Shifters (40 page)
Authors: Edward Lee
And Lethe faced him.
“Voyager. You’ve worn your travail well—as well, and as faithfully, as de Rais wore his armor before they burned his saint.”
Locke’s voice ground like two sheets of sandpaper abrading. “Who are you? I mean
really…
who are you?”
really…
who are you?”
“I am the Alpha and the Omega,” Lethe quoted Christ. “The first and the last…the beginning and the end.”
The man’s hands splayed, a preacher at a lectern, a preceptor on a precipice gazing his wisdom down onto untold masses. His white suit radiated, fabric of sunlight, everything, the jacket, the slacks, the shirt and necktie, even the shoes. He stood as a man dressed in light.
“There are but two ways out of here, one way light, one dark,” Lethe said. Even his voice, too, shone like the face of the high sun. “In my time only a handful have dared to even challenge the course. But only one, Locke, has embarked so close to the exit, or…I should say, the
egress.”
egress.”
“Beginnings and endings,” Locke murmured to himself. “Ways in and ways out.”
“Yes…”
“All points forming a dotted line to verity—”
“A track of the spore of the soul…to truth!”
Locke stared, warm in the five-mile-high breeze. “But every truth is different, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. Keirkegaard said ‘I must find a truth that is true for me, an ideal for which I can live or die.’ Yes?”
“Yes,” Locke agreed.
“You’ve found that truth. And so have I. But the weak, Locke, what truth do they really have? I’ve offered them
everything—
over ages, and all that their truth turns out to be in the end is falsehood.”
everything—
over ages, and all that their truth turns out to be in the end is falsehood.”
—over ages,
the words rang in Locke’s head.
the words rang in Locke’s head.
“Yes, ages,
one century after the other until too many have accrued to count. In all my witness, poet, the true heart always fails.”
one century after the other until too many have accrued to count. In all my witness, poet, the true heart always fails.”
“Mine doesn’t,” Locke said, blurting it out.
Lethe’s sunlight eyes bore down on him. “I suspect you may be right. How can one tell the difference between the truth, and mere appearances?”
Locke remembered what Lethe had said yesterday.
I’ve always believed in the power of appearances.
Then he’d gone on to refer to a “top-notch” alarm system. After confronting the other occupants of the house, Locke saw that the man wasn’t kidding.
I’ve always believed in the power of appearances.
Then he’d gone on to refer to a “top-notch” alarm system. After confronting the other occupants of the house, Locke saw that the man wasn’t kidding.
“And let me quote another poet,” Lethe continued. “‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead, come back to tell you all…I will tell you all.’”
Eliot,
Locke recognized. “So tell me.”
Locke recognized. “So tell me.”
“I’ve become what I’ve made myself, based, logically, on the human precept. I am, as you’ve no doubt gathered, far more than human; the people of your age no longer have a word for what I’ve become. I was not born—I
fell.
We were the things that mothers warned their young of, the specters who would come at night and consume them. But, then, even I did not know how to perceive. Eons old, yes, but little more than a newborn once my feet were firmly settled on the crust of this place. I’d like to tell you that I was a king or general or leader of men, but that was not the case. Quite insipidly, I followed the cause—I formed myself into a warrior in a race of warriors, but otherwise unremarkable. But when the war was over, I stood as victor. I
learned,
you see? After three or four thousand years, it was easy. Do you understand?”
fell.
We were the things that mothers warned their young of, the specters who would come at night and consume them. But, then, even I did not know how to perceive. Eons old, yes, but little more than a newborn once my feet were firmly settled on the crust of this place. I’d like to tell you that I was a king or general or leader of men, but that was not the case. Quite insipidly, I followed the cause—I formed myself into a warrior in a race of warriors, but otherwise unremarkable. But when the war was over, I stood as victor. I
learned,
you see? After three or four thousand years, it was easy. Do you understand?”
“I’m not sure,” Locke admitted.
“I could smell it, Locke, I could taste it—the gullibility of man, the
fear.
So you know what I did?”
fear.
So you know what I did?”
“You
used
it,” Locke answered. “You took fear as your ally, your twin.”
used
it,” Locke answered. “You took fear as your ally, your twin.”
“My brother.”
Locke’s thought swept with lines from Baudelaire:
Boredom—he smokes his hookah while he dreams of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother. You know this dainty monster, too, it seems, gullible reader, my twin, my brother.
Boredom—he smokes his hookah while he dreams of gibbets, weeping tears he cannot smother. You know this dainty monster, too, it seems, gullible reader, my twin, my brother.
