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Chapter 38
The moon was alive!
Gently, tenderly, its bright fingers traced across every blade of grass, every shrub, every broken branch, boulder, stump, every divot, undulation, tree trunk, hillside, swale, precipice, brook and river. All, all in the all that was, was touched, emblazoned and unveiled. The sky itself was illuminated, like a manuscript revealed after an eons-long dormition, opening its leaves at last to unburden itself of its sacred wisdom and beauty. And with its radiance, the moon bestowed an awesome clarity, and tranquility, and greatest of all, an aura of truthfulness.
Jona sat on the fallen bough of a peeling birch tree, drinking in the moon’s rays as if they were nourishment. Tokala had placed him there, telling him to be patient and wait. He needed to check some things and would return when the time was right and take Jona on to the final leg of his journey. It occurred to him that he should be afraid. He was alone, resting in a narrow clearing on a high hill, surrounded by a grove of live oaks that spread their bodies over the slope-side with primordial power. The hooting of owls, the flutter of bats, and the skulking rustle of opossums and squirrels blended with the fading chatter of cicadas. The pervasive, penetrating, and oppressive presence of the unknown lurked all around him, but Jona found himself indifferent to any danger. Instead, he was hypnotized by the refractive brilliance of moonbeams on the rustling leaves and whispering branches of the oaks that encircled him. He was isolated and alone in a small universe bounded by sky and earth.
I am alone, he thought. I truly am. More alone than I’ve ever been. Then they came to him, one by one, needy supplicants appearing one more time, begging to breathe one breath of life once more. Alex. Elfieda. Marielle. Even Gwen, though she wasn’t dead, and Andrews with Murphy right behind. Dad. All the actors in his life, all the players who hustled and bustled about, huffing and puffing, digging their talons into him, extracting tears and laughs and anguish and great love. Each one came in turn, each one still garbed as they were when they last met Jona, each one smiling, each one reaching out to him as if he might snatch them out of whatever Sheol had imprisoned them. They’ll never leave me. I wonder, am I a part of their existence? Surely they exist somewhere, in some form or other. Will they ever be free of me? Jona contemplated the sky morosely, in no mood for deep meanderings of thought or speculation, but he could not stop the words spinning through his head. The truth is that I’m now a solitary speck in the cosmos, with no plan, nowhere to go, and drained of any desires. Isn’t that what monks live their lives to accomplish, to empty themselves so that true understanding can grow within? Well, I’m no monk, and I don’t want understanding, and I especially don’t want truth. I’ll die as I am, ignorant and filled with deceit. He nodded his head, satisfied, and submitted himself to the wilderness surrounding him.
The leaves sparkled as they fluttered in the modest breeze of the night, reflecting light, scintillating in pleasure to the moon’s exotic touch. Some inhaled as if gratified in all their needs while others sighed with dreamy hopes yet unfulfilled. The branches were mighty, some swaying high in the sky and others sweeping low to the earth, almost touching the mother that had birthed them. They groaned as they rocked back and forth in harmony with the frothing motion of twigs and leaves, almost as if they were struggling to speak.
Jona watched and he saw and he listened and he heard. The vibrations of a thousand-year song came to him, a fable of loss and love and yearning, sung with senseless words. The melody soon faded away, but the song’s words persisted, stripped painfully bare and exposed, left to lie naked in the grassy glade to die, but somehow clinging to life. Pictures began to appear to him in the near distance, dancing among the words, gyrating within the substance of the trees, forms both strange and familiar, swirling in a vortex of motion, a circular whirlwind of light and shadow. Some images were of places known to him, others pictured past events, or events that had never happened and perhaps were still to come. Thoughts mingled into the scene, intervening, intertwining, floating effortlessly in aeries of deep contemplation and memory. Touch and taste weaved their way through the maelstrom as well, and soon regret intruded, and awe, and anger, and jealousy. Everywhere he could have been, every thought he could have had, every feeling he could have felt, everything of him that had ever been began to whirl within the tossing boughs and branches of the oaks, coalescing into a cyclonic energy fed by the motion of tree limbs shivering within shafts of moonlight. The heaving and pitching funneled into itself, converging, becoming small within the vastness of moonlit sky. And where the squall of vibrating coruscations touched earth, the vague outline of a human form appeared, bleeding into a vague sfumato that obscured it from full clarity.
Jona strained to see it clearly, wondering whether it might be Marielle. Slowly, the indefinite margins fused and blended and collapsed into a recognizable texture and color and structure. It was his father, looking young, sitting comfortably on the ground. He was just to the right of Jona’s center of focus, framed by an enormous bough that twisted artfully to the left. Lines of convergence radiated towards him from the somber greenery beyond, drawing the eye obliquely towards his face, glowing in the light of moonshine that struck at an angle from high above. Garments of yellow and bright blue shimmered, adding to his luster, and he was smiling in an odd way, as if suffused and inspired by an inner joy. Earnest Lieb rested in glory, perfect in his construction, a masterpiece of creation. His form was perfect and his body bore no scar. He looked like he had fallen from a very distant star.
A tuft of wind blew by, and the form was suddenly divested of all its color, leaving Lieb gray. Another gust swept over him, wiping away the features of his smiling face, and the lines of chin and neck. Within moments a gentle zephyr annihilated the sharp contours of his image, leaving only a blur within the canopy of trees. Merely an indefinite barrenness, a shapeful shapelessness, remained where he had been. Earnest Lieb was stripped to the barest elements of existence, now an image without a form.
“Hello Jona. We meet at last.” The words came from the crowns of oaks that swayed with supreme dominion within the glare of moonlight.
“We have met many times before.”
“Not like this. Not as we are right now.”
“You’re not there.”
“Neither are you. Look.”
Jona held up one hand, and then the other. He could feel both, but neither one was there. “Am I real?”
“What makes you real?”
“To begin with, my body. My touch, my smell, my taste.”
Leaves and branches rustled restlessly in sibilant chatter. “And your thoughts? Your past dreams? Desires? From your first breath on, doesn’t your past make you real? Create you?”
A searing anger erupted from within Jona. “You mean that you created me. I’m your little monster, with no say in who I was or who I am.”
“If you truly believed that you wouldn’t be here right now. You would be at home, hugging yourself in your bed. You’re a collection of too many places, too many people, too many joys, too many tears, too many ideas, too many hates and loves to think you were made so simply. I am the same.”
Jona let out a bitter laugh. “We are not the same. You’ve saved millions.”
“They’re not here right now. Just we two.”
“Are you really here with me? Are you dead or alive?”
“You want to know whether those are the only choices. So, we have come full circle, haven’t we. Think carefully. Is your love of Marielle dead or alive? Is your fear of failure dead or alive? Are your memories dead or alive? Tell me which parts of you are dead and which alive.”
“My brain is alive. Everything follows from that.”
The writhing tremble of tree trunks caused the moonlight to scatter into a piebald pattern of irregular brilliance, submerging Earnest Lieb even further into the verdant leafage of investing forest. “I understand. When the last neuron expires, then everything that is me disappears. Then how am I here?”
“You’re not. I’m here. You are imagination. When I am gone then you will be gone.”
“Imagination has already come very far. Farther than your brain alone can go.”
Emanating from somewhere in the grove of ancient oaks, a howling sough rose up high into the silent sky, almost deafening Jona. The branches and leaves were shivering, almost shrieking. He felt the vibrations shaking him against his will. “Chemicals are released by nerve cells, commanding the creation of something, everything, whatever. Creating imagination too. Don’t play mind games with me. Surely you know all that better than anybody.”
