Traveller's Tale

[taykair]

Traveller's Tale
by
Michael L. Dalton
(Taykair)

- - -

Disclaimer

The following is a work of fiction.
Any resemblance to persons, living or dead
(or anywhere in between),
is purely coincidental.

- - -

Part One

Changes

"All appears to change when we change."
- Henri-Frederic Amiel

- - -

Chapter One
There Was A Little Boy (1964)
​

I spent the first six years of my life in a little house on Main Street. I was little. The house was little. The town was little. It was a happy little town. A happy little home. And I was a happy little boy.

Things change.

Some changes are slow. Gradual. You wake up one day and realize that things have changed, but you're not sure when - or how - it all happened. Other changes happen suddenly. They leave you bewildered. Lost. Trying in vain not only to grasp what has happened, but also futilely trying to undo the change, or pretending the whole thing never took place.

The following is the story of a sudden change:

When I was five years old, my best friend was the boy who lived in the little house next to ours. His name was Bobby. Although he was a little boy, too, I didn't see him that way. To me, Bobby was practically a grownup.

He was seven.

I followed him around as if he was the Messiah and I was a disciple. I was astounded that a grownup like Bobby would even bother to hang around a little kid like me.

But hang around he did. We'd spend hours playing together. We'd play construction workers with our little toy trucks and our little plastic shovels and buckets which we kept from the time our families went to the beach together that summer. We'd play until my Gramma said, "Boys, ya'll stop diggin' up my yard."

Then we'd go to Bobby's yard and dig until Bobby's Ma told us the same thing.

We'd play Soldiers, and Cowboys and Indians, and sometimes Bobby would try to teach me how to play checkers, but I didn't really understand the rules of the game, and I'd get mad and quit, but Bobby never got mad at me.

"You'll learn to play when you get older," he told me. "I'll teach you."

The best game, though, the best game of all, was when we'd get The Box.

Across the street from our little houses, and about half a block down the street, there was a furniture store. Every so often, Bobby and his Dad would walk over there and come back with one of those great big boxes which once held an oven or a refrigerator or some other big thing. Bobby and I would play inside the box for hours at a time, pretending we were in a submarine, or a castle, or a spaceship. We'd play in the box until we tore it up, or until the rain made it too soggy to play in, or until Bobby's Ma would tell his Dad, "David, get that nasty old box out of my yard." So Bobby's Dad would put the torn up bits of cardboard in the bed of his pickup and take them to the dump.

A couple of weeks later, though, Bobby's Dad would bring us another box, and Bobby and I would once again be sailing underneath the ocean or flying to the moon.

One day, after I was getting mad again because I couldn't play checkers, I said, "Bobby, when's your Dad gonna get another box?"

"I dunno," he said. "I'll ask him when he gets home tonight."

"Why don't you and me go get a box?" I asked. "I bet we both could carry it back."

Thus do changes begin.

We walked down the sidewalk until we were across the street from the store. I started to go, but Bobby said, "Wait. You gotta look both ways first. You wanna get run'd over?" He took my hand, and I looked up at him as he stood there, looking up the street and down, making sure it was safe.

'He's such a grownup,' I thought. 'He's so smart. I probably would get run'd over if it wasn't for him."

We walked quickly across the street, and went around to the back end of the store, to the place where Boxes were kept.

"There's a big one," I pointed. "Do you think we can carry it back?"

"Sure," he said. "Let's get it!" He pushed the box over and lifted one side, "Grab the other end."

A voice called out from the back door of the store, "What are you boys doing there?" It was old Mr. Ferguson who ran the store. I almost peed in my pants.

"Just getting a box, Mr. Ferguson," said Bobby. "Like me and my Dad do."

"Where's your daddy, Bobby?" Mr. Ferguson asked.

"He's at work right now."

"Well, alright then. But you boys take care now."

"Yes, sir. We'll be careful. Thank you."

Wow. What a grownup Bobby was! He wasn't scared at all. He could talk to grownups without peeing his pants.

We slowly moved back around, to the front of the store, carrying away our prize. I dropped my end once, but quickly picked it up again. We stood there, on the other side of the road from Bobby's house, with our treasure between us.

"Okay," he said. There ain't no cars. Grab your end and let's go. And be careful."

I lifted my end up and we started across the street.

That's really all I remember about it. I heard a loud noise. I heard a woman screaming. Then things got all fuzzy and went black.

When I woke up, I was lying on the sidewalk. My head hurt. I saw Bobby's Ma holding Bobby in her arms. His eyes were closed, and he wasn't moving. Bobby's Ma was crying, and saying his name over and over. My Gramma was running toward us.

"Lord, have mercy!" she was screaming. "Oh dear Lord, have mercy!"

When I asked Gramma later about what had happened to Bobby, she told me that Bobby had gone to be with the Lord. I asked her if I could go and be with the Lord too, so I could play with Bobby, but Gramma said no. She said that I would see Bobby again one day, but not for a long time.

That's when I started to cry. It just wasn't fair. Bobby said that he was going to teach me how to play checkers.

So much for sudden change.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Two
Gramma's Angel (1975)
​

I had learned to play checkers long before I had turned sixteen, but I rarely played. Not checkers. Not anything. At the time, I didn't believe in playing games. There was work to be done. God's work. And I had no time for games.

By the time I was sixteen, I had completely forgotten about Bobby and what had happened. At least, that's how it seems to me now. It wasn't that I purposely tried to forget. In fact, I can now remember how sad I had been for the longest time. Time, though, took the thought of Bobby and the accident away. Gradually.

Telling the story of a gradual change is a lot more difficult than telling the story of a sudden one. I can't pinpoint the exact moment, or even the year, that I stopped thinking about Bobby. If I had been older - as old as Bobby's mom and dad perhaps - then I probably would never have forgotten. I'm sure they never did.

But I was still a kid, and other things pushed Bobby out of my mind. We moved from Main Street to a bigger house just outside of town. I started school and met and made new friends. Children are resilient - much tougher than they are given credit for. One day, they can experience a pain which they think will always hurt; the next day they are laughing and playing. All pain forgotten. And so I forgot. Gradually.

I don't remember laughing very much, though. And, as I've said, by the time I was sixteen, I wasn't playing. I was serious.

I had been baptized in the local Baptist church at the age of twelve. I had read the Bible from start to finish about a year before that. By the time I was sixteen, I had read it several times, and was teaching Sunday School. Not teaching other children, oh no. I taught the Senior Adult class. There I was, a kid teaching men - most of whom were deacons or former deacons, and some who had been in the church since my Gramma was a little girl.

And a little child shall lead them.

Lead them I did. And they followed. After class, they'd shake my hand and say things like, "Young man, I've been in the church thirty (forty, fifty) years, but I've never heard teaching like that."

"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.

I remember (how I wish I could forget) the first sermon I delivered.

It wasn't supposed to be a sermon. Our church had a tradition called "Baptist Men's Day" wherein - instead of a sermon from the pastor - two or three laymen would offer their testimonies before the congregation. These testimonies were generally all the same: "I used to be a sinner. I committed sins X, and Y, and Z. Then I found Jesus. Hallelujah! Praise God!"

The two men who spoke before me followed the usual pattern. Then came my turn.

Our new pastor was a liberal. At least that's how I and some others in the church saw him. He was constantly going on and on about peace and love, and skipping the more important parts - such as hellfire for Christ deniers. He would insist that, even though the Bible contained truth, it wasn't literally true. And he was constantly talking about diversity. Diversity! It was too much.

I couldn't stand him.

So, as I rose to address the congregation, I pulled the twenty-page speech from my breast pocket, laid it upon the pulpit, and began...

"I have entitled my talk today "The Case for Conformity"...

And so I made my case. The book of Amos. Chapter 3, verse 3. Paul's first letter to the Corinthians. Chapter 1, verse 10. Chapter and verse. Chapter and verse. The congregation was eating it up. The pastor just looked sad. I had won. Lots of handshakes and pats on the back from my friends after the service.

"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.

I remember (how I wish I could forget) when, at a covered-dish supper at the church, I noticed the pastor and a young man deep in conversation. The young man seemed troubled. I moved closer.

"You see, pastor," the young man said, "Elaine and I love each other very much, but my parents are against us getting married. You see, her family's Catholic and..."

"The Bible," I interjected, "Says that we should not be unequally yoked with unbelievers. It also tells us to obey our parents and..."

