Auld Lang Syne

I was walking in velvety darkness. If there was a path at my feet, I could not see it. Does a blind man know if he is floating?
I could see a pinprick of light in the distance and I moved toward it. It increased in size and my eyes dilated.
I stepped through a doorway and saw a man dressed all in formal black attire. He was standing in front of a fire in the comfortable study. He smirked at me and raised his wine glass in a mock salute. He was extremely ugly in a completely unconventional way.
“I have been waiting for you,” he said. I noticed that his eyes glittered but his mouth betrayed no emotion. I said nothing. I looked for Hector but he was not there. Where was he?
--------
I woke up then. I looked at my clock, took a drink of water and rang for Percy. He helped me into my chair and went downstairs to prepare my breakfast. It was a Thursday, so I had office hours after ten. No time in the lab until noon. I looked in the mirror and frowned. My skin was too yellow, my forehead too lined, my eyes too bloodshot. I wheeled back to bed and picked up the book I had been reading. The author was some sort of Jewish mystic and I quickly lost patience with his Kabbalistic babble. If he knew something new, it was hidden under odd revelations of wrestling angels, number systems and God. None of these made sense to me and I threw the book into the fireplace with an oath.
I ate breakfast and Percy wheeled me to my waiting car. I was driven to Caius and entered my office to listen to the mewling and puking of those callow fools that I was given to tutor. I hated this part of the work and the students knew it. Without fail, every fresh new face went pale witnessing my decrepitude and the slow working of my disease. I hated their healthy young faces and longed to smash every pitying look they gave me.
I am obsessed with life, now that mine is concluding with a whimper. I long for health but no doctor can give it to me. I have become a connoisseur of treatments: chemic, holistic, naturopathic, clinic and placebic. I have undergone radiation, massage, vile herbs, colonic irrigation, stretching, crystals, and surgery. Nothing is effective. So now I am going to take matters into my own hands.
-------
I instructed my driver to take me to visit Greenfields. The grounds were well manicured and the buildings stood proudly in the light of a soft April sun. Appearances can be so deceiving.
I spoke to the nurse at the front counter and she wheeled me into Hector’s receiving room. He seemed little changed in the months that I have visited him. His eyes were the usual dull brown, and his face sagged like a balloon with a slow leak. Drool collected in the corners of his mouth. I took out my kerchief and dabbed at it like a solicitous nanny.
“How are you faring today, Hector?”
He never responded to my questions nor even gave a sign that he had heard anything.
“Do you know why I visit you, my boy?” I asked. “I am building a track record as your kindly uncle. One day soon, I will remove you from this place and take you home with me. And then, everything will change. Oh yes, your body will have a captain once more and this captain will have his ship. So be well, Hector!”
I bowed to him and prepared to wheel away. I stopped because I saw something wholly different appear in his eyes.
“I am not yours,” said Hector. And then he went blank again.
-------------
My doctor was the best that money could buy. And what did my money buy? A death sentence.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Goode. Your disease has reached a terminal phase,” he said, looking down at his papers.
“How long, Doctor?”
“Perhaps as much as six months, more probably less.”
“There is no hope of remission?” What a fool I was, grasping at straws. He could barely look up at me. He shook his head.
----------
The lecture was advertised as being “A Scientific Examination of Astral Travel and Soul Migration.” My heart sank as I wheeled to the first row; the hall was full of old women and mad-looking foreign types. I was surrounded by true believers. I feared I would be the only scientist there.
A man wearing dark robes advanced to the lectern and the lights dimmed. He spoke as though telling a story rather than propounding axioms. In spite of my misgiving, I leaned forward and listened. Desperation will do that.
-------
I wheeled myself back to my car. My mind was racing. It was probably madness, but what did I have to lose? I would arrange for my man Henderson to draw up the necessary papers tomorrow and Hector would be my ward before the week was out.
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“What you are proposing is madness, Uncle Hugo!” said my nephew, his face a battlefield between amazement and dismay.
“It may be, Clive...but what other choice is there? I die anyway. What if it is a possibility? What if I can leap from one body to another at the moment of death?”
“Soul migration is neither sound science nor good theology,” he said firmly.
“I need your help,” I said holding up my empty hands in supplication. “If I can make the leap, I will need your help with the legalities as executor of my estate.”
“It is appointed to men once to die,” he said.
“Don’t quote Scripture at me,” I said. “Do what I tell you to!”