“Yes. You’re saying eat more berries, or avoid apricots. That will make more chemicals bubbling in our brains and thus subdue jealousy. Or drink vinegar to stimulate generosity. That’s possible. Or maybe we swim in a sea of possibilities. Or, just maybe, we imagine the possibilities.”
“You exploited all the possibilities, didn’t you. Without a care in the world for anyone else.”
“You like things to make sense, don’t you. You desire that. You need that. One thing leading to another, one act grounded on the one before, a seamless story composed of coherent chapters. And it all becomes clear by the end of its narration. All things explained, puzzles solved, and all put neatly away in proper order. A tidy ending to a messy life. Order is comforting, isn’t it. That was not my story. For me, day did not always follow night.”
“Day always follows night.”
“Not if day and night are just inventions of the mind, mysteries we don’t understand, like the taste of chocolate or the beauty of a sunset. Mysteries without answers abounded everywhere I looked. I wanted to unfold myself, to reach out to the unknown, to mingle with the beams from the moon above. I wanted freedom from myself, but I was enslaved to myself, no matter how hard I tried to escape. There was no single road to freedom. Instead, I stumbled up and down, finding some kind of meaning here and some kind of revelation there, a pool of wisdom in one place and a fountain of insight in another. I fought and bled on every road I travelled, hoping it would all make sense in the end, but it never did. Much as I tried, I could not liberate myself from me, from me, from me. I was my own master, but I was also my own bondsman, slaved both to what I had been and what I wanted to be. So, I poured the parts of my life into different pockets as I encountered each one, poached like trinkets picked up along the byways of my living days. I collected many that I savor and are still within me, many I have lost and now belong to the winds of time, and many moments of life I hoped to find but did not. And I’m left with whatever is now just me.”
“Is life so horrible?”
“Life is a miracle, Jona, a continuous wonder, a chorus of joy and love. Life is not horrible. It is we who are horrible for dreading the beauty surrounding us, and not finding every morsel of joy that could be found. I’ve found so much happiness in life it could fill the sky above us.”
“Did you find love?”
There was a pause while the shadow of space and earth that was Earnest Lieb contracted in a rapid spasm. “Define love.”
The moon moved slowly across the vacant sky, reluctantly, knowing that at the end of its day it was to die. Soon, it would descend from the furthest reaches of sky to mate in humiliation with the dust and dirt lying at its feet, then expire. For now, in obedience to an eternal edict, its dazzling effulgence ruled the realm of night, wiping the stars clean from the heavens, sending them into hiding until their time in turn would come, and the moon would be gone from the face of heaven. Cassiopeia and Orion and Sirius and Venus, pallid cousins to the lunar body, waited grimly, patiently, storing up the luster they would soon expel over the skies when their archrival was gone. The earth and its parts stood still, watching, observant of the laws that govern all things. The treetops, though, whipped back and forth, flayed by an invisible wind, and the summer leaves were made iridescent as they frisked in the embrace of moonbeams from above. Jona felt the tug of flesh and could see and feel the bone and sinew of his body restored, layer by layer, color by color and stroke by stroke, as if applied by a great master. His father’s shadow receded further, now becoming almost nothing, drifting into the tenebrist vacuum of the darkened tree trunks.
“Wait, dad. Before you go. Tell me. Did you love me?”
There was no howl or shriek, no flicker of agony, no lamentation or whimper as his father’s spirit fled. The boughs and branches of the live oaks bobbed in gentle rhythm and the leaves nodded up and down in quiet unison as the scene restored itself to harmonious serenity. All was silent, and the moon’s full face lapped blissfully over every tree and rock, loping towards its final destination. It seemed that his father’s presence was vanished, but at the last instant a distant echo whistled in the wind, drifting up and down and back and forth and in and out, free for all the world to hear, a somber measure played in the sorrowful chords of an anguished plaint. “I don’t know yet,” the voice said, then it too was gone.
Tokala found Jona sprawled in the dirt, covered by fallen leaves, his arms and legs contorted as if he had fallen to the ground from a great height. He was mumbling to himself, but his crazed words were unintelligible.
“Come on. Up!” The guide hissed the words fiercely. “No time now.”
Jona sat straight up, grabbed at Tokala’s thigh, and shrilled. “The day has no night! The night does not come with day! The day comes with the night that does not come!”
“Quiet, shithead!” Tokala looked around quickly, desperately, peering into the thicket of trees. There was no one in sight. “What’s gotten into you?” He leaned down, clutching Lieb by his collar. The babbling continued, incoherent once again.
Abruptly, Jona stood up with surprising alacrity and turned towards the cluster of oaks closest by, striding forward with determination. “He’s in there! We’ve got to find him!” He thrashed towards the nearest tree and began punching at it. “Come out! Finish what you started.”
“Won’t tell you again. Stop or I’ll leave you here. Then you can piss on yourself all you want.”
Lieb did not stop. His hands were now bloodied, and a sharp crack was heard as he delivered a ferocious punch. Slivers of bark flew off, sending Jona into a paroxysm of laughter. He picked up several of the shards, stuffing them into his pockets. “Ho ho ho, just another day at the same ol’ rodeo. Selecting some trinkets now, a few everyday knick-knacks to store away in my tree-fighting pocket as I walk the byways of life, right next to the I-am-a-hermit pocket.” He bared an evil grin in Tokala’s direction. “For my next act, I’ll be going on an I-am-a-murderer adventure to gather up even more trinkets. Ain’t life grand!”
Tokala assessed his options quickly, but carefully. Only one made sense at the moment. He confronted Jona closely, and with all the power he could muster, punched him on the side of his head, very near the mark left by Amelia’s blow. Jona collapsed as if dead.
Jona awakened to the cluck of chickens and the melodious, bellowing moo of cows. It was still night, but the thinnest ribbon of vermilion flowed like a river over the far horizon. A rooster was heard nearby, strutting its mastery, giving throat to loud, brief, contented crowing. Pigs were snorting not far away, and the foul, dense stench of manure was in the air. Lieb was lying on the wooden porch of a small farmhouse, adjacent to a chicken coop on one side and an open pasture on the other. He felt a throbbing pain over his forehead but was otherwise numb.
“You back to normal?” Tokala sat on a wooden railing a few feet away, smoking calmly.
“I don’t know. I think I’m feeling kind of dead right now. How did I get here?”
“Half dragged, half carried. You’re not too much of a load.” Tokala waited half a beat. “What happened to you? You get into any Chinese tobacco?”
“No. Hard to explain. I think I saw him, I think. My father. Has he been around?”
Tokala took a long, hard drag then tossed his cigarette, letting it fly like a burning meteor. “We missed our time because of you. Someone else took the route when we didn’t show. That’s how it works. Now we have to wait. That’s also how it works. We’ll try again a little later today. Also, it’s gotten a bit more complicated, and I think it’s also because of you. Lot more patrols out, not just Guard units. A lot more regular army than the rule. They’re usually in their dugouts, just watchin’, doin’ lookout, that kinda thing. But they’ve been out today quite a bit, up and down the whole valley.”
Jona gestured for a cigarette, lighting up quickly. The eastern sky now bulged with a yellow-red arc, as if the day’s bread was rising in the ambit between earth and heaven. “That’s alright. Now I don’t think I want to go. I want to stay here. I feel safe here. Secure, you know?”