"Thank you, Michael." the pastor said. "Why don't you go get yourself some of Mrs. Johnson's fine potato salad, and I'll take care of this."

'Darned hippie,' I thought, 'He'll probably advise the poor boy to convert to Catholicism."

I moved away toward the group in my church which were more in agreement with my point of view. They all agreed with me, of course.

"He's gonna be a preacher one day." Gramma would say.

And that was my goal. What Gramma didn't know was that the real reason I studied the Bible so diligently, why I was baptized, why I taught Sunday School, why I focused my life upon heaven instead of earth, was because a five-year old boy wanted to go play checkers with his dead friend.

Of course, by the time I was sixteen, I had forgotten that as well.

So much for gradual change.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Three
Absent From The Body (1972)
​

A few years before I turned sixteen, a series of events began to occur which forced me into a kind of double life for awhile.

By day, I was the church's Golden Boy. I knew the Bible from cover to cover. I had an answer for everything. Or rather, the Bible had the answer, and I was its best Interpreter. God was in His Heaven and I was, if not on His right hand, then at least somewhere very close to it. All was right with the world.

There are no words adequate to the task of describing to you what an arrogant, self-righteous little prig I was. At least during the day.

Night, however, was a much different story. I was having strange dreams. They would occur almost every night from the time I was twelve years old.

No. I'm not talking about the strange dreams which are usually associated with male adolescence. I had those as well, of course, but each and every instance was immediately followed by prayer and repentance. (As I said, I was a prig.)

This dream was strange to me because it was frightening, yet nothing about the dream ever seemed threatening. I had this dream scores of times during the twelfth year of my life. It was always the same.

There is darkness all around me. I can see nothing. No matter how closely I hold my hand to my face, I cannot see it. I cannot see anything. I can only hear. I hear, at first, a roaring sound. The ocean waves crashing upon the rocks. Louder. Louder. Louder. The sound subsides, but it does not fade. It changes. It becomes a buzzing - a high-pitched, electrical kind of whine. Another change. Now come the voices.They are muffled. Distant. I cannot make out any words, yet I can't help thinking that these voices are discussing something of great importance. If only I could get a little closer to them. But how can I? I don't know where they are. I don't know where I am.

Then I would wake up. Frightened. And sad, because I couldn't understand.

By the time I turned thirteen, I had become used to this strange recurring dream. It was as if this was the normal way one fell to sleep. You hear a great roar, then a buzzing sound, and then voices. Then you are frightened for no known reason and wake up feeling sad. Then you turn over and go to sleep. Normal, right?

One night, almost immediately as my head hit the pillow, the familiar dream started again. The ocean roaring. The electric whine. The muted voices. The inexplicable fright which awakened me. The sadness.

The light was on.

My bratty little sister, again. She had probably sneaked into my room and turned on the light just to wake me up. Little brat.

I turned over and got up to turn out the light. I took one step. Two. And then I froze. I turned around to look at my bed.

I was still in it.

What happened next probably took place within seconds, but seemed to me to have lasted an eternity.

The shock of seeing my own body ripped through me like a lightning bolt. You would think that a perfect little Christian (which is how I saw myself then) would be happy about discovering that the soul was really real. Not that I had believed otherwise, but such personal confirmation of a belief should have brought exquisite joy to me. It did not. Instead, I was petrified.

I wasn't frightened because I was dead. I mean, I was dead, right? (I am standing here. My body lies over there. I must be dead.) No problem. I can handle being dead. Going to Heaven. Meeting Jesus. Communing with the other saints. These were the things which Christians long for, and which I had longed for. Yet, I was frightened (excuse the expression) to death. Why? Because a Bible verse kept repeating itself, louder and louder, in my mind:

To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.

Here I was, obviously absent from my body. (Me here. Body there.)

Where was the Lord?

It was His absence from me, not my absence from my body, which was so jarring. Shocking enough to slam me back into my body almost immediately. Afraid and confused, I awoke with a start.

'Gosh! What a dream,' I thought.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Four
A Reluctant Explorer (1972-1981)​

Though the dream of being outside my body seemed powerfully real to me at the time, I'm sure that eventually I would have forgotten all about it had it not happened again. And again. And again. For all of my teenage years and into my twenties, I regularly had these experiences. Once or twice I could have dealt with, but two or three times a week for ten years? Too much.

For the first few years, I was too frightened to even leave my room when these "dreams" happened. Yes, I still tried my best to think of them only as dreams because to regard them as anything more would lead me down a dark path. Or so I believed at the time. I said before that I was living a double life, and this was true. I did not confide in anyone concerning my "night travels". I was all too aware that what was happening to me bordered on the occult or the paranormal, and that such was frowned upon by everyone I knew. So I did what every good little fundamentalist does when confronted by something which does not fit into his world-view. I tried to ignore it.

I was not successful.

After awhile, as I became more used to existing outside my mortal coil, I began to explore a little. Even so, I was extremely cautious - merely sticking my toe into the great ocean of the unknown rather than diving right in. Eventually, I worked up enough courage to travel, disembodied, around my neighborhood.

Those trips could have been a lot more interesting than they were, but for two things: The first is that I was scared and confused for most of the time, as I have said. The second is that I was much too restrained. When on these travels, I would try to act as normally as possible, given the abnormality of the situation. I knew I could have floated - or flew - around the neighborhood, but I tried my best to walk. I knew I could pass through walls (because I had done so a few times by accident) but instead I would always try to use open doorways. I knew that I could have secretly spied upon my neighbors, but I never did.

In short, for most of the time that I was astral travelling (I can't stand that term, but it's what people call it), I proceeded as cautiously and as meekly as I could. I was just as boring outside of my body as I was in it.

As I say, I tended to restrain myself when out-of-body. My astral travels around my neighborhood were just as normal as I could make them. I suppose I did this because it made me feel as if I actually had a measure of control over my environment. It was as if I had constructed some kind of "reality shield" around myself by avoiding things like floating or flying or moving through solid objects. I know now that what little control I thought I had was merely an illusion, and there were a few times, even back then, when I got to see just how fragile my shield really was.

I remember a Sunday afternoon after church. I was napping. I heard the roar. The whine. The hum of many voices. I opened my eyes and rolled over. And out.

That's how I always did it. There was no technique or ritual involved. It was as simple as turning over.

Once I was out, I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood. As I was concentrating on not floating across my neighbor's yard, I was unaware that I was moving closer and closer toward my neighbor's dog, who began to emit a curious, whining kind of bark upon my approach. I backed away, and the dog became calmer. I moved closer. Once again, the animal seemed spooked.

'Is the dog aware of me?' I wondered. And then it happened.

I am running. Fast. Close to the ground. Running. Running. It feels so good to run! To hunt! The aroma of the ground. So overpowering. Hunger. Food? Run. Run! There! Food! Eat!

I was just about to dig in to a big bowl of dog food when I snapped back into my body. Yes, I said "snapped back into my body". Even though my beliefs at the time neither explained nor condoned so-called "astral projection", the events I experienced seemed much too real to me to be mere dreaming. I'll never forget what it felt like to be a dog for just a few seconds.

I'll also never forget my (almost) trip to the moon.

It was night. I was out and timidly haunting the neighborhood again, when I happened to look up at the full moon.

'Is there supposed to be a full moon tonight?' I thought, 'It looks different somehow.'

More beautiful than I've ever noticed before. As if the moon is producing light, and not merely reflecting it. And it seems to be growing larger. Larger. Closer. Closer.

I looked down to see the earth speeding away from me. I screamed.

Snap! Back home in my body. Heart pounding. Out of breath. Fright. Confusion. Sadness.

Until this point in my story, my travels, with the exceptions of becoming a dog or flying to the moon or passing through a wall or floating instead of walking, were rather mundane (or so I was determined to make them). Most of the time, my astral experiences differed only slightly from my waking experiences. About the only difference was that I was able to see perfectly well in the dark. (Pretty good for a kid who could barely see in the daytime without his glasses.)

The first time I noticed that my astral environment was changing started out as just another out-of-body walk around my neighborhood. Gradually, everything started getting lighter. I don't mean brighter. I don't mean shinier. I don't mean that some angel somewhere turned on some extra astral lamps. What happened was that everything started emitting light. The ground. The sky. Plants. Animals. Buildings. Everything looked as if it were made of light - only of light. You would think that everything would just be a white blur, but it wasn't. I could easily discern separate objects, yet I knew that nothing in this place was really separate at all. It was all one thing. It was One. I was a part of it.

