“Prisoner of war! That is the least unfortunate kind of prisoner to be, but it is nevertheless a melancholy state. You are in the power of your enemy. You owe your life to his humanity, and your daily bread to his compassion. You must obey his orders, go where he tells you, stay where you are bid, await his pleasure, possess your soul in patience. Meanwhile the war is going on….” Winston Churchill…My Early Life: A Roving Commission…Standard Year 1930
Epilogue Part II: The Captive
So it was that after an elapsed period of over four thousand years an undeclared war ended as it began; in silence and unknown. None had marked its actual beginning let alone its end and only one of its mortal combatants, the unheralded, though singular personage known as Christopher H. Markison, had returned home; finally making port at journey’s end. His departure had gone as unnoticed as had his arrival; no marches or parades had seen him off nor hailed his auspicious return. Moreover, the considerable forces he had marshaled over time had, after victory, quickly broken camp leaving him on the parade ground standing at attention naked and alone: wondering.
It was when he eyed The Sachem of The Northern Tribes that it occurred: that a rapid succession of waking dreams passed before his eyes in curiosity. The occurrence left him questioning as to why none lingered long enough to make an impression; for each presumed fantasy which passed before his mind’s eye, in some manner of fashion, appeared in their familiarity to him, personal in nature. Despite his better judgment he immediately dismissed them; instead reaching out for help to the steady hand first presented him and immediately found that upon a touch, on many levels, he was incapable of movement; the very thought of which to him at that moment brought immediate revulsion and absolute disgust.
To The Sachem of The Northern Tribes the adverse reaction signified at least a partial success of the ampulla’s potion. She pondered the obvious task which lay before her: how does one explain to another, first, of their child’s ability to move through time and space, let alone dimension, at will? Of course to him, it was a comparatively simple procedure. She remembered his initial enlightenment to her while on their journey to Heaven’s Door of “Well, at first thought, I fold time in upon itself as one would a page in a book: forwards or back; as for difficulty in achieving either, there is little difference in the effort. You may consider the fold in time as the crease which cuts through or across the time-line itself and through which I move: in essence, a short-cut to jump instantaneously from place to place.” Do to the circ-umstances she suppressed her skepticism, kept it in check, until he continued, revealing quite matter-of-factly “Of course, as for any dimensional barrier…when crossed you will discern a rippling effect which for all intent and purpose acknowledges a transition.” She remembered his joy, not at the revelation, but of her astonished reaction. He had continued his gleeful nudging of her sensibilities with “Aeron, all dimensions are links to times and places; they exist simultaneously; some are layered, one upon the other; however the vast majority are conjoined. Sister, you would do well to remember, once visited we are their keeper.” At the time she dismissed his thought as fabrication preferring instead to contemplate the obvious which he responded to by telling her “Yes Aeron, I know what you’re thinking, you’re thinking “What if you ever make a mistake or the place you wind up at isn’t exactly where you wanted to go? What happens then? Aeron, you already know the answer: as I, without the proper resonating frequencies, even with help, you get lost; sometimes it could be forever.”
But that was then and this was now and that would be the easy part of what she would convey. She ceased her reminiscences and observed her charge as he moved to take his sisters hand to take his leave of her. It was when he turned away that she recounted his last remarkably cogent thoughts to her; those prior to the ampulla’s taking its full effects upon him. It was a decidedly one sided and unexpected purging to her of the secrets he had heretofore held for years within the impenetrable fortress walls of his mind: and as preparation to her most recent occurrence, the enmass purging of his mind’s informational terabytes were but a gentle precursor of what would follow. It was when the download completed that the Seer understood: His were the words “For if you would fail, not only he, but all others will be lost to us all forever" that were spoken by others. They served as a reminder of what lay at her wards core: protect His heartfelt desire. It was then she surmised that the two were, for some time, in league and the thought, while surprising, also caused her to consider: why? But that was then and now she found her attentiveness to Christopher H. Markison growing; but sadly all she could do was watch him turn away understanding that the boy agonized as to the sudden changes within him.
Following his sister’s lead, Aeron noticed his steps had shortened to the fettered shuffles of the suddenly vanquished and his once proud shoulders now sagged and slumped forward as would one who plodded a path to nowhere while quavering in defeat. It was the askance glance that he took back at her which caused her to tremble as the tears of recognition of what he had become, formed then fell at will. The forced smile she glimpsed was short lived as his trembling lips mimed to her…“Hail Victory.” In silence and so resigned, she watched him as he was led away. Again, in those few moments before he escaped her view she remembered his brief recount of understanding…of what and why.
She remembered that he began quite personably with “Aeron, again I would remind you…there are others who exist, much like me.” She recalled he had immediately corrected himself with “No, forgive me, I misspoke. It is because I am that they are.” She recalled he immediately felt her quandary and growing uneasiness at his insinuation and straightway moved to explain, as a parent to child, instructing gently while speaking “Shush, no, no questions now, I sense your growing apprehension, the insinuation it is not what you envision: between us all will be well, merely listen. It will take time for you to assimilate what you have now experienced but be warned, shortly there is much, much more to come upon you. Prepare yourself.