“You can’t stay here. Too dangerous. I mean for me, and the whole operation we got going. I can’t hide you for very long.”
“OK. I’ll turn myself in. That’s also alright with me, I understand. Don’t worry, I won’t spill the beans about you and the others. I stole a car and tried to make it to the border on my own, that’s my cover. They won’t bother me. Hell, before too long ago they were set to honor me. Do me a favor and help Andrews and Murphy across. Tell them it was my decision to stay.”
It was barely light enough to make out the cows in the nearby field. They stood stolidly, chewing in the most uncaring manner, with everything important in their lives just a foot in front of their eyes. They were immune to the distractions of dawn, or the lowing of other cattle nearby. Nothing mattered to them other than the grass that sprouted on the ground before them. Jona watched them briefly, admiring them, then sat up painfully. His head was still pulsing with pain, the knuckles of his right hand throbbed, and his hip had seized up. With more effort, he stood up, leaning against the porch railing. He felt relieved. Staying was the right thing to do, he knew it and felt it too. And, he planned to go back to the grove of oaks and keep looking. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself confronting his father hiding in a cave…
“Hey.” Tokala interrupted Jona’s reverie brusquely. “Andrews and Murphy are dead.”
“What? How?” He began to stammer. “No! No no no nononono…”
“Shot dead by government men, don’t know what agency. They’re dead. If you turn yourself in, the shit will hit the fan. You won’t be released. You will be lumped in with them, as spies or something like it, and you’ll be buried so deep they will need an oil rig to unearth you. When it all gets reported to the public, there will be no end to it. The north will get pissed when it turns out their men were shot in cold blood, and you’d be nothing more than a pawn that either side would be willing to sacrifice. I think it might even mean war of some kind. The bad kind.”
“But why were they shot?” Jona felt the pain in his leg and hip grip him, burning like molten lava. He fell to the ground in agony.
“Because we’re all insane. You know that. Insanity is in our backbone, props us up and makes us what we are. My grandfather told me we can’t live in hate all the time, but he never said anything about insanity. They were crazy to walk down the road, but in a way they saved us, because the shooting sounded like a battle was erupting, and gave warning. If you think about it, that’s crazy too.”
Jona shuddered, trying to block the sights and sounds that rushed into his head, spinning into a cyclonic frenzy. It came to him that both agents were there because of him. “Did Andrews suffer? Did either one of them suffer, or was it quick?”
Tokala spit out a long string of mucous and snuffled several times as if to clear his nose. “Why you ask that? It may have mattered at the time in that particular moment but it don’t matter no more, it’s over. You need help getting up?”
“Just leave me alone.”
“Can’t do that for too long, we need to move pretty soon. One more thing. The girl you were with, with the white hair. Turns out she is President’s daughter, and she really is certified crazy. There’s a sweep out for her, and you’ll be caught up in that little ditty as well.”
Jona rolled left and right on the wooden planking of the porch, moaning in pain. He caught a glimpse of the sun, an orange nubbin barely peeking over the curve of earth and sky. To his surprise, he spied a dun colored river flowing briskly through some sparse cattails and a line of aspens, not a mile away. Chickens clucked and pigs grunted. The cocky rooster pranced in his coop as if he were lord of all. The world was serene, continuing its daily chores of movement and rest, moaning and snorting, swagger and shamble, preening and jubilation, shitting and pissing. Jona felt sure he was going to die, and wanted to. “What should I do, Tokala. Drown myself in the river?”
Tokala gave a half grin, allowing a sparkle to shine from his mouth. “That’s one idea, but don’t be fooled. There is a company of Regulars right along that embankment, kinda bored, itching for some fun if they’re given the order.”
“Then, what?”
“You have to go over. Today.”
“And? If I do get over, what do I say about Andrews and Murphy?”
“Tell a story and make it real. Tell them Murphy went nuts. He’s the drunkard, right? Tell them he went berserk and abducted the rest of you at gunpoint. Went crazy. The cops who shot them were actually trying to rescue you and the girl. Tragic about Andrews, got in the line of fire. That left you abandoned, singing high lonesome. You panicked and ran away.”
“And Gwen?”
“Easy as pie and old as the hills. She’s a skirt, nothing more. She seduced you and ran off to see the world with you. How were you to know who she really is, and that’s the actual truth. You have some time to iron it out, but I think the story will fly.” Tokala retrieved a pocket watch and fixed it with an intense stare, letting his eyes roam over it as if the bezel showed a map to their secret escape route.
“Is it time to go?”
“We’re a half mile away from the crossing. As long as there are no patrols in the way we can leave here in an hour. Hungry?”
“Not really. I guess I am, yes.” Jona paused to look at the farmhouse more carefully, and then at the broad valley that spread to the river’s edge. “Where are we? What is this place?”
“You don’t need to know where we are exactly. Near the crossing. As for this place, it’s a farm, can’t you see. It’s safe.”
“How can you be sure. This house sticks out like a sore thumb for miles around. You said there are troops down by the river. They can see this place easily from there.”
“Stop worrying. The lady of the house is named Katie. Be polite. You have some deficits in that regard.”
They stepped to the door. After a few knocks, a nearby window was flung open and a face poked out cautiously. It was a woman with raven black hair that fell to the windowsill in a straight cascade. She did not appear happy.
“Where have you been?” She snapped the words angrily in Tokala’s direction. “I was up till all hours waiting for you.” She turned her gaze towards Jona. “Is this him?”
“Yes ma’am.”
She ducked back inside without a word, and moments later the front door swung open. Katie stood with arms folded defiantly across her upper chest, and nodded at them to come in. As Jona passed her, she grasped his arm and spun him around to face her. “You look just like him. Except for the eyes and the hair. You know, I know your father.”
Jona felt her eyes boring into him. “OK. Seems like everyone I’ve run into knows him.”
“Well, I owe him personal, and so does my man. So you’re welcome here.”
“How do you owe him?” Jona spoke reflexively.
Katie turned to Tokala. “You didn’t tell him anything?”
He shrugged and shook his head. “Naw. We got tied up in some other stuff.”
“Then who wants hotcakes?”
“Wait.” Lieb shrugged off her arm, feeling the first warning tingles of anger. “Why the mystery? How do you owe him?” He stepped back to inspect her more carefully. She was a beautiful woman without doubt, though her lips had begun to wrinkle at the borders, and long, shallow lines had started to etch themselves across her forehead. Even so, her eyes blinked a bright brown, her cheeks were molded perfectly, and her smile curved generously as she smiled.
Katie tossed her hair away from her forehead without a care, turning her smile into a narrow grin. “There’s no shame in it, you can be sure of that. Your father brought me here from Philadelphia, where we met. You see, we were real good friends, but he grew to dislike my living circumstances there. Also, I suffered some untoward events that were very unpleasant, and he persuaded me I would be better off down here. Get a fresh start, you see. Before too long, he introduced me to Albert, my man, and we’ve been together now almost twenty years.”
A furious disruption, an instant blur of anxiety from some hidden place within him zoomed through Jona’s thoughts. “Do you have any children?”
Katie’s brow folds deepened very slightly, and her lips inverted from smile to pout. “That’s a very abrupt question, sir. Very abrupt.”
Tokala intervened harshly. “Careful, Lieb. I warned you.”