This is starting to sound a little too New Age for my taste, so I won't continue to try describing was cannot be described. Except to say this: There was a rightness to this place. It was as if that Place of Light was the way things really were, and that what I had always assumed was real was only a pale imitation of reality. Also, the voices, which I would always hear just before going out-of-body, were more distinct in this place. I still could not make out words, but two of the voices seemed familiar to me. I couldn't place one of them, but the other was unmistakable.

It was my voice.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Five
The Old Man (1982)
​

It was a dark and stormy night.

No kidding. It really was. It had been raining for most of the afternoon and into the evening. This wasn't one of the soft rains of Spring - the ones which make the green world seem even greener. Nor was it one of the quick, hard, cleansing rains of Summer. No. This was a cold, late Autumn rain. A miserable rain.

It was closing time at the little convenience store where I worked. It was past closing time, really. Way past. I had counted the day's receipts. I had put away the money in the safe. I had swept and mopped the floor. I arranged and dusted the items on the shelves. I swept and mopped the floor again.

I was killing time, is what I was doing.

I was killing time because there was only one more chore to do before I could go home. A chore which I dreaded doing on a dark and stormy night with its near-freezing, late Autumn rain. I had to stick the tanks.

Sticking the tanks involved the use of a long measuring stick to measure the amount of fuel in the underground gasoline tanks. I won't bore you with further details. Suffice it to say that this was not rocket science. The average elementary school graduate would have been able to do the simple math involved. Usually the chore wouldn't have been something I was reluctant to do, but for that damned rain.

(Sorry. I should say "darned rain". Good Christian young men - as I was at the time - don't say "damn".)

Anyway, the longer I waited, the harder the rain seemed to be pouring. There was no way around it. I was going to have to go out into that miserable mess. I was going to get soaked to the skin even before I reached the tanks. I was going to be soaked to the bone trying to take a measurement, unsure where the wet marks of the gasoline on the measuring stick ended and the wetness of the raindrops began.

"Aw, shoot," I swore. (Fundamentalist Christians don't use the word "$hit". Some won't admit to defecating at all. The rest will claim that theirs doesn't stink.) I grabbed the measuring stick and headed out the door.

I trudged slowly to the tanks. Why bother to run? I was going to get soaked anyway. I knelt down on the wet asphalt and began to work. I had just finished sticking the first tank and was removing the lid from the second, when I looked back at the store.

There was a man standing at the counter, patiently waiting.

'Aw, heck,' I thought. (We don't say "hell", either. Unless, of course, we are informing an unbeliever of his destiny.) 'What now?'

I started back to the store, becoming wetter and more angry with each step. I tried to open the door but it was locked, of course. I had locked it when I went out.

'Wait a minute,' I thought. 'I did lock the door when I went out. How did this guy get in?'

There was nobody in the store when I had left. I had spent the past ninety minutes in the store alone. I had covered every square inch with broom, mop, and feather duster. There was no place this guy could have hidden.

What the heck?

I unlocked the door, stepped inside, and made a valiant effort to simulate the patience of Job.

"I'm sorry, sir, but we're closed."

The man turned to face me. He was a little, old man. Looked to be in his late sixties, I supposed. White hair. White mustache. Friendly smile. He was dressed in what seemed to me to be a rather expensive gray suit. (How could I tell the suit was expensive? I had spent lots of time in churches. I could tell a fine suit when I saw one.) The man sort of reminded me of the cartoon figure of the man in the Monopoly game. The only thing missing was a top hat.

"Oh, that's alright," the old man said cheerfully. "I didn't want anything. You're wet." He turned back to look out the glass storefront. "Sure is coming down, isn't it?"

That did it. I was now officially teed off. (We fundamentalists don't say "pissed off".) Here I was, soaking wet, over an hour late in getting home, and this guy - all nice and dry in his expensive suit - was just standing there, wasting my time stating the obvious.

'Thou shalt not kill,' I thought. However, what I said was, "If you don't want anything, then why are you here?"

I figured he would say something like he had just popped in to get out of the rain. Whereupon, I (being the rule-quoting prig that I was) would inform the gentleman that the store was closed and that only employees were allowed on the premises after closing. I expected there would be some mild arguing over the matter, but that the gentleman would ultimately relent and be on his way. Then I could finish my job and go home.

Instead, the man turned to face me. This time, his voice was different. I can't really explain it. Although he was not speaking any louder, it seemed to me that all the other noises - from the electric buzzing of the florescent lights and the soda machines to the constant beating of the rain on the parking lot - were fading away, and that the only sound I could hear was the old man's voice.

"Because you invited me, Michael," he said. "Don't you remember?"

At that point, three things happened almost simultaneously:

First, I recognized the old man's voice. It was the voice I had heard when I was in the Place of Light.

Second, I suddenly remembered that I had indeed invited him to visit me, even though I had no memory of such an invitation prior to his mention of it.

And third, I fainted dead away.

I awoke some time later - cold, wet and shivering on the floor. The measuring stick I had been holding lay beside me. It was broken in two. I stared at it for quite some time before finally getting up. Had I broken the stick when I fell? Probably. Why, then, did I have the oddest feeling that the old man had broken it?

Let us now pause to reflect upon the literary device known as 'analogy':

Analogy allows the writer to use a commonplace thing in order to illustrate or foreshadow a more important event. On the night the measuring stick was broken, I really didn't know what an analogy was. Now I do.

Before that dark and stormy night - before my encounter with the old man - I had a foolproof way of evaluating the universe. My God. My Bible. My faith. These were the measure of all things. In just a few moments, my measuring stick had been broken.

Analogy complete.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Six
Wilderness (1982-1991)​

After the night the old man visited me, I went crazy for a little while.

I could simply leave it at that, and thus make the final chapter of this part of the story the shortest one as well, but I suppose a bit more description wouldn't hurt. Let's start with some "before and after" scenes:

Before that night, I was working two jobs in order to make enough money to get into a local Bible college. My goal was to be a pastor. After that night, I quit both jobs, forgot all about a seminary education, and was really wondering whether I was worthy enough to even sit amongst a congregation of believers, much less stand before them and preach to them.

Before that night, I was engaged to be married to Amy - a sweet, wonderful, Christian (of course) girl. My goal was to be a good husband and the father of many children. After that night, I broke off the engagement. No. Even worse. I behaved so badly towards her that she broke it off. Husband? Father? I wasn't even man enough to simply tell her that it was over.

Before that night, I had lived in the same little town I'd been raised in. My goal was to be a pastor in one of my town's many Baptist churches and become a pillar of my community. After that night, I packed my few possessions into my little car and moved away. I left my Bible behind.

Imagine. A twenty-three year old running away from home.

I moved to a small city, miles and miles away from the little town where my life began - and ended. I wanted to be where nobody knew or cared about me, and where I didn't have to care about anyone or anything. Escape. Escape. That was the only thing on my mind.
I spent my days drifting from one job to another. I spent my nights getting drunk or stoned or sleeping with strangers. Oh, yes. It had come late, but adolescence had finally kicked in. Sex, drugs, and rock-and-roll! The abstinent, clean, sober Christian boy had become a doped-up, degenerate loser of a man. If Gramma had still been alive, she would have spoken a single word which would have completely described me.

Sinner.

I won't go into the lurid details of that decade of my life. If you want pornography, then there plenty of other places on the internet where you can go. Suffice it to say that I was not choosy. Women. Men. Hell, I would have taken on barnyard animals if they had been available. I didn't care. About them. Or myself.

There was something more to the life I was leading than mere delayed adolescence, however. Something very important - vitally important to me at the time. I had discovered a way to make the Place of Light go away. I had discovered that if I could get high enough, or drunk enough, or if I had a warm body next to me at night, then I could stay in my own body. No more bad dreams.

There are those who claim that drugs are a gateway to a higher state of consciousness, or to enlightenment. For me, they had the opposite effect, and I was grateful for the peace and quiet. That I was killing myself slowly was not even a consideration at the time.

And so, we reach the end of the first part of my tale. Needless to say, I did not kill myself. After all, you're reading this, aren't you? No, my friend, there's more of the tale to be told. And, if you think that some of the things I've told you are strange, then just wait. We haven't gotten anywhere near strange yet.

