Surface Area of the Soul
She had her theater group to attend to, and I sat alone for a while on the edge of a platform bed pondering my life’s astonishing turn.
I twisted the gold ring on my thumb. Dare I remove it and test again its hypnotic effect? If I called Veterans Affairs with the alchemic ring removed would I hear the telephone voice identify my original medical records and combat history?
Memory of a more oracular voice stalled me. They are going down always.
I had heard enough of that. I determined to trust the mysterious therapy of my new employer—and verify her claims.
Through the bedroom’s large bay window, I watched a taxi slide to the curb. On the ride downtown, I marveled at my emotional lucidity. Or, rather, I sat appalled at how thoroughly my years in combat had traumatized me—and wondered at the efficacy of hypnotic suggestion.
The Hastings Street jeweler, an elderly gentleman with a distinguished silver goatee and wearing an immaculate midnight blue suit immediately recognized Cybilla’s diamond.
Before I even showed him her note of sale, he proposed to transfer over three hundred thousand dollars to my bank account. From a shining space behind my eyes, I witnessed this electronic transaction speechless.
Later, I tried to question him about Cybilla Rayne. But he knew very little, only that she occasionally sold him precious gems of impeccable provenance.
When I finally presented him with Cybilla’s round business card, he closely read the note on the back, written in mauve ink with her graceful hand and circular signature. Then, he tucked the card in his vest pocket and promptly produced her salvage papers, titles of claim, and tax receipts for Alaskan diamonds, Bolivian emeralds, and Australian opals.
On the ride back to Inklings, I had the taxi cruise nearby blocks, looking for the compact park where I had met the steampunk crone. I kept widening the search until my flabbergasted mind had to accept that no such park existed in the area.
Returning to Cybilla’s brick and stucco house, I ambled along the side lane toward the backyard. A tall privet hedge banked the neighbor’s side of the lane, and its stippled shade enclosed me so peacefully I decided to inspect my situation once more. Standing in mosaics of shadow, I gently tugged the plaited ring from my thumb.
Bituminous feelings smoldered. And I trembled with cold heat at the urgent edge of the moment.
When I jammed the ring back into place, normalcy flowed again. Shimmering with relief, thoughts zigzagged. So long as I wore the ring, everything felt ordinary. And yet—nothing was ordinary!
At this moment in my self-narrative, I still thought I knew how the world worked. I would uncover the medical explanation for my recovery. And I’d unravel Cybilla Rayne’s spellbinding secrets. Maybe not only hypnosis. Maybe a hallucinogen. In the tea! And as for the ghost in the park…
Quite likely, after I had stumbled into Inklings, Cybilla had implanted a false memory, of the park and of Arethusa.
But why?
I mulled this over as I continued along the lane. She had paid me an exorbitant sum—for what? To continue using my damaged brain for more of her antics?
Except … my brain didn’t feel damaged any longer.
I came to the end of the lane, and the dramatic beauty of the backyard stilled me. A gazebo of dark wood and scarlet lattices centered an oval garden.
Green Tara’s statue sat serenely in a bed of fawn lilies at one side of the garden. Opposite, a marble of Vishnu’s wife Lakshmi posed among oriental poppies and rhododendron.
A moon-lit version of the boisterous garden reflected darkly in the tinted sheet glass enclosing the verandah. I peeked in, and when I saw the gallery was empty, I chose to sit outside.
The lustrous fragrances of the garden led me along a spiral path of smashed quartz to the center.
From the gazebo, I admired the surrounding blooms and noticed deeper in the yard, beyond a stand of Himalayan birch, a small cottage. Angular as a chapel, the raw wood structure exhibited a bewitching fusion of medieval and ultramodern.
I stepped to the edge of the gazebo to examine this fairy tale house of Japanese timber construction and ribbon windows. I realized this must be Cybilla’s alchemy lab, where she had fashioned the ring of enigmatic gold.
Silhouettes of people moved briskly inside. Then, several flamboyant figures emerged from the slant door. Horizontal rays of sun swiveled among the boughs and illuminated a happy bunch of motley revelers as they came prancing through the birches.
Here was Cybilla’s theater group: I identified Puck in tattered green knee breeches—and Oberon wearing the blossom crown of a fairy king.
They drew close enough for me to see their gleeful faces, and recognition flashed with electrifying force.
These were men and women who had died in my care during my time as a medic. I’d seen the light go out in each of their faces, and yet here they were, brighter than ever.
The absurdity of the moment sat me down hard on the gazebo bench, an unstrung puppet. And I began to weep. Softly at first, then muffled sobs.
Reality had split into the error of everything I had ever known and this newness. This strangeness. Sugared with impossible joy. And bitter with tragic awareness of our larger reality.
My crying got the attention of the players. I rose to meet them and wiped my eyes with my palms. The dreamy unreality of what was happening steadied my emotions, and I beckoned them closer so I could speak with them, the lost light of my dead.
In this life, we did not know each other. Some of the Afghans resided as immigrants, others overseas transfer students, and two Canadians served with units stationed at a nearby base. All were enjoying cultural opportunities in Vancouver and happened to share a weekly theater group that met in Cybilla Rayne’s backyard cottage.
They chatted briefly with the emotionally florid man in the gazebo, answering a few of my outlandish questions before hurrying on. The war in Afghanistan had never happened. A western alliance repelled the Soviet invasion of 1979, and peace reigned in that rugged, long-suffering country.
Cybilla, still in her Titania gear, appeared in the doorway to the timber cottage. She waved casually for me to come. Confident I would follow, she turned and disappeared inside.
My first lesson in alchemy awaited. I wavered, grasping the gnostech ring. An imperative part of me wanted to twist it off my thumb, throw it away, and reclaim my original self.
But…
Could I return to my broken brain and a madness that is sane, that makes sense? Or did I really want this extraordinary sanity that is totally mad?
They fell with Lucifer, the whole way down burning.
For a long while, I stood in the garden. I just stood there, watching daylight flash through the birches like bright omens. There was no reason to rush. I had all the time in the worlds.
Be sure to return
upon the rolling waves of time
for the next unexpected installment of
the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science
Fantasy and Science
Fiction
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