“Be that as it may, Sachem, you do remember the bards words that “All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players: They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts.”* Yes, my apologies, of course you do, well, Seer, Heaven is no less the theater. There, each plays our part as have you. In so doing, He no less would suffer me or you than another and by now you should know; where he rolls the di is not often seen. It is that which has together brought us here.
“I would tell you, as for myself, despite appearance, my repeated refusals before Him and others prior to rebirth to enter the forgetful mist were in part but a ruse, one that for over three and one-half millennia has served us both: a détente, one which from the beginning He understands; from which I am now, because of you, in many ways, without fear and free.”
She remembered that of the dozens of questions she could have asked only two partially formed in her mind and before she fully contemplated either he responded to her with “You inquire first “What.” Or more precisely “What on earth are you speaking of?” Well that is the problem now isn’t it; however first I will address your second query of “Then if not for yourself why did I really do that; not enter the mist?”
The giddy laugh which preceded his assertion of “Actually, at this moment, aside from the personal reasons of which you area aware, there are two hundred and fifty six specific reasons why I refused” which further piqued her rising curiosity. “However,” he continued, “for you, I shall again first deal with the mundane. Again, that I can travel in time is really of little consequence. From experience, in that, I am not unique: and of course it is done by others with whom you are familiar. But I reiterate, it is a simple process when one accepts time as a continuous string which is malleable; possessing the elasticity of motion which allows one to fold both time and space either forward or back upon itself: Aeron, the ability to move is predicated upon one’s sense of reality. In time, you too will find yourself able to move as I have and dare I add, now, given the links provided, with a greater dimension of success.” She remembered he laughed again only this time with a greater sense of joy; upon which he suddenly and quite casually dismissed some thought with “forgive me, the witticism was unintended.” Moments later she would understand.
How does one express the emotion which follows the experience of complete understanding? Consider, The Sachem of The Northern Tribes, one, who once held in her hands a very special bracelet: comprised of two hundred and fifty-six sequential links; each scrupulously annotated in minute detail by an artisan of heretofore unsurpassed skill. One who, with proper direction, intentionally provided upon each link not only what was necessary to track and find Him but more. Of course, it suddenly dawned on The Sachem of The Northern Tribes, that if one merely sought the necessary, the obvious, never thinking to delve further; well, that in itself would be but a beginning. Such was the occurrence experienced by Aeron D. when told “find the Artisan.” To her credit, eventually, she did.
Consider her amazement in understanding its true meaning. That, each successive link in the charm not only represented, as told, a remembered life once held dear, that in itself was simple, reasonably understandable: it was the alternative to her which suddenly, on many levels, became less palpable; encompassing another truth, that of reality.
She remembered how gentle his voice when he spoke “Aeron? Until this moment, to you reality has merely been what is real: nothing more, nothing less. Scholar, here my gift to you is understanding: that from this moment forward, to you, reality is everything that is, has been or will be, whether or not it is observable or comprehensible and everything that existed, exists or will exist.** Sachem, the links in the charm you so carefully held are the enumerated gateways which will take you to other places, other times: dare I add, perhaps even to other worlds in alternative dimensions analogous to our own. The proof of such may be found upon the bracelets links as the artisan’s initials are a compilation of my computer's generated QR codes; my evidence to their existence.
“Seer, for some reason, once visited in turn, certain gateways to elsewhere appear to avail themselves; so entering which, you, in reality, become the arbiter: there, reality becomes; at your whim to exist, to disappear or simply hold in time until you deem it is prudent for release; its fate and all which comprise it are yours. Aeron, in part, that is the lesser secret I keep; all remain, but where I to enter the mist all which I believe to be real would be lost.
“Sachem, here the greater portion, the secret, of what I hold dear is…only He and I are truly aware that they exist because in dimension they are timeless. Aeron, the links are the gateways traveled to the “Mansions” of which He spoke and each portal is unique unto itself: each is an alternative manifestation of His Will; a reality unto itself. Now do you understand why I can never enter the mist?”
She remembered waiting a respectable period of time, perhaps days or maybe it was weeks before she could formulate a reply; and when she did she cried while speaking “Yes, you, through another’s urging, were to be the instrument of His destruction: for while a mortal may never kill a god under certain circ-umstances a half god could. Time, found itself as the ubiquitous companion to you both; but also the enemy within Heaven’s Gates: for that reason it constantly and so cruely pressed for your entry into the mist. In so doing it would not only eliminate you but also eradicate in part the realities which sustain Him; so weakened He and Heaven would fall.” She remembered his subsequent silence and if not for her prodding question of “How did you know?” he would have remained so for the duration of their journey back home. His subsequent explanation of “Taken by Odysseus’ hand in the dead of night I trod behind the shield he carried; one which from behind reflects the enemy that would come upon its true holder and glimpsed those that in time would harm me; I remember all of them.
“Aeron, until such time, you are the guardian of my experiences I am in your hands.”