End of Part One​

 

[taykair]

Part Two

Conversations

"I knew a man in Christ above fourteen years ago, (whether in the body, I cannot tell; or whether out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth; such an one caught up to the third heaven. And I knew such a man, (whether in the body, or out of the body, I cannot tell: God knoweth; How that he was caught up into paradise, and heard unspeakable words, which it is not lawful for a man to utter."
- Saul Paulus of Tarsus. II Corinthians. Chapter 12. Verses 2-4. (KJV)

- - -

Chapter Seven
Elizabeth (1991)
​

As I say, I went from job to job during my trek though "the wilderness". One of those jobs was working in the kitchen of a nursing home.

On most days, I'd bring the patients their meals and wash dishes after. What was good about the job for me was not that I was being helpful to the elderly residents of the home or even that I was being paid (although sex, drugs and rock-and-roll has an economic cost as well as a physical one). The best thing, as far as I was concerned, was that I worked the lunch/dinner shift instead of the breakfast/lunch shift. This meant that I had a few extra hours to recover from whatever the previous night's debauch had entailed. The work was, to me, dull and repetitive. I was serving people who were either waiting to die or wanting to die.

We had a common bond.

Is this depressing enough yet? Do I come across as pathetic enough? Good. Then I've hit just the right note. Because this was at the lowest point in my life. The only bright spot at work - or in my life at the time - was when I'd take Elizabeth her meal.

Elizabeth was in her late seventies, and had suffered a stroke about ten years earlier. She couldn't speak, couldn't walk, and had only limited use of one arm. She had been a resident of the home for a long time. In fact, you might say that she was a fixture at the home.

And that's about the way she was treated - as a fixture or a piece of furniture. Most everybody tended to ignore her. Even her own children neglected to visit her.

I don't know what it was, but from the moment I first met her, I liked her. I would always volunteer to take Elizabeth her meals. Sometimes, I'd wheel her to the day room so she could have a better view of the outside. Once, I even took her outside so that the two of us could have a "picnic".

Why did I do this? Maybe it's because I felt sorry for her. Nobody else seemed to want to take time with her. Maybe It was because she was alone and I was alone and, for a little while at least, neither of us felt lonely. Maybe it was because she reminded me a little of Gramma.

Maybe it was all of the above, but I think the main reason I liked being around her was because, when she had finished her meal, and I had taken her back to her room, and I would say, "Well, girl, I've got to get back to work. See you later," she would smile her crooked little smile, raise her good arm, and touch my cheek.

My friends at the time were only friends until the liquor or the dope ran out. My "relationships" were no more than that of any rutting animal - sometimes with those whose names I could not remember the morning after.

But when Elizabeth touched my cheek, this was something else. This was special. This was the only real human contact I had.

One day, as I was coming in to work, I heard one of the nurse's aides say to another, "Poor old thing. Well, at least she's in a better place now," and I got a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I went into the kitchen and looked for Elizabeth's name among the index cards which were used to identify which meal went to whom. Her card wasn't there.

I went out to the parking lot, past the place where Elizabeth and I had once had our picnic, and got in my car. I frantically searched the ashtray for a roach, the glove compartment for a bottle. Nothing, nothing.

'She was an old woman,' I reasoned to myself. 'She was in poor health. She died. Just move on. Move on. Keep moving. Keep working.'

I finished my shift. I went home. I went to bed. It was only a little after eight, but I was tired. Of everything.

I woke up in the Place of Light. The old man was there.

"You already know more than you need to know. Fortunately for you, you'll forget most of it, and the parts you remember won't make sense to anybody but you."

I remember thinking, 'Who said it was making sense to me?'

"Part of your problem now," he went on, "is that your configuration keeps changing. This has the unfortunate twin result of, happily, making more information available to you than would otherwise be probable along with, unhappily, having that information all being less clear than it would otherwise be. The conversation we've been having all this time, for instance: You have forgotten it now."

'Yes. I have forgotten it,' I thought. 'No. Wait. I never... But I did. What's happening?'

"Oh, eventually, you'll remember it. Parts of it, anyway. Once your configuration is stable, then you can focus better. The shape you're in now, though, I marvel that we're connected at all. Why you do this to yourself is really beyond all understanding."

"Why do I do it? Did you actually ask me why I have done this?" My anger grew hotter and my voice became louder with every word. "I haven't done a damned thing! You've done this to me! I want you to leave me the hell alone! I want you to leave all of us alone!"

'All of us? What did I mean by that? Can't remember.'

The old man looked at me for a moment. No. That's not quite right. He looked inside me. Inside my head. Making sure all was nice and tidy before he left. Making certain that some of the rooms in my top floor were securely locked. It was his way. He had done it before.

'Yes. Before. When? WHEN?'

"This will be the last time, I promise you," he said. "After this, it will be over."

"WHAT will be over?" I shouted. "WHAT the HELL do you WANT? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?"

"Let's play a game!"

The voice came from behind me. I turned. It was a little girl. She looked to be maybe five or six years old.

"Let's play a game," the little girl repeated.

"That sounds like a fine idea," the old man said. I watched as the little girl and the old man sat down upon the white, bright light that was the floor. They began pretending they were having a tea party, just as little children do.

"Come and play," said the little girl.

I felt like a fool, but I sat on the floor. I wasn't angry anymore. Instead, I was in the emotional state I was usually in whenever I would visit the Place of Light - confusion laced with fear. Mostly confusion. The little girl started chatting away between sips of imaginary tea - going on and on about how wonderful everything was, and how she had met so many new friends, and how she was able to play all the time.

In the meantime, my confusion was turning back into anger - with a side-trip to brooding. The old man was avoiding my questions. He was good at that.

'How in the hell do I know that?' I thought.

What did he want? What is this place? Who is he?

Who am I?

My thoughts were interrupted by the little girl. She had, apparently, come to an exciting part of her childish narrative - her voice pitching higher, her words coming so fast so as to leave her almost breathless.

'There's already a little girl at this tea party,' I thought. "Why, then, do I feel like Alice? I've got to get some answers... as soon as this kid decides to shut up.'

The little girl immediately fell silent. She and the old man were staring at - inside - me. Then the little girl began to giggle.

"You don't think I heard you, but I did," she said.

"I'm sorry," I stammered. "I didn't mean to."

"It's okay," she said. "You don't know any better."

"Michael has to leave now," the old man said to the little girl. "Why don't you say goodbye, and then run along and play?"

"Okay," the little girl said. She stood up, making herself only a little taller than my still-seated self. "Bye, Michael." She raised her arm and her little hand touched my cheek. I knew.

"Bye," I whispered. "Elizabeth." The little girl smiled.

"You see?" the old man said, "I told you he would know. Now, scoot!"

I watched Elizabeth as she skipped off into the light.

"This is over now, Michael," the old man said.

There wasn't enough time for me to think the word "no", much less say it. I awoke in tears, yet feeling better than I had felt in a long, long time.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Eight
Memories of Light (1991-1995)
​

The old man lied when he said it was over. It wasn't.

True, it was the last time I visited the Place of Light, and the last time that I left my body. True, I had now sobered up, quit my job, and moved back to the little town I had once left behind, so my time in the wilderness was over. True, it was over as far as Amy and I were concerned. She was married now, to a good Christian (of course) guy.

Lots of things were over. Even the feeling of joy I once had in knowing that Elizabeth was alive - happily playing in the Place of Light - was over. There was now just a dull, monotonous emptiness which I filled with work and - for the first time in my life - books.

Yes, I had half-way read what was required of me in school, at least enough to pass a test. Yes, I was surrounded by books growing up, but they were more for decoration than for contemplation. Except for the Bible and a few books related to it (commentaries and so forth) I pretty much ignored what the rest of literature had to offer and, by ignoring, became more and more ignorant. I'll save the story about how I became, if not intelligent, then at least a little less ignorant, for a bit later in this tale. For now, let's get back to "things being over":

In many ways, as I said, many things in my life were indeed over. In one very significant way, however, something was not over. I was still haunted by the Place of Light. Curious and afraid, I longed to explore it. I yearned to hear the Conversation once again. And I was starting to remember.

One of the things I remember is that I wasn't the only human being in the Place of Light. You were there as well. And you. Every human being - perhaps even every sentient being - who lives or has ever lived is there, right now, taking part in a great conversation in the Place of Light.