“Very well,” he said grimly, his lips tight with displeasure.
---------
I smiled at the inert form of Hector as my chauffeur belted him in beside me. I looked at him critically: broad shoulders, well formed legs, perhaps a bit adipose around the trunk. What joy I would get from transforming him into a physical specimen. What pleasure to feel the slight burning of exertion and a racing heart. I would make this lump of flesh into an athlete, a demi-god, a colossus! I pictured myself walking, running, bending and hurling the javelin like an unclothed Spartan at the earliest Olympics. Oh, to be free of this hideous body and its umbilical cord to my wheelchair! I shivered with anticipation.
I had Hector fed and then wheeled into my laboratory. I gave him a powerful sedative so that my migration would not be resisted and then I had my chef make me a last meal.
-------
Hector was fast asleep; his face almost human now that his ravaged psyche was not tearing it into all directions. I held up the draft of poison and drank deeply. At once, the child’s prayer flashed into my hazy thoughts. Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
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I was back in my dream again, walking in the bright darkness toward a distant light. I stepped into the room of light and at once I felt Hector’s somnolence. But where was Hector? I had to cast him out of his room and take his throne.
A door opened and the man in black entered.
“Where is Hector?” I asked.
“That is not your concern; you can’t get to him except through me.”
“Who are you?”
“Apparently I am a stranger to you, Doctor Goode.”
“How do you know my name?”
“There are no secrets in this plane.”
“What is your name?”
“I have many, but you may call me Judge, for that is assuredly what I am.”
“I have no argument with you. I merely want to take over this useless body.”
“Useless, is it? Tell me what you know of usefulness, Doctor.”
“Obviously, an insane mind is not worthy of a healthy body.”
“Really? Present your case and I will judge it.”
“You can’t tell me that Hector is worthy of his healthy body. He is not even present in the truest sense. He drools, grunts and gapes. We slaughter livestock with more self-awareness than Hector possesses.”
“Very well. Now present your argument for taking over his body.”
“If you know my name, you know that I am well regarded in my field for the brilliance of my insight and experimentation. I could go on living for many more decades with a healthy body. Think of the good that I could do! I simply need more time.”
“Your words are persuasive. Now I will weigh your heart...” He reached out to my chest and flicked the pale skin with a long fingernail. I gasped as a line of blood appeared. He reached in and pulled out my beating organ. He pulled out a brass scale and laid it carefully on it. He stooped down and a most disconcerting grin appeared on his ugly face.
“My dear Doctor, my scale tells me that your heart is almost completely self-centered. All your work is done to amplify your reputation in the scientific community. You never married because it did not suit your nature to share anything with a woman. Your profession relationships are marked with competitiveness rather than collegiality.” He took my heart and smelled it closely. “It is weak from lack of use, Doctor Goode.” He shrugged and put my heart back inside my chest. I gasped as I felt it beating within me.
“So that’s it?” I said, trying not to shake.
“I will give you a choice,” he said. “I will permit you to take this body but with one stipulation.”
“Tell me,” I said; my voice a squeal of desperation.
“You can have a healthy body but you must give up something.”
“Anything!”
“I want your mind.”
“But, but, without my mind, I am nothing. You can’t ask me to submit to the broken mind of an insane man!”
“That is your choice. What will you do?”
“It is no choice!”
---------
I woke up then, lying in a sour pool. I felt strong hands pushing on my heart and I gasped for air.
“Easy Doc... We almost lost you there.” The voice was Percy’s but I was still blind. “Not sure what happened there?” His voice held an interrogative but I was hardly in the mood to discuss poison with my underling.
“Can you talk Doc?” I found that I could not. To my shock I could feel drool collecting at the corners of my mouth. I gurgled like a newborn.

the Story Circle

I am writing a collection of short stories right now. Partly, it is a matter of necessity and partly it is to do something short and bursty. It's necessary because of John and Jill Enns. They invited Diane and I to RV with them in Oliver BC in the middle of writing the Unlikely Accomplice. When I got there, I really wanted to write but I didn't have my manuscript with me. What to do? What to do? I borrowed a laptop and imagined a campfire scene where the beasts of burden could stand around telling stories. It was so much fun and the stories tended to such length that I had to cut them from the book and put them in a book of their own. The story tellers are Goldie and Death, two sensitive mares who speak to the issues of the heart and then, for contrast, I created a black stallion named Hoss. Hoss lives to tell tales of action, violence, gore and the supernatural. If it involves zombies or werewolves, you can bet it's a Hoss-tale.

