Sephirot, p.24
Sephirot, page 24
A fourth portal was at the top of some stairs, and towered over him as he approached, like a marble wall from an ancient temple. This one briefly turned orange beneath his touch, then he was looking over the sandy expanses and azure skies of Hod. A tent, its flag snapping in the wind, was in the distance, and down a hill he could see palm trees and the glitter of water. He recalled the unexpected kindness he’d found there, amongst people who had no reason to befriend him. The memory brought with it a pang that one, perhaps more, of them had paid for that compassion with their lives.
He set out deliberately to find the next portal, and he came upon it around a bend made up of small glittering mirror fragments, like the facets of a fly’s eye. He knew by now where this one would lead, and as he stepped toward it he felt a pull that was purely physical. How long had it been since he had made love to Diana? A warmth radiated from his belly down through his groin at the thought. At his touch the portal turned a deep violet, and then in front of him were the glades of Yesod, lying warm under the stars, and the little lake beside which he had been pleasured morning and night, sometimes more often than that. Diana was not there, but he remembered how good it was, and felt that old need rising in him.
Then he remembered how quickly she had turned on him. Her use of him was in no way a bond. She remained a virgin afterwards, and would never be otherwise, because she gave nothing of herself, only took from him, however fine it was at the time. With some reluctance, he pulled his hand away, and the portal returned to its original swirling white.
Another portal stood only a little farther on. At his touch it darkened, turned a brownish gray, and with the suddenness of a flipped switch, he found himself looking at the dead world of Malkuth. In the distance was the huge, blocky edifice of the Sphinx’s temple. A dry wind vibrated the desiccated plants that had struggled their way up through the rocks millennia ago.
“Nope. Not really excited about going back there. But that’s the first world I visited. Where now?”
“You should be able to answer that,” came a deep voice, resonant, a little hoarse, from somewhere ahead. The passageway toward the voice was edged by a wide curved mirror that twisted his body’s image like taffy, and he walked down an ever-widening path that opened outward like a giant glass funnel. At the end he found himself in the largest room he’d seen yet in this strange, glittering world of reflections. And in the middle was an elderly man seated in a chair, who gave Duncan a gap-toothed grin as he approached. The man wore a red plaid flannel shirt and worn blue jeans, legs stretched out in front of him, feet clad in ancient brown loafers with sprung soles.
“Grandpa?” Duncan said in a breathless whisper as he walked up to the man, his steps slowing. Finally, he stood, staring, heart pounding against his ribcage.
“Still falling for it, are you?” the man said. “I thought you’d figured it out.”
He gave a convulsive swallow. “I... I did. It’s just that it’s… kind of a shock to see you.”
“Why?”
“You... died.”
“I did? Fancy that.” The man looked down at himself, patted his sides and thighs, and then said, “I’m in pretty fine shape for a dead guy.”
“What is your name?” His mouth was dry, and his tongue didn’t want to work.
“Doesn’t matter. You wouldn’t believe it, no matter what I told you. What do you think my name is?”
“My mom’s father was named Arthur Salazar,” he said. “But you’ll tell me you’re not him.”
“Will I?” The man shrugged. “All right, then.”
“But what is your real name?”
“Whatever you choose to name me. You don’t get to decide whether something’s real. You discovered that the hard way in Gevurah. But you do get to decide what your posture toward it is going to be. If you want me to be your grandfather, well, you can do that.”
“My deciding to go along with the illusion doesn’t make it any more real, though.”
“Doesn’t make it any less, either.”
He shook his head. “My grandfather was one of the smartest, kindest men I’ve ever known. And each place I’ve been, there’s been someone there who has looked like a person I know. And they’ve all kept an essential part of the original person’s character.”
“It’s a mystery,” the man said, his eyes sparkling.
“Sure. You’re trying to tell me I should know what all of this is about by now. But maybe because you look like my grandfather, who always helped me and supported me, you’ll tell me what the hell is going on, here.”
“Uh-huh. Support. Give you all the answers.”
He frowned. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Sure sounded like it.” The man cleared his throat. “Lookit, kid, it’s not like this is supposed to be easy. Why’d it be worth going through what you’ve been through, if the answer was some simple bullshit that anyone could have told you without you ever leaving your easy chair?”
“That’s exactly what my grandpa would have told me.”
“There you go, then.”
“Okay. Where do I go from here?”
“Wherever you want to, seems to me. There’s doorways to most anywhere in this place.”
He looked around him. Everywhere he looked, reflections of himself and the man in the chair, and then reflections of those reflections, angled off into infinity. “What is this world?”
“Well, it’s not really a world. Not a world on its own, y’understand. It’s more of a way station. In the old days it was called Da’at. But I don’t know that it’s called much of anything, now, because it isn’t much of anywhere. On the other hand, it’s useful. You can jump from here to wherever you like.”
“Wherever?” A hope rose in him, a hope that he at first tried not to pay attention to.
“Well, most anywhere.”
“What about back home?”
He shrugged. “Could be. I don’t know where all the portals lead. It’s not like I go through ’em myself, or anything.”
“Why not?”
“I’m not like most of the folks you meet. I don’t need to go anywhere. People come to me.”
“Like a spider in a web.”
He smiled. “Just like. Except I’m not gonna eat you.”
“That’s a relief.” He gestured around him. “I’ve wandered around here for a little while, and so far seen portals to all the worlds I’ve visited, but I don’t have much desire to visit any of them again. You said that there are other portals?”
“Sure there are. Hundreds. There’s one right up there.” The man aimed one gnarled finger up a set of steps made of slabs of silvered glass.
“Where does that one lead?”