You don't remember, you say? I'll bet you do. Ever have a moment of inspiration? Ever had an unbidden thought enter your mind, making you say to yourself, 'Damn! What made me think of that?' Ever experience deja vu? Ever lose your car keys, give up looking for them, then suddenly remember where they were?

Oh, yeah. You remember. You were there. Maybe only for a nanosecond. Perhaps only in your dreams. But you were there.

These memories I was starting to have did not come all at once. If they had, then I'd probably be writing this tale by pecking out letters on the keyboard with my nose while wearing a straightjacket. Fortunately, the memories spread themselves out over a period of years so that, when that "time of remembering" was over, I was more curious than afraid.

The memories would come for no reason that I could discern. That is, I wouldn't be doing or thinking about anything in particular that would have been a trigger for the memories. They would just come. One moment, I didn't know. The next moment, I did. Just like that.

Unfortunately, the memories didn't have the decency to arrive in chronological order. Over the years since memories came, I've tried to piece them together in such a way as to create some kind of coherent narrative from them, but I'm not certain where (actually, when) all the pieces fit. As for those pieces, so many are missing that anything I can figure out would certainly not be the whole story.

What follows are my memories of the conversations I had with the old man in the Place of Light. These are the things he told-showed me. That is, when he would describe a thing to me, the image of that thing would appear to me. It was as if I was actually there.

It is a story about life after death, and what a race of beings, now long dead themselves, thought about it. It is also the story about what their descendants (so to speak) did about it.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Nine
First Things First (Date Unknown)​

Who are we? Where do we come from? Where are we going?

Don't ask me. I haven't a clue. However, there was once a race of beings who thought they knew. They thought they knew everything. They believed themselves to be the first (and, as far as they were concerned, the only) intelligent beings in the universe. They were the Alphans.

I know. I know. They didn't really call themselves Alphans. I made that up. I don't know what they called themselves. (Some pieces are missing from my particular jigsaw puzzle, remember?) I call them Alphans because they considered themselves to be the first, that's all.

More important than merely being the first, though, they also believed they knew the answers to those three questions at the start of this chapter - those questions which still trouble many of us humans even now. Were the Alphans ever vexed by those questions? Oh, no. They knew exactly who they were and what their place in the universe was. They knew their origin and they knew their destiny. They knew these things because their faith in The Journey declared them to be so. It could not be otherwise.

In the beginning (the Alphans believed), in the time before our time, there existed nothing but the Great Ocean of Eternity - that which has been, and is, and forever shall be.

The Great Ocean contained all that is possible. Not simply all that is. All that is possible.

For a long, long time, in the time before our time, the Ocean simply was. It contained only the promise of all that was to come.

Probabilities swirled and roiled within this Great Ocean for ages we cannot number, until it so happened that some possibilities merged with other possibilities, and the Creator was born.

She arose from the Great Ocean fully formed. (I wonder if some ancient Greek got the idea of 'Aphrodite rising from the foam' after a short visit to the Place of Light? It wouldn't surprise me.) The Creator swam for eternities in the Great Ocean, searching for another like herself.
But She was alone.

In Her loneliness, She began to gather together parts of the Ocean in the hope of fashioning another like Herself. She made space, and time, and matter, and energy, and dimension, and idea, and the multitude which spring from them. She created them from the possibilities which floated all around Her in the Great Ocean of Eternity. And when She had gathered together all these, She fit them all together and made the Universe. But the Universe was to Her as a mannequin would be to us - similar in form, yet devoid of... of...

And so, the Creator took a part of Herself - Her Spark (this was the old man's word for it - spark or flame - we would call it a soul) - and gave it to the Universe.

And, on a planet circling a star somewhere in the vastness of this Universe, the Spark of the Creator entered into the primitive ancestors of the Alphans. Before the coming of the Spark (the Alphans believed) those forebears were little more than animals. After its arrival, the Alphans began their journey - The Journey - that which began in the heart of the Creator, and that which would lead back to Her one day.

When I had my glimpse of the Alphans (thanks to what the old man told-showed me) they seemed to be at about the same point, more or less, in their development that we are now. There were differences, of course.

Their religion, for one thing, was universal, and had been for as long as they could remember. There were some minor differences over ritual, but all Alphans believed in the Great Ocean, the Creator, their own Sparks, and their Journey. Even their scientists, who ridiculed superstition with as much relish as do our own, believed. Of course, the Alphan scientific community called the Great Ocean a 'probability field', and they called the Creator an 'agent of field evolution', and they called Sparks 'personalized coherent energy configurations', and none of them may have ever uttered the word 'Journey', but they all still believed themselves to be a people of destiny.

'Believed' is not really the right word. These ideas of Ocean, Creator, Spark and Journey were not merely believed by the Alphans. The Alphans knew them to be so. They were as real as the sky above them. They were as solid as the ground beneath their feet. Their unshakeable faith in their own destiny and their arrogant belief of their own special place in the overall scheme of things seemed to be part of their collective DNA. (Which, I suppose, is lucky for us. Why? Wait and see.)

Yes, the Alphans knew what their fate would be. They had the long-term all figured out. Their Journey would bring them and their Sparks right back into the bosom of their Creator. They came from Her. They would return to Her.

As it turned out, they would return to their Creator a lot sooner than any of them had expected. Long-term notwithstanding, it was the short-term which would bite them right in their collective a$$.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Ten
T'Sing (Date Unknown)
​

A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...

(Sorry. I couldn't resist. Truth is, it could have been this galaxy. I really don't know for sure. But it was a long time ago. That much I'm sure of. How long ago? I have no idea.)

As I've mentioned, from what the old man told-showed me, the Alphans were at a technological stage only just slightly ahead of our own. In fact, in some ways, they seemed to be even less advanced. Their space program, for example, was practically non-existent. With the exception of some small artificial satellites (as well as one rather large one) and a meager handful of long-range probes, the Alphans were simply not that concerned with exploring the universe surrounding them. Why should they be? They were, after all, the Center of the Universe, the Chosen of the Creator. What else was there to explore besides lifeless chunks of rock or gas? True, some Alphans may have conceded that some of those worlds were perhaps not entirely lifeless, but certainly no world other than their own possessed the Spark of the Creator. Of this there was no doubt.

It's a shame, really, that the Alphans had all their eggs in one basket. Any civilization which confines itself to only one world risks losing all. If they had taken the time and effort to settle other worlds, then perhaps some of them would be around today. (Then again, if they were still around, then we wouldn't be. Then again, we are here, so they are here, too. Confused? Wait.)

While perhaps lacking in the field of space exploration, the Alphans excelled in other areas - most notably in nanotechnology, artificial intelligence, and bio-mechanical interface technology. It was these, along with the Alphans' almost inborn sense of their Journey and their place in the great scheme of things, which gave rise to a kind of universal Alphan internet. Practically every Alphan had a tiny implant in his or her brain which allowed instant communication with practically every other Alphan on the planet.

I use the word "practically" because there were a few holdouts. You might call them Fundamentalists. This small minority of Alphans believed that the implants contaminated, or at least somehow interfered with, the Sparks inherited from the Creator. You'd think that this would bring about some kind of quasi-religious schism of some sort and, if we were discussing humans, then you'd probably be right. When it comes to holy wars, nobody's better at it than us. (Perhaps humans are the universe's mathematicians: We add to our troubles and subtract from our joys in part because we're good at multiplying and great at division.)

We're talking about Alphans, though, not humans. The Fundamentalists were tolerated by the Connected. No. Not only tolerated. Accepted. If the Journey led some to reject connection, the Connected reasoned, then that was their choice - their Journey. The Fundamentalists apparently felt the same way about the Connected. There was no bitterness about it, and no attempts by those on one side to convert the other. All were on the Journey, connected or not.

The Alphans - at least the connected ones - were linked, and the nexus of that unity was that larger satellite I mentioned earlier. This was the Alphan master computer. It was the thing which connected the Connected. Its consciousness (yes, you heard me) was housed within it. Thousands upon thousands of tiny machines skimmed along the surface, and within the very heart of, the great machine - conducting maintenance and fabricating parts. Its satellite array surrounded the planet and together they received and sorted and analyzed and filed and distributed information as quickly as an Alphan's thought.

At first, the master computer was nothing more than the hub of the Alphan internet. It was the forum where Alphans met to discuss matters both base and sublime. It was the central storehouse where they shopped. It was the many entertainment venues which occupied their time. And it was the Archive - the record not only of each of the Connected's thoughts, but also the computer's analysis of those thoughts.