“Just trying to get some answers for once.” Jona felt his ears turning a burning red, and a needle point of pain pierced his hip. “Sorry.”
“No fighting please, gentlemen.” Katie raised her hand with palm out, as if about to give a benediction. “Mister Lieb, I will answer your inopportune inquiry, with deference to the travails you must have endured getting here. No, I have no children. I will also tell you something more, before you hear it in a defamatory manner from a third party. Gossip respects no boundaries, I have learned. I was carrying an illness when I came here and didn’t know it. In medical terms it’s called Clap. I understand it’s quite common. I transmitted this condition of Clap to Albert, who did have some ugly manifestations subsequently, and he in turn reported his ailment to Dr. Lieb.”
“And he treated Albert? You too?” Jona felt the familiar flush of excitement surging through him.
Katie’s brow furrowed even more deeply, but she resumed her smile. “Yes, he treated Albert, and it didn’t take long to trace it back to me. I was treated too. I asked Dr. Lieb to hide from Albert the fact I was affected, but he persuaded me to tell the truth. I did, and Albert accepted me as I was. That only strengthened us, making us even more devoted to one another. It was the turning point of my life.”
Jona nodded at the wisdom of his father’s advice. “That’s a wonderful story. Heartwarming. All the better. So, he married you anyway.”
“No! Albert has his own family elsewhere. He sees them when and as he needs to. We don’t require marriage vows to sustain us, and we don’t need your rules to shame us. We are happy together for these many years, whenever we can be together, and that’s all that matters. This little farm is our home.” Katie raised her voice slightly, casting an uncompromising echo throughout the room.
“I’m sorry, Miss Katie, I truly apologize. Marriage is not the most important thing, it’s happiness that is important. Human happiness is the most essential blessing, my father said that many times. And health, of course. I’m glad he was able to treat the both of you.”
Katie, for just a moment, seemed to deflate. She leaned against the window frame, and crossed her arms again, this time over her abdomen. An awkward silence ensued, then she very deliberately took a deep breath. “Well, everyone around these parts knows the truth, I don’t know how. Damned small talk. See, the shots worked for me, but not for Albert. He’s had it all these years, and now I’ve got it again. No cure this time.” She stroked the long, shimmering strands of sable hair that hung almost to her waist, appearing lost in thought. “Beginning to lose my hair a bit.”
An overwhelming sadness came over Jona. She’s been given shit in life, just like I have, he thought. She probably stayed with this guy because she was desperate, with no options. No one could love another that much, that’s for certain. Or he took advantage of her somehow, manipulating her emotions. Either way, that’s another example of a life lived horribly. I shouldn’t feel sorry for her, because in the end she got what she asked for. I’ve been a victim too, more of a true victim than her. She victimized herself. She chose to. He paused for a moment, finding it suddenly very hard to think. Like Andrews and Murphy. They didn’t have to come, they chose to. A voice whispered in his ear, drawing him away from the room, and the farm, and the rolling hills and rivers, and away from sky and sun and moon, and even further away, away from love and hope and profound belief. And Elfieda and Alex, I guess they didn’t have to go with me to Siberia, but they did. And Marielle, she wanted to go to Russia, that was her wish. They all did what they wanted to do …I didn’t have to leave them, did I? But they are still somewhere inside me, aren’t they? Is it all just gone? I can still feel them. I don’t know if I’ll ever really know.
A loud pounding, a brief chuffing, and the sounds of leather clashing with metal came from just outside the cabin. Katie looked quickly out the window. “Oh, it’s Albert,” she shouted with delight. “I bet he’s come up to see what’s going on with our guest. And to see me, of course.” She gave a wide-mouthed, stunning smile in Jona’s direction.
Tokala ran to the window, and after a searching look, turned towards Lieb and gave a signal to stay where he stood. His features were suddenly taut; he straightened his back, stretching himself up to his full height in a stiff, rigid manner. Within a few minutes the door burst open, and a short, middle-aged man in a dusty gray overcoat, navy blue kepi hat and knee-high soiled boots entered the room. He strode over to Katie and kissed her fully on the lips, casually and without any sign of embarrassment. He murmured something into her ear, causing a giggle and a crimson flush to flow over her cheeks. His gaze then zeroed in on Jona. Tokala, in the other corner of the room, removed his hat, placed it over his heart, and bowed stiffly. His words were grainy when he spoke, as if expelled under duress. “Good morning, general.”
“You’re his son, you say? I’ve known Earnie Lieb for a quarter century. You look nothing like him.” Alberto Figueroa sat back in his chair, examining Jona as if inspecting a firearm. “Any ID?”
“No, general sir, no. I escaped from captivity without any personal effects.”
They were all sitting around the kitchen table. Katie had finished preparing hotcakes, which sat in a sumptuous tower in the middle of the table, together with a rasher of bacon and fresh coffee. Jona could neither eat nor drink. The day was beginning to warm, and the sky outside was a crystal blue, behaving as any ordinary day might do, but the mood inside the room was anxious and anything but ordinary. Tokala had broken out a cigarette but thought better of it and stuffed it back. He took a sip of coffee as casually as he could, then spoke without looking at the general directly. “Unexpected honor to see you, sir.”
“Got a message from Miss Amelia a few days ago about this fellow here. I have a connection with his father that means a lot to me, and I want to facilitate what I can. But I have to tell you there’s a whole lot of movement going on out there, and a lot of it is not under my command. Fifth Corps has suddenly gotten real interested in this front, especially along this line. I can’t guarantee his safety. And, there’s a lot at risk other than him.” Figueroa spoke directly to Tokala, as if Jona was not sitting three feet away. “Don’t want to see him caught for a couple of reasons. Good reasons. You understand. You come out to the porch with me for a minute, let’s have a smoke. Mr. Lieb here can help Katie with the dishes.”
The two men ambled out to the yard, and slowly walked to the back of the house. Tokala lit up and the general took out a well-worn pipe that he tamped down vigorously before lighting an enormous match to it. He puffed up a few times before speaking. “You understand our dilemma.”
“Yes sir. What shall we do?”
“Do you know how long I’ve been posted here? Twenty-two years. Captain, colonel, now general. The boys here are deployed for eighteen months, all good Georgia boys, mostly north Georgia. Country boys. It’s an adventure for most of them, first time away from home and all. They go into town for booze and broads, attend services Sunday mornings, and work hard to pass inspection every day. It’s been my job to prepare them for warfare, for killing and being killed. I have no intention of seeing that happen. I’m a good soldier, and loyal to my country. I’ll fight if we’re up against the wall, but I’ll do everything in my power to never get there. Clear?”
“Yes sir. I think so. With respect, sir, I don’t think he’s none too bright.”
“He’s a doctor, isn’t he? Bright enough to know what he’s doing.”
“I don’t think so. Somethin’s wrong upstairs, like he’s walkin’ in a daze all the time. I think he has taken some stuff that has affected him much for the worse.”
“I couldn’t care less about that. Let me spell it out for you. He’s not to be captured. If he can make it over and out of our hair, then that would be best. But he’s not to be captured, under any circumstances. You must take no chances about that. No telling what might happen if he’s caught.” Figueroa took several vigorous puffs on his pipe, sending an aromatic cloud of smoke in Tokala’s direction. “As I recall, your mother still runs that newspaper, is that right?”
“Yes sir. Cherokee.”