“Your fear gave me power, Locke, yet it was I who
manufactured
the fear of your kind.” Lethe paused, the light of his face growing to an intensity that nearly blinded.
manufactured
the fear of your kind.” Lethe paused, the light of his face growing to an intensity that nearly blinded.
“Like Shelley’s Doctor Frankenstein, most grow into becoming the makers destroyed by what they make. All too seldom, there come a precious few who are
empowered
by what they make. Like you. To face the real guts of your own truth, you created your own egression to lead to the domain of what I really am. Not a vampire—how trivial! It is but the facepaint and bulbed nose of a clown. It’s easier that way, Locke, and it’s quite stylish.”
empowered
by what they make. Like you. To face the real guts of your own truth, you created your own egression to lead to the domain of what I really am. Not a vampire—how trivial! It is but the facepaint and bulbed nose of a clown. It’s easier that way, Locke, and it’s quite stylish.”
“What are you really?”
“Anything and everything. The belief of your pitiful souls is my greatest fuel. And this cattle—” Lethe extended a hand to the suddenly appearing remains of Martin—complete with burned face and smoldered mohawk, and Anna cooked just the same like a barbecued goose in Chinatown. “This heap of the meat of idiots was born not by me but by their own weakness, their own trepidations—the same which induces toddlers to cry out when they spy the shirt-shapes in the closet, to piss their bunny-imprinted pajamas after a bad dream. Few face the challenge, Locke, so few have enough of the blood of their own real truth pushing through their veins to cast off their frailties and look into the workings of their hearts. Your plight is holding you by the hand, poet. By facing what you really believe in, you’ve never been more strong…nor more vulnerable. That useless cadaver Byers failed. But you? I think that remains to be seen.” Lethe grinned. “Only faith can save you now. Choose your tactics with great care.”
“But you’re a devil,” Locke ventured. “Why should I believe you?”
Lethe’s laugh rocked the sky. “A devil? My good Locke! The only one who hates me more than God is Lucifer. They’d both send assassins if they could! No, no. I’m as honest as you are. Good and evil are the same at their hearts—if you think about that, and I mean really
think…
you’ll agree. Whether you’re human, something less, or something more, whether you’re God or the Devil, it defies logic
not
to agree.”
think…
you’ll agree. Whether you’re human, something less, or something more, whether you’re God or the Devil, it defies logic
not
to agree.”
Maybe it did. Locke had to confess, the man had a point. “But the coffin, the cape I found in the basement?”
“Appearances,” Lethe replied. “Did Gregor
really
transform into an insect in Kafka’s masterpiece? Or was it merely the character’s fear that had created the appearance? And what
was
the character’s fear? The fear of inferiority, of rejection by an oppressive society, the fear of dying alone and unloved. It was that fear which constituted the change, or I should say the metamorphosis. Cause and effect, Locke. The story’s symbology rings quite true. We always get what we fear in the end.”
really
transform into an insect in Kafka’s masterpiece? Or was it merely the character’s fear that had created the appearance? And what
was
the character’s fear? The fear of inferiority, of rejection by an oppressive society, the fear of dying alone and unloved. It was that fear which constituted the change, or I should say the metamorphosis. Cause and effect, Locke. The story’s symbology rings quite true. We always get what we fear in the end.”
Locke looked down through gaps in the clouds. Come to think of it, he always
did
have a fear of heights. But this was just an illusion, wasn’t it?
An appearance,
he thought. Nevertheless, the appearance—of the earth five miles down—induced him to urinate in his pants. Locke didn’t see much point in asking if there was a men’s room nearby.
did
have a fear of heights. But this was just an illusion, wasn’t it?
An appearance,
he thought. Nevertheless, the appearance—of the earth five miles down—induced him to urinate in his pants. Locke didn’t see much point in asking if there was a men’s room nearby.
“And I’ll tell you something,” Lethe went on from his weightless stance, “something that I’ve never told anyone, not even your predecessors. There is only one thing that can destroy me. No, not tawdry wooden stakes, not holy water, nor the light of the sun.”
“What then?” Locke’s eyes held fast to the Sciftan’s face, uncomprehending.
“It’s your pure heart, Locke, which has led you to me. What else has it led you to? Good and evil, black and white. The only thing I want is what I now know I can
never
have. So I must destroy it.”
never
have. So I must destroy it.”
Locke remained staring, inhaling clouds.
“Yes, your pure heart,” Lethe’s voice seemed to corrode. “It’s raw meat in a shark tank. Will you bring me the shark?”