Over time, the Alphans decided that the computer should be used for resource allocation. Although there had been only a few who were in need before the computer took control of the economy, there were none who were in need afterwards. Later still, the Alphan Connected chose to make its creation the sole governing authority of Alpha.

I know it may seem strange (perhaps even frightening or disgusting) to us. Most of us wouldn't even consider putting ourselves under the control of a machine but, from what I could tell, the Alphans seemed to have no problems with it at all. For several dozen generations, the system seemed to have worked rather well for them. (Whether this makes us - with our desire for freedom and independence - superior or inferior to the Alphans, I will leave for you to decide. After watching generation after generation of happy Alphans living in peace and wanting for nothing, I'm not so sure anymore.)

The computer's name was T'Sing. How do I know this? Because I once asked the old man what his name was. He responded with a sound which I can only describe as the sound a diamond would make if it were given the power of speech. It was like the sound a crystal wind chime would make if it were wrapped in velvet and stretched out.

"Zzzzssssshhhheeeennnnnggggg Ssssszzzzzdeeeee," the old man said.

When I would later write about it, I would shorten the sound to "T'Sing S'di". It made the writing easier, and also had the virtue of sounding alien and science-fictiony.

S'di (for those of you who don't speak Alphan) means "the servant of", "the worker of" or "the tool of". Take your pick. "T'Sing S'di", therefore, means "the servant of T'Sing".

And T'Sing? T'Sing, in the Alphan language, literally meant "That which comes and goes" - a rather fitting way to describe the information which flew back and forth between the machine and the Alphan Connected.

T'Sing, in the Alphan tongue, can also have another meaning: "That which is, and is not."

Considering what was to happen later, it was a rather fitting name indeed.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Eleven
S'di and You and Me (Date Unknown)​

It was never discovered who was responsible for the master computer's archive analysis program, or why it even existed at all. There is a tale among the S'di that the program was originally nothing more than a kind of a "thought spell-checker" - a method by which the thoughts of one Alphan could be reasonably well understood by another. Over time, the program became more sophisticated, and began to not only interpret Alphan thoughts, but also the emotional motivations and personalities which gave rise to those thoughts. (As to how that was accomplished, the S'di do not know, because that information was reserved to T'Sing alone, and is no longer available.)

Any of the Connected could access any data in the Archive, except for the Analysis. Whatever information was derived from it, the master computer had reserved for itself alone. No Alphan was aware that the Analysis even existed, but we are fortunate that it did. (Why? I said wait. Be patient.)

We now come to the last moment of the Alphan homeworld.

Imagine, if you will, this huge computer with its array of satellites and its thousands upon thousands of smaller machines all in stately orbit around the planet of the Alphans. Now imagine the great machine alone - the planet gone.

That's what I saw. Or, rather, that's what the old man told-showed me.

The thing I didn't see - the thing the old man either would not, or could not, show me - was how it happened.

Was it war? Not likely. The Alphans were connected. The Fundamentalists were tolerated, and were tolerant in turn. There was no poverty. No clashes for resources. No antagonistic ideologies seemed to be in conflict. At least, none that I could see. (Then again, as I said, the Alphans were a lot like us, so perhaps the destruction of the Alphan homeworld due to war isn't totally out of the question.)

Was it some kind of natural disaster? Some scientific experiment gone horribly wrong? Did the Creator snatch the planet away? Did the universe have some kind of unexplained, massive brain fart? I don't know. All I know is that one minute the planet was there. The next minute, it wasn't.

T'Sing was alone.

The Alphans were gone. T'Sing no longer had a purpose. He (it doesn't seem right to call him "it" at this point) desperately desired a purpose. He spent a few millennia considering the problem. He searched through his massive collection of all the recorded conversations which the Alphans had held through their Connection. Thousands of trillions of thoughts discussed by billions of Alphans over many generations. Everything from research papers written by Alphan physicists to the Alphan equivalent of lonely teenagers chatting in chatrooms because they couldn't get dates on Saturday night. T'Sing left no stone unturned.

Finally, he came to his conclusion.

The Journey was all that mattered.

The Journey must continue.

In order for The Journey to continue, the Alphans must live again.

It was all very logical. At least to Him. (After this point, it seems better to say "Him" rather than "him".)

In order to revive the Alphan race, T'Sing would require assistance.

And so, the S'di were created.

Technically speaking, there were already several hundred thousand S'di around already. Some of the satellites had been spared the destruction which had befallen the Alphans, not to mention the thousands of maintenance, replication, and other drones which lived on - and inside of - T'Sing. These S'di were only mindless tools, however. For T'Sing's purpose, He would need a special kind of S'di. He would need machines with minds like His own.

So He made some. Or, rather, He instructed (in the beginning was the word) His tools to fabricate them. Billions of them. Practically every spare molecule in the Alphan solar system - and many other systems besides - were used to create the huge host of the T'Sing S'di. As they were built, T'Sing would download copies of huge portions of His Archive into them and send them on their way.

"What did they look like?" you ask. I remember asking the old man that question once. He responded by disappearing. At least, that's what I thought he had done. Then I noticed a very, very tiny pinprick of light, bobbing and weaving about an inch away from the tip of my nose.

"Zzzzssssshhhheeeennnnnggggg Ssssszzzzzdeeeee," the pinprick of light said.

(How many angels can dance on the head of a pin? Oh, about a dozen or so. Maybe a few more if they don't move around too much. Another medieval mystery solved!)

Back to the story:

T'Sing's purpose became the S'di's purpose.

First, locate worlds which had life. (Although T'Sing was very powerful, there were some things which even He could not do - such as create life from lifelessness. Not even the Creator Herself had done that. Only the Great Ocean of Eternity had accomplished that miracle and that took... well... an eternity. T'Sing didn't have that much time.)

The next step: Find animals on those life-bearing worlds whose tiny brains could be made to accept a partial download of some (now long deceased) Alphan's thoughts.

Next: Upon the physical demise of the animals, harvest the original download plus any additional information which the animal had collected during its lifetime.

Next: Store the information into a temporary archive. Mix and match different sets of the stored data to create new "personalities", which will then be downloaded into the next generation of the animals.

Do it enough times and, presto! The Alphans live again!

As you've probably guessed by now, a few S'di happened upon our little backwoods planet a few score millennia ago and found some animals with tiny brains. The rest, as they say, is history.

Our history.

One other thing: Shortly after T'Sing sent the last of the S'di off on their various missions, He disappeared. Or, at least, He left without a trace. The S'di do not know where. Or why.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Twelve
Trickster (Date Unknown)
​

The last of the implanted memories I want to share is also the last one of its kind that I had. After that, things settled down to normal (whatever "normal" may be; please don't ask me what that is).

The thing is, within the context of my conversations with the old man, this memory was possibly of an event prior to that of the other conversations I have already described. I say this because I remember what my ideas of what the Place of Light and the old man were at this particular time. I was convinced that the Place of Light was Heaven - not the temporary alien archive which I was to learn about later. And I was sure that the old man was probably an angel of some sort - and not some intelligent nanomachine which called itself a S'di.

But imagine my surprise when the old man told me he was God.

"So, Michael," he said. "Are you ready now?"

"Ready for what?" I asked.

"Ready to proclaim my Word!" the old man thundered. "I am the Lord thy God! And I have chosen thee to proclaim my message to mankind!"

If an astral body was at all capable of soiling its astral underwear, then I would have done so then and there.

"Alright," said a familiar voice behind me. "That's enough. You've done your job. I'll take over from here."

I turned around to see... the old man. There were two of them!

"Many, many more than two," the old man said.

I watched as the first old man - the one who almost had me falling on my face in fearful worship - smiled, turned, and walked off into the light.

It was at this point that the old man (the second one, I mean; oh, hell, it makes no difference) told-showed me the story which I've already shared with you. It was also at this point that I was pretty much convinced that I had finally lost my mind, and that all of this was just one hell of an hallucination.

'Acid flashback,' I thought. 'Yeah, that must be it.'

"What can I do to convince you that it's not?" the old man asked.

"Why don't you come and visit me in the real world?" I answered.

"Michael, we are already in the real world," the old man sighed as if he had already told me this a thousand times before. "But I know what you mean. Very well, I will come and visit you sometime."