“And I see that the import business is doing well, thank you very much. Appreciate it, helps with the farm. Be a shame to see all that go up in smoke, see your mom run off of her property, see you in jail till the turn of the century, all because of a turncoat who couldn’t shut his trap.”
“Sir…” Tokala hesitated, letting his cigarette dangle in midair. “If worst comes to worst, how do I explain it?”
The general also paused, turning to study the cows grazing quietly in the nearby pasture. “It’s so peaceful out here, isn’t it. Never want to see anything happen to it. I’ll be retiring here with Katie in a year or two.” He placed his arm around Tokala’s shoulder. “If nobody don’t see nothin’ then you have nothin’ to explain. Hide the body, not too well, with this in his pocket.” He handed over a small, folded handkerchief.
“What is it? Why this?”
“There’s a hand-drawn outline of our entrenchments in there, inside the folds, with artillery positions along this sector clearly marked.” Alberto Figueroa chuckled, proud of his plan. “Yes sir, yes sir. The bastard took advantage of our hospitality to spy on us, that’s what folks will say. Nobody can blame us for what happens to him. Serves him right. Now let’s go finish our coffee, don’t want to keep Katie waiting.”
“How far did you say?”
“Half mile. We have to walk.”
“How do you know it will be our turn when we get there?”
“Have a feeling the general has arranged that for us.” Tokala gave a sideways look towards Jona. “Mighty unusual for him to come by like that. Usually stays at arm’s length. Hear no evil, see no evil kind of mentality. I guess he really wanted to meet you.”
“Hardly spent a minute with me. What did you two talk about?”
Tokala didn’t answer right away, as if he was struggling to organize his thoughts. When he did respond he made a point of looking directly at Jona. “We talked about you, Dr. Jona. We talked about you and the best way to get you settled.”
“Did you discuss letting me stay?”
“No, that don’t seem to be an option. You think you saw your father last night?”
“Think so. Seemed pretty real. Maybe that’s just crazy.”
“Maybe not so crazy. I had a dream about him last night. We were on a riverboat together, like in the old days, drinking wine under the stars and listening to the waves swishin’ by. It was so calm. It was nice. No pain. No regrets. Sometimes, yesterday grins at you when you’re in today, and you like yesterday better.”
“Yeah. Beforehand could be better than right now, but isn’t the idea that tomorrow will be best of all?”
Tokala laughed. “That’s great. You really are your father’s son. I’ve heard him say something like that a hundred times. Tomorrow will be better, that’s why we agree to live today. You really believe that?”
“Of course.” It was Jona’s turn to laugh. “Not really. Maybe. I don’t know. Dad said so.”
“You two got along?”
“In a way. It was hard, him being who he was.”
Tokala retrieved a kerchief from his pocket to wipe off the sweat on his brow. “And you being who you are.”
“I sometimes think of him as a huge millstone, grinding me down, down to my smallest parts. Don’t know if I’ve ever glued myself back into one piece.”
“You miss him?”
Jona felt his heart pounding suddenly. A rapid-fire discourse erupted in his brain, as if an entire assemblage began shouting at one another in the same instant. “I miss everything. Everything that’s happened, and it’s been a lot. I wish I could relive it all. I’ll miss you too.”
Tokala gave a peculiar grimace, then resumed studying the ground as they walked. “What you said earlier about tomorrow, yes it will be better. If it is, we won’t need to have yesterday. I also think that’s why we let others around us live, and why we don’t kill the whole stinking lot of us off. Because of tomorrow.”
They crested a low knoll, bringing to view a broad grassy depression ahead, studded with stubby pines. A tree-crowned hill frowned beyond that, marking the far limit of the valley. Jona could see several barns grouped together, surrounded by rail fences. Several ramshackle huts were further on, dispersed randomly. A deeply rutted dirt road led from there to the base of the mountain, disappearing as it meandered among the pines. “Are we going there?”
“Correct. The stables.”
Jona stopped, looking back in confusion. “But the river is back that way. Aren’t we crossing the river?”
“Nope.”
“We’re crossing on horseback? I can’t ride a horse.”
“I’ll take care of that. Come on.”
Tokala made no effort to hide or slink along the narrow dirt path leading to the stables, striding directly to the third one in line. He walked alertly, but no one was to be seen. Without any hesitation, he swung the massive wooden door open, gesturing for Jona to come in. Once inside, though, he crouched down and gestured for Jona to do the same. Lieb could do no more than lean over as low as the pain in his hip would allow.
“Don’t move.” Tokala withdrew his pistol from an inside pocket, holding it at the ready, scanning the area.
A funnel of light poured in from the open door, leaving the interior dimly lit to the left and right. Jona could see a series of stalls lining the back wall, but there were no horses to be seen or heard. Some of the stall doors were swung open, showing them to be empty. Irregular clumps of straw were strewn along the dirt floor, and a few horse droppings were scattered as well, but there was no obvious sign of recent struggle. The building was abandoned.
“Tokala, what’s wrong?”
He looked around again, very carefully probing into the darkened corners on either side of the corridor, then stood. “Don’t know. There should be two men here to give us the lowdown on what’s happening and the go-ahead to cross. No one here.”
“There are no horses. Isn’t that bad?”
“No, that’s expected. No horses means it’s good to go. A horse in its stall means a no go.”
Jona reeled with confusion, still feeling the effects of the punch to his head. “I don’t understand. No boat. No horses. How are we crossing?”
Rising to his feet, Tokala appeared keyed up, giving nervous, jerking looks both left and right. With a wide sweeping motion, he waved the gun in Jona’s general direction. “Come with me. Hurry.”
He paced quickly down the length of the stable, stopping decisively at the stall numbered 8, as if he were turning to face an enemy in pursuit. The gun waved again. “Get in. There’s a broom by the door. Start sweeping while I keep lookout.”
“Tokala, I have no idea what you’re talking about. Sweep what? Where?”
“Sweep away all the straw and shit from the back wall towards the middle. Tell me when you’re done.”
The straw inside the stall came up to Jona’s ankles, but he could only find a wide, short whiskbroom propped against a corner. His leg and hip were throbbing, making it impossible to stoop over, so that he was forced to his knees in order to sweep. Horse droppings, some relatively fresh, were everywhere, making his task odious as well as painful, but he willed himself to continue. Sounds came to him as he pushed the hand broom back and forth. He could hear Elfieda’s rich timbred laugh, and the roar of the Ob as it swept across the tundra, and the sharply careening trams in Prague, and the giggles coming from Marielle as he stroked her hair. And, superimposed, a leitmotif of deep-set sighs and laughs of glee and hopeless sobs.
Little by little, the square corners of a hidden door emerged from beneath the cover of straw. As he swept further, the outline of a wide trapdoor became clear. Painfully, Jona got to his feet and came to the threshold to report his finding. Just as he did, angry whinnies and the thunderous clap of hooves could be heard outside the building.
Tokala pushed Jona back into the stall, closing the door behind him. Very quickly, he scrambled to the trapdoor and used the top of the broomstick to pry it open. A ladder descended from the opening. Lieb felt his heart race as he focused on the well of darkness below. “Is this how we’re going over?” He could barely breathe the words.
“Quiet!” Tokala shifted back to squint through a crack in the stall door, moving his head back and forth rapidly as if peering through a periscope. After a few moments he withdrew and slumped to the floor. “I think they’re coming in.”
“Who?”
