Happenings A compendium of published short stories |
Modal Sojourn |
I became conscious within a ricochet, startled into a surreal awakening as two dissimilar thoughts competed for my attention. One manifested as a bell, clanging metallic words in an unfamiliar language. The other was a brilliant, white cord, strung to an invisible arc which twanged equally enigmatic earth tones. The argument resolved around me, its proponents unaware that I strove to understand, unconcerned that I was disturbed, yet they were determined to reach a conclusion of vague proportions and importance. Clarity was brief and strange, for my own thinking process was jump-started by accident. "Temporal disease requires a temporal cure," chimed the bell. "Continuum surgery involves immense effort," answered the cord. "We need only establish the necessary dates," responded the bell. "Five hundred years, plus and minus," replied the cord. "If our contacts respond, we will succeed," theorized the bell. "Let us begin with cadence chemicals," said the cord. Those were the last legible English words I perceived as green and golden characters floating in the void of my thoughts, for they shriveled and dissipated quickly. I resuscitated more fully in a padded enclosure. The walls were elastic and the air breathed thickly and malleble in my lungs. Sight, hearing and smell did not coalesce in my brain, but I could taste acerbity in the small, round pellet and feel its smooth, pill shape through my fingertips before swallowing it. It was medicinal, making me conjure a hospital reminiscence, though I had no inkling of who I was, where or why. That I was different was obvious, but memory was absent. I assumed amnesia, though proving that was futile in the wake of my jumbled senses. Undoubtedly the room's monitors, whoever they were, sought to elicit a change in my condtion by administering the encapsulated drug. There was no accompaniment of liquid to facilitate the pastille down my throat. If they sought an effect, they succeeded, though it is unlikely they anticipated my reactions fully. Maybe it was experimental and revolutionary. I recalled the golden words and thought of myself as a test subject. If they wore a caduceus on their unseen sleeves or a swastika, my sense of their icon was incoherent, especially after the lozenge disseminated and commenced its work. An unknown assemblage filled the room, that much I could feel. Their colors tended to blend in knots of singular, four-dimensional canvasses rather than by mingling with each other. It was their speech I was seeing and by the shadings and tones I could distinguish their individual selves, however cloud-like and amorphous they appeared. I feared the crowding initially, but nothing came of it. No flesh tones were represented, nor were recognizable images apparent, rather the emoting of conscious beings, phasing in and out of each other's unique spatial dimension. Their thoughts floated and rambled in vibrant patterns, sometimes predictably and often surprisingly to my aroused intelect. What were they? Their auras were universally beautiful, like nimbuses of nacre floating outside the shell. Was I like them? Shoud I be? Did I want to be? As the drug delved deeper, my senses expanded to include audibles. Intangible recollections flooded my convoluted thinking, forcing me to review pictures and echoes from a distant, uncoordinated reality. I could hear inflections and make out contrasts. My brain began to distinguish aural sensations within spoken hues. A visage of light aqua, streaked selicately with tendrils of bright greens and yellows, drew my attention. It was not music per se, though it infused me with watery melody, played upon an icicyle flute. If it was a song, it was new to my experience and extremely pleasant. It seemed to be attempting communication, easing my concerns, placating and erasing my phobias and offering some unusual kind of assistance. I must have given a rudimentary reponse to the theme, for it ceased and left me in temporary silence. Too, the assorted knots of color added a common, blue tint in commiseration. They seemed to confer amongst their ripples of luminance. "Worm hole cancer!" commented the aqua presence. "Warp irradiation will only prolong his agony, not remove it. We need a plague specialist." From that moment, the presences shared an opaque, azure band of suffused illumination across their many shapes as though they had learned to do so from me. Once again, melody filtered through the room, directed at myself. It was both like and unlike the previous song. There were many kinds of flutes, bass and soprano, balsa and oak, cylindrical and bulbous. Some were keyed with rose and lapis quartz, others open-holed and rimmed with gold. More than one presence reproduced the tune exactly, but others interjected interpretations. One entity took control of them, indicating its superiority with an intense influx of vermilions and veridians. There was an hiatus in which this being conducted his deep vibrations into others until they more or less converged. The melody was repeated many times until the variations disappeared and the songs became a unison, sonorous plea. I was mesmerized by its unfamiliar, tempting mode. It was spherical and filled with gaseous brilliance. "Take shape," said the bell suddenly. "Commence," ordered the cord, still strumming. The strong entity appeared to me visually for the first time. The face was that of an old man, resembling Grieg or Einstein. It was neither, for its lips moved and spoke incredible colors. "I am Michel, known to you as Nostradamus," he painted slowly. "I doctor the centuries and your wounds are mine." Timbre and intonation were accosted by this entity, claiming to be the great prophet of 16th century France. One by one, this being joined the others, influencing each to match its exact flavor and hue. I could taste the song and savored the slight differences between the choir members. Soon, the discrepencies became indiscernible and I felt myself rise as if called. My body remained static below its soaring focus. Perhaps I was being asked to sing, to duplicate them incorporeally. If so, my initial attempt shattered their carefully constructed flute bubble, saddening me. My song was brass and brash, orange and torrid. It wove between them like a cutting sword, cleaving to none. I snapped myself