It was to that final thought that The Sachem of The Northern Tribes stood mute, silently watching, as Christopher torpidly allowed himself to taken by the hand and be led away while thinking to himself “I don’t feel right. Things” he thought “seem different.” He had no way of knowing his sister was of the same opinion.
Moments later, hand in hand, she had led him past both Brisa and Melina, back down the hallway towards her room: hearing what she presumed to be the anxious whispers shared between those they had left. In a manner of fashion, mistakenly, she was correct as those who had greeted The Sachem of Northern Tribes had lingered and sought without success to bid Christina adieu. It was but a precursor of what would follow; none of which to her would be pleasant as her immediate isolation from who she had “intimate knowledge” left her uncharacteristically nervous and frantically thinking “What’s happened to my Chris and me? Our voices?”
It was unsettling to her that he offhandedly did not respond to any of the other silent thoughts which she unsuccessfully posed to him of “Are you alright? You’ve changed.” Her noiseless shout to him of “Answer me damn it!” went unheeded; as did her apologetic “I’m sorry for yelling but you’re scaring me… Do you still feel sick? Won’t you please, answer me? You know… I don’t feel the same inside either, Chris…I don’t know how or why but you’ve left me and I’m so lonely without you. Where did you go?” Lost, he never answered: and if he could have he would neither know what to say or do. For her the assimilation process would be gentler; and far less encompassing than that which currently had, for the moment, consumed her brother. And as they walked the feeling she sensed which now crept through her mind was tantamount to her of being swallowed alive by an all-encompassing nothing; a void of hollow desolation. The thought, though restrained, was apropos; correctly reflecting the thoughts of her now secluded brother.
She motioned her immediate intent and obediently he entered her room first; she followed, closing the door behind them. Their short walk, consisting of seconds, had ended without a spoken word between the two; and now, Christopher H. Markison stood alone having stopped before his sister’s nightstand; and thought to shake the fuzzy headed disorientation he felt out of his aching head while staring into the large vanity mirror which hung above it in total surprise. He looked first at the hair to his shoulders; but then caught the faintest of glimmers which flashed momentarily in his eyes; somehow understanding that his once bright green eyes now held a deeper secret.
Given that, he peered questionably at the overall reflection he faced; it did little to comfort him and what should have elated, if not thrilled him, instead left him wondering about what had happened and why, as subconsciously, he knew, despite what he saw, something else essentially more important about him, was missing. Moreover, he thought himself now strangely at odds with the individual he stared at: as the more he eyed his reflection in the mirror the less he understood of himself; and even less of the many faces he thought which, atop his shoulders, repeatedly took their turns staring back at him. Of course each face which in turn supplanted the other emulated to a gradation either the previous or its successor: with the all-encompassing characteristic being that all were green eyed youths who by appearance had never matured.
He had no way understanding that each supposed hallucinatory face which met his gaze was recalled out of time and was a lasting vestige of the many he had countlessly been. Instead, to him, only the evident mattered as he thought “Somehow” he paused only to confirm his supposition “I know it’s me but it isn’t. Look at me…every time I see a face and think it’s me it changes before I can get a better look at it and…and…”
That’s when the hackles which suddenly raised on his neck and arms left him suddenly aware that he had had, or thought he had at one time endured similar occurrences, where his efforts to view someone or something of importance had always presented itself only to elude him; but, for some reason, now, he was unable to recall who it was or even the matter of its significance. Moreover, his immediate attempt to discard the recurring thought not only proved fruitless but likewise heightened his misgiving that for some reason a certain facsimile was to him, in part, at the core of his dilemma. He racked his mind trying to think of what it could be but instead of the solution he sought, he succeeded only in raising more unanswerable questions which too presented themselves as enigmas; not the least of which was now manifest to him that “My eyes…my eyes used to be really green, but now I think they’re creepy.”
He could and would have dwelled on that alone for hours if not for the dull pain which, if as on command, suddenly exploded in his head. Rubber legged and wobbly he wilted into the vanity chair and waited vacantly for whatever else which was to occur; never realizing that under other circ-umstances for him he would have done no such thing. The only thing evident to him was the sudden realization that thinking of anything which pertained to his appearance made his head hurt and so he did what would be expected of one who labored under such limitations: reaching a failsafe point he stopped thinking about it.
It was then that Christine A. Markison watched her brother begin to gently rock to and fro. She thought to caress his face and began to reach out to him; and for a moment it appeared to her that he at last heard her as she watched him turn and lean expectantly towards her. However, instead of the eager smile she expected to meet her touch, he grimaced while doubling over at the waist. Helpless, she could only stand and watch him bury his head between his knees and cry: understanding that she too now stood alone and lost; unable to console who was on many an occasion not only her alter-ego but also her unspoken confidant, who at this time was still in need, especially of clothes. It was to that end that the selections she chose agreed with Aeron’s wishes and to Christine’s surprise were donned without protest. Given the circ-umstances, for him, resistance was futile.
*William Shakespeare, “As You Like It”
**Paraphrase from Wikipedia
Betty Pearl's Sissy Stories 20.1
Topic: Promises, Obligations and Consequences (Read 132067 times)