“The bad guys. The good guys. The other guys. Whatever you want to call them.” He gave a peculiar look, with coal black eyes darting back and forth, staring at Jona’s legs, fidgeting with his gun as if it were a red-hot branding iron. “You are crippled, aren’t you.”
“Not really. A little bit. This is a tunnel to somewhere, I understand that. I can make it.” Jona could see that Tokala was breathing deeply and began breathing deeply himself. “I’ve survived worse. I can make it.”
Tokala raised his gun, without pointing it directly at Jona. Beyond the stall, the barn door could be heard sliding open with an agonizing creak. Very carefully, he centered the gun’s muzzle at Jona’s chest, poking firmly at his left nipple. When he spoke, his words were slurred and drawn out, victims of a deadening lethargy that seemed to overcome him. “Tell me something. Should you live, or should I? Which of us? Right now I don’t know. Do you?”
“What do you mean…which of us?”
“I mean one of us won’t make it. Who do you think it should be?” He casually cocked the hammer on the gun. “Which one?”
“No, no, Tokala, don’t talk like that. We should both live. If it’s too dangerous here then come over with me. We can live our lives together. We would be…like brothers.”
There was a faint clump-clump, the sound of boots treading lightly. People were in the building, not far away. Tokala contorted himself to peer through the door crack again, then stared at Jona. He offered a half smile, allowing a pinpoint ray of reflected light to escape from his mouth, just a glint. “Like brothers. That’s funny.” He twisted himself up to a full stand and gestured violently at Lieb. “Down the ladder. Now! The tunnel will take twenty minutes, maybe thirty for you. Stay on the main line, do not veer into any of the side passages. Go. I will try to divert them, try to fool them, or pay them. I think I may know one of them.”
“Will you be alright?”
“Go.”
Jona was halfway down the ladder while Tokala hovered over him, waiting to cover up the door with straw once again, when a thought screamed out with a hiss. “Who will be at the other side?”
“Someone.”
It was semidark, murky enough to obscure any surrounding details, but light enough to expose a clear, rock-strewn passage. The tunnel was broad, but just barely lifted higher than Jona’s head, stretching ahead in a straight line into the gloom. There were electric lights every ten feet or so, but they were dim, and several were flashing on and off frantically, as if exhausted and ready to die. Jona touched the wall. It was chiseled stone, damp and cold, emanating a faintly sulfuric smell. Pitiless, he thought. The tunnel is just here. It does not encourage or discourage, help or hinder, guide or block. Just here, a conduit, a tool that can be used to come or go, hide or seek. Maybe live or die. He shuddered involuntarily, perhaps because of the cold, perhaps because of fright, perhaps because of guilt. Should I stay or go? Does he need help? What did Tokala mean that only one of us would live? One would live and one would die, he said. One or the other. If I found myself alive then he would be dead, and if I found myself dead then he would be alive. We are paired; Know one and know the other. But why would I be the one to live? He looked back, searching for the ladder, but from just a few steps away it had already faded from view. He could hear nothing from above. Whatever was happening up in the stall might as well be on another planet. There are no guarantees down here. Maybe I’m the one to die.
He began to shuffle forward, following the flickering lights as if he were tracking the stars in a hazy sky. The ground sloped slightly downwards and was irregular, almost immediately causing agony in his leg as he stepped slowly along. There was no concept of time within the dark avenue he walked, only the steady throb of pain in hip and leg, like the steady rhythm of an engine, and so Jona began to count to himself. One, two, three, four…I want so much to smell and touch and feel Marielle, even blind as I am…One, two…To touch and feel Elfieda… three, four…And Alex, him too, to touch and feel…And the other one, the one I will not name, the one that cannot be named, to touch and feel again… Jona stopped and closed his eyes, spreading his arms wide as if to gather in all his memories. When he opened them again, he saw the glimmer, just the hint, of something in his periphery. It was the low, ill-formed cut-out of an adit veering off to the right. Without a thought, he moved in that direction.
The only light penetrating into the side gallery came from the main tunnel. Black shadows crept forward beneath his feet as Jona felt his way into the passage, moving very slowly so as not to trip and fall. He did not intend to go very far, but the rectangular corridor ran straight, inviting him further. His mind raced. I wonder why this is here. A lot of effort went into this. Hundreds of hands, maybe thousands, picking and excavating. It must have taken years, maybe a hundred years. A hundred years of toil and effort by thousands, thousands of slaves working namelessly, just to make this tunnel. Does it go all the way over to the other side also, like the bigger one? Does it lead to a different place, maybe a lesser place, one not as nice? Or could it be deliberately smaller but the one that leads to the jackpot, the nirvana of tunnels?
He stopped.
There was a dim glow ahead, fluttering erratically. Jona approached carefully. After a dozen strides further on he found a votive candle perched on a stone, positioned several inches above the ground. Jona stared at it, a lamp in the lonely dark, flaming slowly, a forgotten remnant of a recent ritual. He knelt down to examine it, captured by the moment. The burning wick had created a shallow pool of molten tallow, making the candle seem freshly lit, surely no longer than an hour or two before. After a moment his gaze wandered to a heap of dirt and rocks pushed a few feet high against the wall right behind the candle, and he could see that something jutted up from the pile, something that looked like a short, bent stick.
Jona felt the sudden onset of nausea and shakiness, and a resurgence of the compulsive urge that had receded over the past days but had never really resolved. There were no magical kitbags at hand to provide what he needed, and Andrews was not around to help. Andrews is not here because he’s dead, he thought. Gone to find Sisyphus and Achilles, wherever they are. He had a quick image of Andrews’ thin mustache curling gracefully as he smiled, and felt the strength of his handshake. Let’s be friends, he told me, and now he is no more. The craving in his belly forced him to sit down, and he found himself at eye level with the stick protruding from the dirt and gravel mound heaped up against the wall.
He stared at it, imagining what it might be. There is treasure buried under that mound. Gold. Pearls. Diamonds. It only makes sense; these people are practically pirates. It’s a hoard of incredible riches, and that’s why Tokala told me to stick with the main path and not deviate. But I’m not one to stick to the main path, am I. Jona laughed aloud in the semidarkness, listening to the sound attentively as it reverberated from wall to ceiling. He looked left and right, as if searching for the source of the echo. The walls of the tunnel were roughly hewn, reflecting the candle’s lonely light with a faint, pockmarked shimmer, the mellow glow of its flame creating the shadows of a dimly lit grotto. Lieb searched the walls for inscriptions or carvings, anything to explain the candle and the mound. Nothing could be seen in the penumbral obscurity of the cavern, nothing other than the glimmer of flickering light licking against the stone walls. Impulsively, he got back on his knees and lurched towards the small protruding twig, reaching for it with curiosity.
It was a finger.
Jona recoiled but did not allow himself to fall away. He picked up the candle, bringing it close in order to make a better examination. The bare, bony elements of a human finger were easily confirmed, almost certainly the first digit of the right hand, pointing up. Raising the candle, Lieb examined the low-lying ceiling just above the finger, expecting to find secret words, or symbols, or an elaborate glyph or ideogram. There was nothing. He bent down again, examining the finger intensely in the candle’s wavering light. This is a grave. Why? Who is this, and why be pointing in this way? Are we now across to the other side, or is the finger pointing to the dividing line between where I started and where I want to go? Or pointing beyond that, to the prime meridian, or to Saturn’s rings, or to where we go when it’s all over and all thought stops? Who is it for and who is it instructing?