back into my former state, preferring my internal disharmony to causing their disruption and cacophony. It served to convince me that I was truly separate. "He requires a power source," clanged the bell. "Call the necromancers." They were persistent, I'll give them that. No sooner had I lapsed into myself than they tried another, similar tactic. Again they appeared to have learned something useful from my distinctness, for the mode of the song altered to accomodate my own. Carmines and beiges supplemented the aquamarines, fusing themselves in a never-before-encountered iris. Patterns expanded to include a semblance of what they must have viewed as my form. The wooden shapes became petrified with crystalline particles. Their sparkling facets showered me with glints and shimmers. I became cognizant of the fact that they were trying to reach out for me or get me to join them. It was less mystical and more real, though my consciousness continued to refuse me a known path or doorway. Resolutely, they refraied from abandoning me in my helplessness. "He languishes peacefully in our coil," said one necromancer. The name 'Faraday' emblazoned his iridescent colors in obsidian fire. "Inject the prophet's remedy when he attains 1545," instructed a second unlabeled wizard. The name 'Tesla' came to me unbidden. Nostradamus flashed sequences of polarized fringe colors, reshaping the mode into a melody closer to mine. This time the others blended into the theme instantly, encouraged by progress. Again, the light aqua being manifested before me with delicacy and grace. I'm certain it was a she. Her essence was female and mothering, not cloying or demanding in any way. I felt caressed and recalled, like a partner summoned, a lover beckoned. Memories of pleasure seeped into my psyche. Slowly, my song was resurrected from within, but with less harsh an intrusive descant. Now my tune struck a resonant chord, paralleling theirs with impunity. Suddenly and naturally, our former disparities began to congeal. We were less apart, though still unmated. "Marie is my name," chimed a whorl of blue, answering my curiosity. "A physicist. Curie. Many are summoned in the vortex to assist you." The plasticity of the walls silvered, reflecting the mirrored colors of this latest mode. I struggled unsuccessfully to speak, to thank my new friends. I saw sounds with greater congruity and heard tints with more refined accuracy. Perhaps this progression, arrayed kaleidoscopically around my searching mind, was part of what was being offered, a method of fusion. My ability to reproduce specific hues improved. I could feel that and with it a sense of freedom and comfort. Matching them became desirable and possible. I was able to change my song. No longer crude, the tune acquired lilt and contour as it expressed itself, reaching and overcoming theirs. It was a counter melody, but it did not stray or confuse the effect of thematic content, not like the first time. When this occurred, I noticed beaming acquiescence among the multicolored monitors, indicated by luminous, pastel coronas of yellow and white. The drug was working well. Clearly, I could equal and surpass the mastery of such beings, if indeed they were truly the ones they claimed to be. "Change the timeline," ordered the bell. "No further than 2525 to heal." I cannot quantify the time spent coursing through the duet, only the result. My tune continued to elongate and elevate in majesty until I perceived its strength and singularity amidst the chorus. It was they who learned my mode, not the other way around. Every nuance was supported with appropriate clusters of tone, perfectly balanced with myself as violet soloist. The harmonies were delicious. The audience was appreciative according to the room reflections. Thrilled and captivated by the achievement, I ended by giving praise in tuneful tribute, sinking slowly back into my waiting cocoon of flesh, no longer pathless and unproven. I wondered whether or not I was clever enough to repay my illustrious helpers. Marie returned in radiant yellow, reclining next to my pulse. I could not hear her words, but I saw the meaning of her incandescence. Tomorrow they would try again, now that I could sing. Tomorrow, Nostradamus would increase the tempo and raise me up to a higher plane of synchronization. She would be there to teach me a useful rhythm, a supreme syncopation of sympatheticresonance. She promised symphony and immortality and I found myself wanting it. Oh, to be part of such an event and still remain me. The wizards adjusted their coils and lulled me from awareness to dreams, never permitting my mind to slip into unconsciousness. I never observed their dispersal, merely the absence of color voiding ebony around my fantasies like a border. It was the last I sensed of them, for they have not returned. Tomorrow eludes the present. I continue to dream of melody, laboring to stay within the confines of the mode. Occasionally, I add tentative harmonics to test the liquidity of the tune. Can it survive alone or does it require decorative help? Often I am tempted to create rhythmic changes, like those she suggested. Perhaps they are what is needed for me to emerge from myself again. If only I could hear her exquisite colors once more or see her lullaby, then could I truly be myself, if only for a brevity. It would be worth it, to be concise and glorious. But I am alone with my thoughts. Perhaps they came to instill the way so that I could forage through light and time without a crutch. Or maybe I'm dead, faced with a choice or taunted by one which is unattainable. No doubt I need her symbiotically more than they surmised. Still, her ambiance inspires me to keep singing. I intend to emerge if it is at all achievable, though I be confined to this impermeable blackness forever. It is the doing that matters, not the trying. That must be the gift from the prophet and I give it credence. Someday, with luck and perseverence, I will penetrate this shell and find her. My surgery mends as I approach the future. Prior such travels and experiences slowly intrude and I think I recall something of myself. I am a time technician, one who inadvertently fell into the caption field. When I come forth, Marie and I will forge a song of magnificence together. I do so prefer the duet. W.A.Rieser |
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