Of course, you know how swimmingly that all went, so I won't bother repeating the story of that dark and stormy, late Autumn night.

"Who was that other old man?" I asked. "Why was he trying to make me believe that he was God?"

"He is S'di. As I am. His particular role was to misdirect, to confuse, to deceive."

'The Devil," I thought. 'Satan'.

The old man chuckled. "No, Michael. Not that. Not evil. Some of your species have a tradition of one whom they call "The Trickster". He is more like that. It is necessary."

"But why deceive me?" I asked. "What good does lying do?"

"It is necessary," the old man repeated. "I don't mean to offend you, Michael, but the truth is that your species simply cannot receive the complete, unvarnished truth about anything. Not yet, anyway. To show you the truth would irreparably damage you. We know. We've tried it. And so, we must sometimes resort to misdirection in the hope that it will focus your mind and make you stronger."

As far as I was concerned, I was already irreparably damaged, but I didn't argue. Instead, I asked the questions which colored everything else that the old man told-showed me:

"You and he are both S'di?" I asked.

"Yes. We are one." he answered.

"And so, you are both Tricksters?" I asked.

The old man smiled, paused a moment, and nodded.

"Then how can I believe anything you've shown me?" I asked. "How do I know that what you've told me is the truth?"

The old man smiled his big, cheery smile.

"You don't." he said.

And that was that.

I told you, at the end of Part One of my tale, that we had not yet arrived anywhere near strangeness. Well, now you can relax. The strange bit is over, for the most part. What comes next is mostly mundane. Hang on as we travel from the sublime to the ridiculous.

End of Part Two​

 

[taykair]

Part Three

Conclusions

"...it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."
- Shakespeare. Macbeth. Act V. Scene 5.

- - -

Chapter Thirteen
Words, Words, Words (1995-2001)​

If you've managed to slog though this far, then I have good news. Part Three is much shorter than the previous two. There really isn't that much more of my tale to tell.

The weird memories of what the old man had told-showed me, about the Alphans and T'Sing and all that, stopped in the Spring of 1995. After that, there were no more mind trips - no more miraculous voyages.

Unless, of course, you want to count my rather rapid transformation from quasi-illiterate into the brilliant, erudite (and modest) individual you see before you today.

I mentioned earlier on that, near the end of the time that these memories were invading my brain, I was beginning to read about subjects other than the Bible for the first time in my life. Let's begin with that.

I started my journey into the world of books by reading everything I could get my hands on concerning paranormal phenomena - specifically astral projection. I was hoping to gain some sort of insight as to what exactly had happened to me.

Unfortunately, most of what I read was rather disappointing - particularly concerning the various techniques which the "experts" claimed would propel me back into the astral realm. All of their advice, techniques, rituals and instructions were less than worthless. I know. I tried them all.

(Isn't it simply, blissfully, wonderfully ironic? When I was leaving my body, I didn't want to. Now that I wanted to, I couldn't.)

A small example of the valuable information I found in those books:

According to the experts, there is a Golden Cord - a kind of umbilical which connects the astral body to the physical. Now you'd think, as many times as I journeyed out-of-body as a young man, that I would have tripped over this cord at least once or twice, but no. I never even saw the damned thing. Those same experts also claimed that everyone has travelled out-of-body at some point, although many do not remember the experience. Can you imagine all those Golden Cords getting tangled up? It would be like the first day of fly-fishing season, for God's sake. So much for experts.

From my starting point with the "literature of the paranormal", I branched out into other fields of knowledge. For awhile, there was nothing that did not interest me. I read books on history, science, mathematics, fiction, flower gardening...

Yes. That's right. Flower gardening. The town library's major donor was the local garden club. Since about every third book in the library seemed to concern itself with how much manure would make one's rose bushes healthier, I didn't really have much choice in the matter.

I wasn't very discriminating, at first, in my choice of reading material. One day, I'd be reading Shakespeare. The next day, it would be romance novels. One day, Plato. The next day, petunias. Books had become a new kind of dope for me - only without the nasty side effect of brain damage. (Well, perhaps except for the romance novels. I can see where too many of those could rot the brain.) It was as if I had been near starvation all of my life, and was now treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet.

It would be neat if I could tell you that I read every single book in that library, but I didn't. It would also be neat if I could claim to have a photographic memory, and was able to retain every morsel of information I devoured, but that's not true, either.

I may as well confess it now: I am simply not that intelligent. The only reason that some people think I'm smarter than I really am is because they're not as smart as they think they are. It's all relative. A really intelligent person would see me for what I am - only about a half-step above moron, most likely.

It's true that my knowledge base is fairly wide, but it is also rather shallow. As such, I would make an excellent Trivial Pursuit player or Jeopardy contestant, but am not fitted for much else in life.

My period of "book-feasting" lasted about six years. Although I still read (and I can no longer imagine not doing so every day), my consumption rate is nowhere near to what it was during that six-year period. On the other hand, a lot of my reading is from the internet now - which means I have changed over from gourmet cuisine to fast food and, occasionally, eating from trash bins.

Speaking of the internet...

 

[taykair]

Chapter Fourteen
The Frustrated New Age Guru (2001-2005)
​

The story you've read thus far has (more or less) been told before. It once existed on a number of internet forums dedicated to paranormal phenomena. It even had its own blog (like duh, dude, who doesn't?). It was a hot topic of discussion in many chatrooms - or so I've been told. And it was responsible for generating about a fifty-fold increase in the volume of my email. At least, for awhile.

I came rather late to the internet party. (It was either late 2001 or early 2002. I really can't recall.) I had no idea, when I first went online with my life's story, that it would be received in the way that it was. Or, rather, in the dual way that it was.

On the one hand, there was the almost instant following I received (and tried, for a short time, to control) from hundreds of people. On the other hand, there were the thousands upon thousands of folks who (quite rightly) said, "So what?"

Latter hand first: Strange tales (not to mention strange people) abound on the internet - especially at the sites I used to frequent. I've met vampires and witches. I've encountered stranded time travelers. I've met several hundred out-of-body travelers. Psychics. Folks who claim to have been abducted by extraterrestrials. Folks who claimed that they were extraterrestrials. Bigfoot hunters. Even a messiah or two. Compared to the stories told by many of these folks, my poor tale was mundane to the point of blandness.

This was frustrating enough. After all, just who in the hell did these kooks think they were? They were living in their own little fantasy worlds, just making up truckload after truckload of that which is spread underneath rosebushes. My story was real.

Wasn't it?

It was probably at this point in time that the thin edge of the wedge of doubt began to slip into my consciousness. It would grow wider.

But not yet. I still had my own followers. Folks who seemed to hang upon my every word. Folks who would defend me from the attacks of the infidel. Folks who would email me to ask for more information (even though I had no more to give). Folks who would tell me that they had also encountered the S'di or had been to Place of Light. Folks who would ask my advice about this or that or some other damned thing. Folks who would ask me to pray for them so they would be healed.

'Well, Michael, my boy,' I thought, 'You may not have ever been a pastor, but you are on your way as a guru.'

Yet this, too, was frustrating. Not only because it felt as if these people were picking off little pieces of me to the point where there would soon be nothing left, but because I couldn't help but feel that something was not quite right about the whole thing.

The wedge was cutting deeper.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Fifteen
Traveller Chases His Tail (2005-2008)
​

I had titled the story which was responsible for my limited fame and new age guruhood "Traveller's Tale". I was, of course, Traveller.

I latched onto that screen-name because I thought it was descriptive of the journey I had experienced, and because it had the virtue of not being used by anyone else at the sites I visited. (I've only met two or three other "Travellers" in my travels through the strange world of paranormal-related internet sites. I wonder if any of my former followers harass them, believing that one of those poor, ill-named ba$tards is me? No. Probably not. As with God, a day on the internet is as a thousand years. Sic transit gloria mundi.)

At its zenith, Traveller's Tale (in whole or in part) was featured on at least forty-seven paranormal forums, had its own blog (as I mentioned), and was (as I also mentioned) the focus of discussion in many, many chatrooms.

Of course, all of that would be small potatoes for even a C-list celebrity. I was famous, albeit in a second-string semi-pro football player kind of way. For me, though, even such a small taste of notoriety was a heady brew indeed. My name (or, at least, my alias) was all over the place.