Locke’s stomach was beginning to twist into a knot of acid. He had a funny feeling something was about to happen.
“I—don’t understand,” he croaked.
“Then perhaps you will in your next journey.” Lethe’s hand bid the clouds, and the landscapes miles down. “If you happen upon something you want, all you need do is take it.”
“What?”
“A simple
yes
will suffice, or—better yet—a simple kiss.”
yes
will suffice, or—better yet—a simple kiss.”
Locke began to shiver. Beneath his feet he felt…nothing.
“You rejected my first proposition,” Lethe said. “Consider this a
second
proposition.”
second
proposition.”
Then Lethe snapped his fingers and—
—Locke fell.
He’d had dreams like this before, swooshing endless nightmares of being thrown from a plane; Locke
plummeted
now, just as he had in the dreams, a skydiver with no chute, his face gathering crystalline ice in the clutches of gravity. Here was Newton’s Law, all right, and Locke was the apple. In manic-swirling glimpses, the countryside below seemed to race toward him; the longer Locke fell, the faster his impact approached, and as his mind and body spun flywheel-like, he retrieved one consolation. In the nightmares, he always awoke at the instant before he would hit the ground.
plummeted
now, just as he had in the dreams, a skydiver with no chute, his face gathering crystalline ice in the clutches of gravity. Here was Newton’s Law, all right, and Locke was the apple. In manic-swirling glimpses, the countryside below seemed to race toward him; the longer Locke fell, the faster his impact approached, and as his mind and body spun flywheel-like, he retrieved one consolation. In the nightmares, he always awoke at the instant before he would hit the ground.
SPLAT!
Locke hit the ground at a velocity of hundreds of feet per second.
(iii)
“You’re late.”
He stood dumbfounded in his apartment doorway. Er, it
looked
like his apartment but—
looked
like his apartment but—
Fresh white paint, bright floral-print wallpaper, new furniture, new curtains, new carpet. Sunlight blazed through the open window overlooking 45th Street. Light strains of a Beethoven string quartet whispered from an Adcom stereo that Locke did not own, while a 35-inch Trinitron that Locke did not own showed a pretty anchorwoman mouthing something from North West Cable News with the sound down.
Locke tremored, mortified, his heart still thumping from the freefall to his “death.” A dual sentience seemed to struggle in his head, one part still in turmoil of Lethe’s phantasmagoric mansion and the plummet through the sky, while the other part conducted itself in a way Locke could not comprehend.
“Half of my 3:45 class stayed late,” Locke said without having any idea what he was saying. Inexplicably, he carried an open tote bag full of books:
The Norton Anthology of American Poetry, Fine Frenzy—Studies in Poetical Survey,
and Faulkner’s
The Sound and the Fury.
“Can you believe it?” Locke called out to the unseen voice. “When class ended we were in the middle of a debate about William Carlos Williams’ ‘Asphodel, That Greeny Flower’ and its importance to the imagist movement, so half of my students didn’t want to leave. It was wonderful: college kids actually arguing over poetry.”
What the hell did I just say?
Locke thought. From the tote, he withdrew a course syllabus, which read T & TH, 3:45 P.M.—5:15 P.M., ENG 412: THE AMERICAN IMAGISTS. INSTRUCTOR: RESIDENT POET RICHARD LOCKE.
The Norton Anthology of American Poetry, Fine Frenzy—Studies in Poetical Survey,
and Faulkner’s
The Sound and the Fury.
“Can you believe it?” Locke called out to the unseen voice. “When class ended we were in the middle of a debate about William Carlos Williams’ ‘Asphodel, That Greeny Flower’ and its importance to the imagist movement, so half of my students didn’t want to leave. It was wonderful: college kids actually arguing over poetry.”
What the hell did I just say?
Locke thought. From the tote, he withdrew a course syllabus, which read T & TH, 3:45 P.M.—5:15 P.M., ENG 412: THE AMERICAN IMAGISTS. INSTRUCTOR: RESIDENT POET RICHARD LOCKE.
“Holy shit,” Locke whispered. “I’m a teacher…”
He smelled the most luscious aroma, just like the Pad Thai rice noodles that—
Wait a minute…
The top shelf of a fine walnut bookcase that Locke did not own seemed to be full of books that Locke did not write.
The Preceptor & Other Collected Poems, The Exit Volumes (I-III), Terra Metamorphoser
and a number of others, all written by the same author: Richard Locke.
The Preceptor & Other Collected Poems, The Exit Volumes (I-III), Terra Metamorphoser
and a number of others, all written by the same author: Richard Locke.
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