Here then it the first story from the Circle.

The Story Circle: A Collection of Short Stories with Good Morals Attached (Mostly)


“Who has a story for us?” whinnied Goldie, the strong palomino mare.
“I have one,” said Hoss, the big, black stallion.
“Oh no!” cried Goldie, “Your stories are always so crude and tiresome. I would like to hear something uplifting.”
“How about ‘Giselle and the Fortune teller’?” asked Death, the diminutive white mare.
“The very thing!” said Goldie.
“I don’t think my stories are all that crude…” said Hoss, “You can’t call ‘The Dung Beetle’s Wedding’ crude!”
“I most certainly can and do! Now hush, Hoss, and let Death tell her story.”

Giselle and the Fortune Teller

“Once upon a time, (said Death) there was a fine blood mare named Giselle. She belonged to the most prosperous farmer in all of Lincoln County and she was greatly loved by all of the children for miles around. She bathed in sugar and fine oats. There was nothing but joy in her life and blue skies as far as the eye could see.
Well, they say that nothing good lasts forever and luckily for us, they are quite correct or else we would have a short, boring story.
One day, the Travelers came to town, led by their swashbuckling leader, Carlo. Carlo had flashing eyes and teeth and a general disregard for the niceties of civilized behavior. His motto was “I see it, I like it, I take it.”
He saw Giselle, liked her (and who wouldn’t?) and took her for his own.
Poor Giselle, taken far away from all she loved, hitched to a cart like a common dray animal and forced to eat grass like any village nag. How she cried! Her proud spirit absolutely rebelled at this sort of treatment and she gave Carlo a nip on the shoulder. He laughed and bit her ear in turn. She was shocked. What sort of a man was he?
Carlo was Carlo, proud, confident, and utterly committed to his own pleasures. The only thing that Carlo feared was the loss of his freedom, so he and his people were always on the move, camping here one day and the next day moving on, always moving on.
Giselle felt like she had not a friend in the world and she would cry herself to sleep every night. And then, one day, Carlo came back to the encampment with an old woman.
“She is a fortune-teller!” he announced to all and sundry, “I took her so that she can tell her fortunes for us!”
“I told you,” said the old woman, “I am not a fortune-teller, I am just a somewhat wise old woman!”
“Wise Woman, Fortune-teller…it is all semantics! For us, you will be a fortune-teller for silver!”
“My gifts are not for hire!” she said sternly.
“Your attitude will change over time,” said the evil Carlo, hinting heavily.
“My attitude is as unchanging as the mountains and the heavens,” she insisted.
“If Carlo says to the mountain, move, the mountain moves!” said Carlo with complete assurance.
The old woman was beaten and thrown into a trailer. She wept not a lick and stayed completely composed which irritated Carlo not a little.
“You can stay there all by yourself until you come to your senses!” he thundered.
Giselle went to the old woman’s trailer and softly whinnied at her door.
The old woman opened a window and called to the young mare. Giselle stuck her muzzle in and the old woman caressed her and spoke kindly to her.
“You are a lovely horse, aren’t you?” said the old woman.
“Yes,” said Giselle.
“He has stolen you too, no?”
“Yes, I hate him!” (For Giselle was a horse of spirit.)
“Hate? That is an ugly word. For myself, I dislike his actions.”
“Not me, I hate him. He is a horrible man and I wish he was dead!”
“Oh, my dear foolish young horse. Don’t you see that hating makes you hateful?”
“I don’t understand.”
“We become what we offer to others. If you offer love, you become loving and lovely too. If you offer peace, you become peaceful. But if you go out in hate, it scars your spirit and makes you hateful. Do you understand?”
The horse tossed her head and said nothing. The old woman just smiled. She could tell that the mare was thinking it over.
One day, Carlo came to the old woman’s trailer and opened the door. He beckoned to her and out she came.
“Now, you will be our fortune-teller?”
“Oh, I suppose that I could give it a try,” she said serenely.
“Good, good…you are pleasing Carlo today. We will go to the fair and you will tell fortunes. Please put this on.” and so saying, he handed her a dress. She lifted it up and clucked her disapproval. The dress was black with silvery stars, moons and planets on it.
