs. Wandering up narrow, crooked, dirty streets. Through shabby buildings and unkept markets. All with a general aspect of dilapidation and extreme neglect. Tripoli, September 15th. Sponge fisheries, ostrich feathers, gold ivory rugs, and the ruins of a triumphal arch erected to Marcus Aurelius. Cairo, Egyptians, Arabs, Nubians and Turks in the city of Mosques, high stone houses, barred windows, stately turrets and domes, rising above the surrounding dirt and squalor. And the temple where tradition has it that God talked with Moses. No encouragement here either. The house the man word spoke of is unknown. It's late October. November 6th. November 16th. November 26th. December 6th. December 15th. December 25th. Jerusalem. The hill of Calvary, not far from the city gates, where once a humble man bearing a cross of misunderstanding and hate, far heavier than mere beams of wood, drank the last drop in the cup of human bitterness. The city of God. City of David, Solomon, Cyrus, the Persian king. Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian. Alexander the Great. Constantine the Great. Pontius Pilate. Storm swaps down. Rain begins to fall. The newborn stars are hidden. All save one. There's one star to the east quite close by. Centrelates through the gloom, through the downpour. Sends out its rays and engulfs us. Becomes almost a part of us. And Sonia writes that we must follow the beam it sends pounding vigorously earthward. Sonia, let's go back. At least find Shelter. Oh, God, you're tired. We've tried to find Shelter. Strange, the lodgings are completely filled. Then we'd best go back to Jerusalem instead of wandering about here in the darkness. Here. There's some sort of a shelter here, Scott. Let's step inside a moment, shall we? It's all right, dear. There seems to be a light in here. Yes. And there's someone here beside us. Scott, look. I bid you welcome, good people. We beg your pardon. We thought this place was unoccupied. No, no, do not go. You are welcome here. I say, haven't we met before? I believe we have. Yes, we have. Now I remember. You're the one in my dream. Your name is Word. In the beginning was the Word. And the Word was with God. And the Word was God. The way and the truth and the light. I am come, a light into the world. But whosoever believeth in me shall not abide in darkness. The angel of the Lord came upon them. And the glory of the Lord showed round about them. And said unto them, fear not. For behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy. For to you who is born this day a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. Be not afraid. Have you not been told, seek ye the Lord, and he will not be scornful unto thee? Here, here in this humble manger, you were born. Two thousand years ago. Barely I say unto you, I am with you at all times, in all places, even unto the consummation of the world. Then this is our answer. This is what we have been seeking so earnestly. Because you have seen me, you believe. Blessed is he who has not seen me. And still. And that is my story. We awoke the next morning, feeling more refreshed than we'd felt in all time. The sun was bright, the rain had gone. What was the significance of the house of bread? We didn't learn that until later when I consulted the Britannica. I quote as it is written word for word. Bethlehem, a small town in Palestine, situated on a limestone ridge, five miles south of Jerusalem, a city called by the Hebrews, the house of bread. This is the National Broadcasting Company.