Once again, Jona felt the piercing, gnawing urge for relief crawling up from his belly to his chest, and quickly into his skull. His hands began to tremble with a fine tremor, and he swallowed several times to suppress a gagging sensation. He stared at the skeletal finger for an unknown time, not thinking, trying to ignore the clamminess that engulfed him. Small droplets of sweat drained down his back, leaving a burning track as they coursed. I’m alive and this one’s dead. Maybe dead because I’m alive. Maybe we’re bound together forever, just like me and Tokala, one here and one not. I’m feeling every pain of the flesh and this one’s not, I’m feeling every uncertainty and this one’s not, I’m feeling every despair and this one’s not. For an instant, bowed within the gloom, Jona experienced the sterile peace of the safe space he had created for himself long ago, somewhere deep inside where anger and recrimination and madness could never go. He felt the briefest touch of understanding and calm, and allowed a distant sounding voice to speak to him: I can feel hope and this one can’t.
He vomited without warning, cascading a mass of orange-yellow slime over the burial mound. Burning nausea and the taste of bitter acid in his mouth overcame his senses, causing him to fall forward onto the grave. The finger loomed before his eyes, still upright, still teaching. It’s telling me this is the here and now. It’s telling me there is only one truth. It’s telling me there is only one life. It’s telling me that we ascend. It’s telling me that we go first, or that we go after, or that we’re blessed, or cursed, telling me to stand down or stand up, that one thing must follow another or that every moment is a chance, or that the heavens are listening or that we’re all alone. Or that… Jona spread his arms out, hugging the burial pile, touching his lips to the dirt as bile dripped from his mouth, trying to imagine himself free of his body, free of the spasms in his stomach, free of the pain in his hip and free of the vortex of visions that engulfed him. The finger danced before his eyes, twirling and twisting as if it too wanted to be free. …Or that I should be the one to decide what it’s trying to say. It’s a messenger without a message, just a signal, that’s all, just a signal that only I can receive.
He extended his fingertips to touch the bony skeleton, stroking the finger with his own, feeling the sensation of flesh upon bone and the peculiar touch of living tissue on dead. As he did, he felt an odd sense of excitement trigger his belly. In a moment he began to poke at the dirt surrounding the finger, scratching away at it tentatively. There has to be a hand under here, and below that an arm, and below the arm, a body. A body that requires examination. Who was this? A thought suddenly came into his brain, a product of demonic imagination driven by insane ferocity. Wait, wait, wait. This corpse is here for a reason, hidden here where no one can find it. Someone powerful, someone whose death must be kept secret.
Jona rolled onto his back, grasping at his abdomen, squeezing hard to stop the incinerating burn that scorched his body. The shaking worsened, and he forced himself to turn prone once again in hopes of relief, draping himself over the mound. A fireball erupted before his eyes, splitting his head in two with the force of a hammer blow. His sight was almost blinded; somehow he was able to see, dimly, as if peering into a narrow shaft. He began to dig frantically, scooping out dirt and pebbles with the palms of his hand. Soon he came upon a hand, the remains desiccated but unmarred.
He kept digging. Blood started to flow freely from ripped fingernails, but he did not stop. The sight of his own blood irrigating the bones of the corpse drove him on even more urgently. His eyes dimmed further, warning him that he would be unconscious soon. He dug frantically, heaving handfuls of dirt to left and right. A shoulder appeared, a thorax, then a pelvis, but the head was buried deeply, beyond the reach of his desperate, clawing fingers. A whisper floated through Jona’s mind, warning that while he was insensate the skeletal body would somehow disappear. The thought enraged him. He could feel fists of blood pounding at his temples, squeezing out through his eyes and painting the dead bones red. In an instant of clarity he realized the pool of blood was not his. It was blood oozing from the corpse, spurting from its vital parts, bathing him with a sticky discharge that covered his body like a shroud. Jona shrieked. My blood is now his blood, and his is mine. I know who this must be.
Through the scarlet mist he saw a creature emerge. It was Phrike, goddess of horror, arising from her moody throne, raising her arms to embrace Jona. You have sent for me, she shouted. I see your need for me is great, almost as great as your fear of me. Jona’s skin erupted into a quivering sweat, while each hair on his body heaved back and forth with a rhythmic, painful flagellation. The spirit circled him round and round, pouring honey-thick libations onto his body and wrapping him in pure, majestic linens saturated in sweet smelling unguents. Immediately, a burning fire of immolation engulfed him, encompassing his skin from throat to knees. Quickly, Jona scooped up some ruby colored blood and rubbed it onto his face. Phrike, my brother, come do your worst. Undo hell and replace it with me. Within the haze of pain, the body of an ancient lamassu appeared in midair, summoned by the call of Phrike like a cherished pet summoned by its master. Its thickset bull’s torso strode through the flames flickering from Jona’s body, roaring and flapping its absurdly small wings as if it were freshly flung from eons of hibernation.
Jona looked at the head; it appeared familiar, minted perfectly for this moment, neither scowling nor smiling, staring with almond shaped charcoal eyes. It looked like him; eyes, hair, chin. It was Jona’s face, calm within the storm. Come ride me Jona, it said. I will protect you. We will fly away to a world without light or sound or touch and you will be at peace forever. Come. It cast its gaze upon Jona, roaring in anguish. If you do not come now, you will never save yourself from yourself. When there was no response it twirled away with a shriek. As it twisted back on itself, it was still recognizably Jona, but now as a youngster. Jona searched the child’s face and form, his thoughts and feelings abruptly erased, his mind calm. It was as if he were lying in the eye of a hurricane.
“Who are you?” He spoke evenly, serenely. Phrike had fled. Turmoil had gone. The aches of flesh and bone had subsided.
“I am you, at nine.” The creature was sitting comfortably on the floor, legs crossed, back straight. “Right before your illness. There is a whole universe that lies ahead.”
“Do you want me to tell you what the future will bring?”
Young Jona smiled, a boyish grin that spread from ear to ear. “Oh, no! I want to tell you what the present holds, and everything you’ve forgotten. I want you to hear my dreams and hopes, and what is to come. One day I will become a composer and a conductor. I will be famous and rich, but I won’t bother about that because I only care about the music. One day I will meet a woman who loves me for who I am, and marry her, and live a happy life with her. One day my father will tell me how proud he is of my accomplishments, and I will seat him in the front row at the debut of one of my operas. And, finally, one day I will look inside myself and find that all my questions have been answered. I will be content.”
Some time ticked by, enough for a vast array of memories to flood his mind, some rushing, some sauntering, some dim and some as clear as the present moment. Jona could see again the minarets of Istanbul, and the dense forest of the Grunewald, and feel again the icy grip of a bench by the Moscow river, and the reverential touch of a loving hand, and the utter heartbreak of loss. “You see and feel all this, don’t you?”
The young boy with the impish face smiled and shook his head. “No. Only you can.” In the snap of an instant, the creature dissolved.
Lieb watched as the apparition disappeared, then rolled himself on the grave and began digging again, laughing the laugh of utter madness. I am the accursed, the one I have read about, the one who has been confounded and given over to the bitter flames, to live there forever. By myself. No, with myself. But first I have a duty. I have a right. I have to see the face. Have to see the eyes, one blue and one brown. Have to know for sure. Jona reared up in a fog of pain and desperation, slapping at the neck bones he had unearthed. As he slumped back onto the pebbled floor, he howled the only words his mind would allow. Is this him? Is this me? Then an abrupt curtain crashed down with great weight and all awareness darkened.