“It’s rather gauche, isn’t it, my good Carlo?” she suggested.
“If by ‘gauche’ you mean convincing and realistic, you are quite correct!” he said grandly. (He was a showman after all.)
“If I must, I must,” she conceded.
“You must.”
“Then you must do something for me.”
“What?” he said guardedly.
“Let me have Giselle to ride to the fair.”
“Why not?”
She went back to her trailer and put on the foolish dress and then off they were to the fair.
Carlo had set up a large blue and red tent emblazoned with the words: “Madame Cleo, Fortune-Teller, Predictor, and Clairvoyant! Reasonable Rates and Satisfaction Guaranteed! She sees all and tells all!!!” She sighed, patted Giselle on the nose and thanked the young mare for carrying her.
The old woman’s first client was a beautiful girl named Carmena Conchita Alonzo Alveres who was all of 17 years old and already fixated on her future bliss. Specifically, she wanted to know when she would marry and to whom and how many children she would bear so that she could do what it took to be happy, happy, happy.
The quasi-fortuneteller took her fine white hands in her, looked deeply into her eyes and told her the following:
“You will be happy only when you stop looking to things outside of your soul to make you happy. Happiness is a spring that leaps up from within, it is not a river that flows to you from without…”
“What kind of a fortune is this,” cried the lovely Carmena, “I want to know if I’ll be married!”
“Do you want to be married?”
“Of course!”
“Why?”
“Because that is what makes a woman happy!”
“Is it?”
“Of course it is,” snapped the lovely Carmena.
“Was your mother happy?” asked the old woman.
“She has no complaints…” she said hesitantly.” Was her mother happy? Now that she thought about it, she wondered if she really was.
Carmena left the tent without paying and wandered off, lost in thought. Carlo noticed and his temper flared up.
“She didn’t pay! Why not?”
“I suppose it was because I didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear.”
“Tell the customers what they want to hear!” he counseled, “You’ll never see them again!”
“I’ll try,” said the old woman.
“You’d better!”
Her second client was the town baker, an ugly man named Georges Hubert La Croissette. Georges wanted to know if she could tell him if his mother, the late Katherine was in heaven with the angels or not.
“Was she a good woman?” asked the pseudo-fortuneteller.
“She was faithful to the Church,” asserted the baker.
“Was she loving?”
“She went regularly to all required religious meetings.”
“Was she kind?”
“She was always saying the appropriate prayers.”
“Did she love God?”
“She certainly feared Him.”
“Did she enjoy God?”
“What? Enjoy God? What kind of a question is that?”
“Would you want to go to Heaven if you didn’t enjoy God? Heaven is all about basking in the light and pleasure of God.”
(“What kind of a story is this anyway?” asked Hoss.
“Will you please hush, Hoss.” murmured Goldie.
“But there hasn’t been any action since the beginning. It’s all talk, talk, talk!”
“Let Death continue her story, Hoss. You can tell one of your stories when she’s done!”)
Death continued from where she was so rudely interrupted:
The baker stormed out of the fortune-telling tent leaving no fee behind. Carlo raged at the old woman: “I swear old woman, I believe that you are doing this on purpose. Two unhappy clients and no cash!”
“But I am no fortune-teller, my good Carlo, all I can do is tell the truth.”
“Anybody can tell the truth,” he cried, “it takes genius to tell convincing lies. You are simply not trying to lie.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
“If you don’t tell a good fortune for the next person who comes to your tent, I will take the horse away and sell her to the glue factory!”
“That would be foolish,” countered the old woman, “everybody knows that a horse like that could command ten pieces of gold. The factory will only pay you two.”
“I don’t care!”
“Oh, alright,” sighed the Old Woman, “I’ll try to do it your way!” Giselle gulped with relief, she didn’t know what a glue factory was but it didn’t sound very promising.
Madame Cleo’s third client was a middle aged woman named Alice. Alice was clearly no longer a spring chicken but she went to superhuman efforts to give the impression of youthfulness: her make-up was immaculate, her hair was just-so, and she dressed in the height of fashion (for a much younger woman). She came in clutching a jeweled purse and opened her heart to the old woman.
“Will I die alone?” she asked quietly.
The old woman knew that the approved answer to this question was a resounding “No! Love is just around the corner for you.” But instead, the following words came out of her mouth: “My dear, you aren’t alone; even now you are surrounded on every side by all the hosts of Heaven and God himself.”