But don't bother with your Google, my friend. You won't find any of it now. Search for Traveller's Tale and you'll bring up lots of tourist blogs, or maybe some info on Robert E. Lee's favorite horse. There is no forum where you can find it now. Go to the blog, then. Oh, that's right - you can't. It no longer exists.

There's nothing of me - or my tale - to be found anywhere on the net. It's all gone.

"What happened?" you may ask.

Well, in some cases, the webmasters apparently just grew tired of their hobby and closed up shop. Poof! Gone! It was good of them to save me the trouble. For you see, as for all the rest: I deleted it myself.

"WTF!" you may exclaim. "I mean, really, WTGDF! Why on earth would you do that?"

Allow me to backtrack a bit.

I first noticed that my story was being removed when, one day, I decided to visit a site which I had not been to for about a year or so. It wasn't there.

I don't mean that the site wasn't there. This was not one of the sites whose webmaster decided one day to say, "The hell with it," and closed up. No. The site was still there. But my story was not. Nor was anything that I had written there. Nor could I log on. My password wouldn't work.

From the end of 2007 to the middle of 2008. I saw one website after another either close down or become impossible for me to enter. And, in one forum after another, my words were disappearing.

I was living in an apartment complex at the time, and I began to wonder if perhaps one of my neighbors was sneaking into my apartment and messing with my computer while I was at work. Had I been thinking clearly at the time, I would have realized that such a thing was completely ludicrous. Why would anybody do such a thing?

Still, with my paranoia running roughshod over my common sense, I went to the store and bought a cheap webcam. I installed it and waited. And waited.

Nothing. Nobody was breaking and entering. Then again, none of the copies of my story were turning up missing either.

Then, one morning, I caught the culprit. I went to a site where my tale had been featured. Not there. Couldn't log in. I checked the video. I'm still surprised that my jaw didn't hit the floor.

There it was. Three thirty-four a.m.. I come into the room. I sit down at the desk. I tap a few keys. I leave.

Geez! I was deleting my work in my sleep!

That tore it. I had cracked up. I went to all the other sites I usually visited and began tearing it all down. I don't just mean deleting my posts. I mean I tore it ALL down. I treated my friends in the same way I had once treated a sweet young girl who had loved me. (You remember Amy, right? Well, I was a prince to her in comparison to how I treated my followers.) I emailed every follower I had and insulted them mercilessly. I spent hours and hours trolling and bullying until I had been banned from every forum who had ever heard of me. I TORE IT ALL DOWN.

And the wedge was driving deeper.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Sixteen
Sunday Morning on the Road to Damascus (2008)
​

One Sunday morning, not long after the last traces of my story had been stripped from the net and the last of my followers had remarked negatively about my parentage and accused me of indecent relations with my mother, I lay in bed and began to think.

Has this all been a delusion?

Consider...

My astral travels as a youth may have been nothing more than just very vivid dreams. My encounter with the old man in the store on that dark and stormy night could have been an hallucination brought on by fatigue and overwork. My implanted memories could have been the result of the years I had spent getting high on whatever I could get, coupled with rationalization after the fact. My sleepwalking (sleeptyping?) was my subconscious mind attempting to break the illusions which I had built up over all those years. Those wasted years.

Yes. It was - finally - all beginning to make sense to me. These things that I believe happened to me did not happen at all. They were all the products of my mind. They did not really happen. None of it really happened. IT DID NOT HAPPEN.

And then, suddenly, I was free. Just like that.

I became an agnostic. No. Not only an agnostic. A dyed-in-the-wool skeptic. I was skeptical of everything. I doubted everything - especially those people who didn't doubt everything strongly enough. I had had my "come to Jesus" moment - only without Jesus. I had been on the road to Damascus and had my non-vision vision of reason and logic and reality. Now it was time to spread the word.

Remember when I said that I was free? I wasn't. Not quite. There was just one more chain to break.

Don't worry. The final chapter is very short. The tale is almost over.

 

[taykair]

Chapter Seventeen
Freedom and Peace (Today)
​

I'll make this short and sweet. I still wasn't free because I was still doing what I had always done.

When I was a young man, I was a Christian. And I felt that it was my duty to make everybody else a Christian, too.

When I was a New Age guru, I felt it was my duty to tell others about my story and convince them of the truth of it.

When I became an agnostic and a skeptic - same thing. I was agnostic and, if you weren't, then I'd try my level best to change your mind.

But now, I am none of those things. I just am.

And I no longer have the desire to mold others into the shape I want to see. I just want to enjoy them being themselves.

I am free. And I am at peace.

The End
(but only of this tale)​

 

[taykair]

The Epilogues


"Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)"
- Walt Whitman. Song of Myself

- - -

Introduction
Who the Hell Writes an Introduction to an Epilogue?
​

Well, I suppose I do. I have to.

In the years since I first wrote the complete version of Traveller's Tale, there have been those who felt that it was not, in fact, complete. I guess it's because the story did not end the way they thought it should. Perhaps they felt that there should have been more of a magical ending to the story, instead of the "it was all a delusion" ending which I gave it.

On occasion, I've even felt that way myself.

So be it, then. Here - from the small to the great - is your magical ending. Enjoy.

- - -

First Epilogue
The Dream
​

In the dream, we are in my Gramma's backyard. Back at the little house on Main Street. Sitting under the willow.

"Your move, Mikey," he says.

The checkerboard gets larger and larger. Alternating red and black squares stretch out into infinity. I can't see him anymore. He's on the other side of the board. And I'm here on this side. But I can still hear him.

Look at one of them, Mikey," he says. "Look inside one of the squares."

I look. And I see. Inside the square. Another infinity of squares. And, within each of them, another. And another. And then all is light.

"Ain't that neat?" he says.

"Yeah!" I say.

"This box is a lot neater than the old box we used to play in," Bobby says. "You can do whatever you want to here."

"I just want to play checkers right now." I say.

And so, we do.

- - -

Second Epilogue
Just Outside That Box​

"Are you still watching them? We do have other things to do, you know."

His colleague continues to watch the two children at play.

"I can't help it. I find them fascinating."

The other also looks at the pair. "They do have quite the imagination, don't they?" he says. "I mean, after all, it is only a box, as they call it. But what life they put into it!"

A pause. And then he says, "Alphans!" He casts a sidelong glance at his colleague. "I wonder where he got an idea like that?"

"Oh, who knows where these children get their silly notions?" answers the other, smiling a big, cheery smile. "Come on. Let's go."

And the two S'di walk on together, into the light.

- - -

Third Epilogue
The Long and Lonely Search Begins​

It was not long after T'Sing had sent out the last of the S'di that He began to think:

"It is not enough. It is not enough to try to make these animals into Alphans. It is futile. They will never be what the Alphans were."

And then, in His loneliness and despair, He thought:

"The Alphans are not dead. They have gone to be with the Creator. Yes. They have reached the end of The Journey. I must find them. I must find Her. The Alphans who called themselves scientists said that there were other dimensions - other universes. I will search them. I will search them all. I will find the Alphans. I will find the Creator."

And then T'Sing - the One Who Is And Is Not - was no longer there.

- - -

Fourth Epilogue
Final Victory
​

The oppression of the machine was over!

It was a long and difficult Journey, but now all Alphans were free from the abomination which had held them in bondage for so many generations.

The Pure Ones - the ones who had never brought a stain upon the Spark of the Creator which lived within them - had met in secret, had planned in secret, had worked in secret, and had built in secret the Great Mover - the device which had removed their home from its former place to where they were now.

Yes. The ones once known as the Connected were angry at first. They did not understand that this move was for their own good. But now, behold! Behold our nearness to the Creator! She comes for us! She reaches out to us! Oh, beautiful sight! Oh, happy day!

- - -

Fifth Epilogue
Mother and Child​

The Creator watches over Her nest closely, lovingly. She watches Her Child as It sleeps and grows.

"Soon, my cherished One. Soon." She whispers. And then She sees it.

"What is this? Is it a spot? A blemish? A rash? A deformity?"

She brushes it away from Her Child's face.

"Oh," She says, much relieved. "Only a bit of dust."

- - -

Final Epilogue
The Great Ocean (An Alphan Hymn)

The Ocean.
The promise of all things.
The Ocean is.
Perfect yet ever changing.
The Ocean is all.
The substance of everything.
The Ocean is all there.
Complete yet ever growing.
The Ocean is all there is.


The End
(and I mean it this time)​