The candle had burnt down more than half an inch. He had been unconscious for some time, but nothing around him had changed. The flaming taper continued to illuminate the scene, he remained within a semicircle of flickering light, and the body was still there in its mound, disheveled and violated by his own hand. Lieb had only a pale recollection of his thoughts and actions before passing out and now felt shame. He struggled to his feet and faced the tomb squarely. The head remained buried, and the finger had by now fallen to the lip of the grave. He tried to organize his thoughts. This is part of my sickness. That is not my father buried there. There is some part of me, the sick part, that wants to draw me into the past, and get me drunk on invented stories and confabulation, and lose my mind and all sense of reality. No, I won’t do it. I’m going to move on. From everything. Move on from the darkness. Jona spun around to return to the main tunnel, illuminated by muted, blinking lights. I know I’m doing the right thing. I’m going to free myself from this insanity. I’ll be free at last. From myself.
He still felt a cruel pain lancing down the right side of his head, and his gait was unsteady, but he scuffed on resolutely. At one moment he thought he could see the end of the tunnel, a long shadow that proved to be nothing more than a visual disturbance, a hoax. He stopped to rest briefly, steadying himself against the rocky wall. With eyes closed, a sudden montage of images whirled through him in rapid sequence, a quick, graphic reprise of his past. The pictures flitted by, each one dissolving into empty vapor before the next one appeared, each one lasting just a few seconds. The scenes were accompanied by textual comments, as if someone had prepared a travelogue documenting the life-voyage of Jona Lieb for any interested observer. Like a slow-moving movie, the images flickered at their own pace. Jona watched as he was born, then suckled at his mother’s breast, then sat at a table with his tutor, then tossed in agony on his sick bed…And then the show stopped. His life after polio was a blank, a canvas stretched and prepped for everything that was to follow.
Jona opened his eyes to stare down the bore of the tunnel, which remained opaque at its furthest end. It is like the blank canvas. Anything might still be ahead of me. What’s behind is over, only the space ahead is important. He took some comfort from that thought, and began treading forward unsteadily, at times reaching out to the tunnel wall to steady himself,
He took a step and thought he heard a crunching sound further back. He took a few more steps, but heard the sound again, the sound of hard heels crushing fragile pebbles. He began to panic. They’re after me. They know I’m here. I’ll never leave here alive if they catch me. He attempted to hurry his pace, but his speed only increased at a pitiful rate. After a few moments he thought he could hear the shout of a command and then the snort and whinny of a horse. How can there be horses down here? Jona tried to run, but he stumbled and fell heavily to the ground.
Somewhere not far behind he could hear the jingle of spurs and the ominous click of a rifle bolt. He realized this was more than the confabulations of a sick mind rooted to the past. This was real, he could feel it. Men from the stables had followed him down into the tunnel and were after him, seeking to apprehend him or worse. He began crawling with desperation, struggling to find purchase so that he could stand again. The sounds came nearer, and looking back in terror he could see the faint metallic glint of guns, and he could feel the ground heave with the pounding of horses’ hooves. He heard the steel clack of a trigger, and there was a sudden blast, an explosion of words, words reverberating off the walls, words recoiling left and right with deathly ricochet, words that seemed to miss him by just inches. Flee! said one, and Fear! said another, and the closest of all shot past his head, singeing his cheek. Fool! it hissed before expending itself on the ground. Jona groveled in terror, inching himself forward as knees and palms became macerated by the jagged, rocky tunnel floor. As he pressed on, the tunnel lights began to twinkle rapidly, creating a golden aurora that enveloped him, exposing him to his pursuers. The tunnel itself seemed to narrow, barely allowing the passage of his body, and began to twist and turn at impossible angles, pressing at him, threatening to envelop him completely into the unforgiving and unyielding stone that encompassed him. Jona stopped, feeling the weight of the mountain upon him, all endurance and desire gone. He would die where he lay.
Wait. Jona peered through eyes almost welded closed. There was something, a shape. A staircase arose immediately before him, ascending steeply. It was the exit from the tunnel, coalesced into form and function as if by an imaginary wind that had swooped it into being. The encroaching stone walls receded, and the tunnel was now expanded, returned again to its normal size. Jona paused just a moment to listen for any sounds from the gloomy depths of the long passageway behind him. There was only silence. It’s over, he thought. At last, it’s over. It was all in my head, but now it’s gone and I am released. I’ve been cleansed of everything that bound me. I have been crazy and now I am sane. This staircase leads to freedom, and I’m never going back.
Jona climbed the first step, experiencing a thrill of exhilaration he had never felt before. I will lead life as I choose, in the real world and not some concocted fantasy. And if anyone asks me what happened in my past, I will tell them, exactly as things occurred. From now on honesty will be my guide. Honesty to others. Honesty to myself.
He was halfway up, treading heavily with each step. He could see a trapdoor at the top that he would have to push open. After all I’ve been through, there’s nothing more I can ever fear in the future. I’m free of that too. Fear strangles the soul, and that will never happen to me again. My liberation means I can finally feel courage and find understanding. Jona felt a delicate, almost hesitant brush along his forehead, a gentle finger from an invisible hand that stroked a long and loving line from one temple across to the other. And love. I will never need to ask what love is, never again. Love is not found, it is not created. It is within, always within, waiting patiently. Love cleanses and sanctifies, and even when diminished it is never completely lost. It has no meaning, no explanation, no form and no substance. It only exists, bathed in the grace of life itself.
As he neared the top, he was able to reach up and test the trapdoor. It was heavy, but with one more step up he knew he could manage to heave it open. He paused, concentrating fiercely. Memories immersed him in the sights and sounds of the past; from his youth to yesterday he felt the crushing weight of hope and love and fear and anguish as he had lived through each moment. He understood, at last, that each event had brought him to this instant in time, but that nothing chained him to an unspoken future.
Cut every cord, he thought, destroy every bridge, break every tie, and I will be free. Free to feel all the joy and happiness that the world can offer. Free to be a beacon of love and hope and faith to everyone around me. Free to be heroic. Free to find glory. Free of myself. Free to be Jona Lieb.
With effort and a deep groan, Jona pushed against the portal. As he did, it suddenly came free, opening widely. The room above was dark, but he could hear sounds. Suddenly, hands descended, grasping his own, and hefting him upwards. He could smell the fragrance of rose water and hear the swish of firm fabric and taste tobacco on his tongue. Somewhere nearby he could hear the clink of cutlery and the pounding swell of ocean against steel hull, and he could smell roast beef and feel a silky film of sweat along his back. Someone spoke, but in a voice so hushed he could not tell if it was man or woman. Jona resisted, pushing away at the hands holding him, wanting to climb up on his own. The hands clutched him even more strongly, pulling him against his will. Jona felt that his body was too weak to resist but he continued to struggle, summoning all the strength that lay within his soul. This is it, he thought, this is my final contest, my last battle, where I overcome or succumb, where I win or lose my mind at last.
Words floated down to him, capturing him.
Come, the voice said. Come out of there.
Coming Next Week: An Experiment in Writing
Next week, ScyTale Stories tries something different.
The Last Bloom is becoming A Stranger in Town.
We’re taking a YA sci-fi action-adventure and attempting to transform it—chapter by chapter—into a psychological thriller.
Same story. A very different journey.
The experiment begins next week.