“I’m not religious…” said Alice.
“That’s quite alright, neither is heaven’s bright host.”
“I just want an answer to my question: will I ever find true love?”
“Yes you will,” said the Old Woman.
“I will?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
The old woman hesitated and said, “I don’t know.”
“The sign says that you are a Predictor.”
“I know.”
“Can you see my future?”
“No, but I can see your present.”
“My present? What do you mean?”
“You are in your middle years, but you are clutching a youth which has already left you. You are filled with fear and yearning for something on which you can pin hope. I tell you, Alice, if you can let go of your fear, love will come to you.”
“That is the most interesting fortune I’ve ever heard.” said Alice thoughtfully. “I suppose it’s worth a piece of silver,” and she handed over the fee. “How do I let go of fear?”
(“This story is boring and pointless!” cried Hoss, “You can tell it was written by a mare. Where is the adventure, the pointless violence?”
“Hoss, you can tell your stallion’s tale when she’s finished,” said Goldie calmly.)
The old woman gave Alice a long look and said, “The first step is to admit you’re afraid. Healing comes when we admit we’re sick.”
Alice thanked the old woman and left with a thoughtful look on her lovely face. Carlo noticed the thoughtful look and stomped over to the tent. “You are killing me, old woman! People are supposed to smile when they leave you, happy to believe your lies!”
The old woman said nothing; she simply gave him the silver.
“She paid the fee?” asked the dumbfounded Carlo. “You lied to her?”
“She paid for the truth,” said the old woman.
“A highly novel way to do business…but I can’t argue with results!”
So all day long the old woman told the truth. Some stormed off without paying but many were content to ponder what the old woman said.
At night, the old woman and Giselle rode back to the encampment under the eagle eyes of Carlo.
“We will leave under cover of darkness,” whispered the old woman to her mount. Giselle said nothing but her heart was racing. Where would they go? Would Carlo not try to find them and punish them? She shivered as the words ‘glue factory’ played across her mind.
That night, the old woman, untied Giselle and they were off!
(“Pinch me!” said Hoss, “This almost sounds like action!”
“Be quiet, Hoss, or we won’t let you tell your story!”
“Sorry!”)
They rode throughout the night, finally stopping off at a small inn. The old woman stabled Giselle and collapsed on a feather bed.
Late the next morning, after a good meal, they made for the coast reasoning that Carlo would hardly pursue them overseas. Of course, this just indicated how little they understood the Chief of the Travelers. His rage burned hot and riding his own black stallion, he pursued them wherever their trail took them.
The problem with going on board ship was that the old woman had no more money. She refused to sell the mare to the many who offered but how were they to raise money?
Finally, she decided to offer her services to the inn-keeper as a fortune-teller. She saw the irony in her decision but argued with herself that the end justified the means. Her soul was appalled at this sort of rationalization, but it was overruled by her mind and the pleading eyes of the mare.
She sat at a table at the back of the inn with a colorful scarf around her head and a pot of tea in front of her. She wondered if she would get any business that day. If only she knew!
At that moment, in stormed Carlo breathing fire and demanding beer from the inn-keeper. The old woman hunched down behind her table and covered her face with the scarf.
Carlo drank deeply from several pitchers of foaming black ale and wiped his mouth with his greasy sleeve. In a state of advancing inebriation, he looked over at the fortune-teller’s table and his mind tried to churn out a cunning plan.
He lurched over to the fortune-teller and plunked himself down in front of her.
“I wanna fffortune,” he slurred.
The fortune-teller said nothing, just held out her hand. He dropped a silver coin into her hand, and belched.
“What do ye wish to know?” she asked in a querulous voice striving for an Irish accent.
“I’m lookin’ for an ol’ woman an’ a horshe. Dey gotta be shomewhere!”
“Drink this tea,” ordered the fortuneteller. Carlo drank it down and burned his tongue. The old woman pretended to read the tea leaves.
“Ah…I see it all now…you are a man of authority…”
“Dam’ shraight, I am…”
“You seek a harmless old woman and a horse named…something that starts with a G…”
“You’re amashzing!”
“The leaves say that they have already boarded ship for the islands of the Northern Sea.”
“I’ll geddem!” he bellowed and staggered out of the inn to find a ship captain who could take him there.
The old woman laughed and went out to find her horse. They lived happily ever after!