“Dunno. Nothing stopping you from taking a look, though.”
He swiveled his head toward the staircase, then looked back at the man who looked like his grandfather. The man shrugged, in a gesture that was so like the Arthur Salazar that Duncan remembered and still missed that his eyes teared up. But he turned away again, then walked to the staircase and ascended it. At the top was a massive white block, solid, immovable. He reached out both hands, and pressed on its warm, greasy surface with his fingertips.
It immediately turned onyx black.
He squinted at it, waiting for something more to happen, and then the block became transparent, like a window without a speck of dust. And he peered through it into the interior of his own apartment.
It was night. The window was open, the curtains rippling in the breeze. Moonlight played on the surfaces, turning them a silvery gray, showing up every fiber in the carpet, the furniture casting angular, misshapen shadows against the wall. There was no hole in the floor, nothing amiss.
It looked exactly the way it had the moment before his plunge into the catacombs of Malkuth.
“Dear god,” he said under his breath. And then with no conscious volition he stepped through the portal, and found himself once again standing, naked, in the living room of his apartment, the sounds of traffic coming in through the window, the warm, humid breeze of a July night brushing his bare skin.
Chapter 9
Binah
Duncan looked around him, his expression dazed.
No. No, it can’t be. It can’t. Not after what I’ve been through.
He reached up, pulled fingers through his hair, and found that it was once again the short cut he’d had when he started, not the long, thick ponytail he’d worn when he stepped through the mirror in Chesed. His bare feet felt glued to the floor. All he could do was stand and stare in mute astonishment.
From where he was he could see into the kitchen. Piled in the sink were the dishes left from the evening’s meal, still left unwashed because he and Libby had been too amorous to spend their time together cleaning dishes, and had retired to the bedroom shortly after the meal was over. A Sports Illustrated was face down on the coffee table, pages open to the last article he’d read, how long ago was it? Months? Years? A few hours?
There was no way to tell. And even if he’d decided, the answer wouldn’t have meant anything.
Finally, he got his feet to move, and went across the room, avoiding the spot where the cave-in had occurred. Better safe than sorry. The last thing he wanted was to start over.
He opened the door to his bedroom. In the dim light from a distant street lamp, shining in through a gap in the curtains, he could see the rumpled blankets and twisted bedsheets, a pillow that was askew, and even the empty plastic water bottle he’d knocked off the night stand.
But Libby wasn’t there.
He stepped out into the hall again, to see if maybe she was in the bathroom. The door was open, and the light was off, but he crossed the hall and peered in.
Empty.
“Libby?”
No answer.
He returned to the bedroom, put his hand on the mattress. On the right side, where he always slept when they were together, there was still warmth, as if he’d just arisen. The left side, though, was cool to the touch. Gone also was her pile of clothes, tossed one by one to the floor as they’d undressed each other.
His, of course, were still there, lying where they were thrown.
It was too much to wrap his brain around. Feeling a sudden uprush of emotion that left him near tears, he went to the bed and dropped into it, curled up on his side, pulled the blankets up around him, and fell into a deep sleep.
Duncan woke up when his alarm went off at seven o’clock. He blinked, yawned, and stretched, and looked over to the other side of the bed, half expecting Libby to be there, her long black hair fanning out over the pillow.
She wasn’t.
He got up, grabbed his bathrobe from its hook on the door, and walked into the kitchen to put on coffee. Coffee… how long had it been since he’d had any coffee? Once again, the thought of How much time has actually passed? crossed his mind, floating past unanswered, likely unanswerable.
When the coffee pot was making comforting gurgling sounds, he decided to hit the shower. But as he was walking out of the kitchen, he glanced over at the telephone.
He picked it up, dialed Libby’s number.. If he woke her up, that was too bad. He had to know where she was.
He picked up the receiver, and dialed Libby’s number. On the sixth ring, there was a click, and her familiar voice saying, “Hi, this is Libby. I’m not here right now, or maybe I’m deliberately ignoring you. Either way, you can leave a message, and if I don’t call you back you’ll know which it was.”
He smiled a little at hearing her voice, but the smile evaporated. If at seven in the morning she wasn’t here, and wasn’t in her own apartment, where was she?
He went into the bathroom, turned on the light and the tap, and then shucked his robe. He stuck a finger under the stream of water, and when he found it was just warming up he stood and stretched, arching his back like a cat.
And that’s when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror.
There was a long, uneven white scar on his right cheek. He stared for a moment, as if he could not quite believe what he was seeing. He looked down at his belly, and smaller, fainter, was the scar of a knife-wound in his side.
His breathing accelerated. He leaned toward the mirror over the sink, twisting at the waist, looking at his back and shoulders. And crisscrossing his skin like a spider’s web were dozens of long white scars, the remnants of the blows of a many-thonged leather whip that had been used on him in another world.
“What the fuck? Where am I?”
The water ran, steam rising from the bathtub, warming the air. Moving like a sleepwalker, he pulled the knob that turned on the shower, and stepped under the spray. He went through the motions of cleaning himself on auto-pilot, shampooing his hair, soaping and rinsing the rest of him, then shutting the shower off and reaching for his towel. He dried off, and while he was doing so, glanced in the direction of the mirror. It was now too fogged to see his own image.
That had to have been a hallucination. Post-traumatic stress disorder.
But post-traumatic stress after… what? A dream? What the fuck was all of that? All of the worlds and portals and so on, and then he ends up back in his apartment, apparently on the same night he left it?
And then a more sinister voice added, But if it was only a dream, where is Libby?
He rehung his towel, opened the bathroom door, and went into his bedroom. He stood, naked, in front of the full-length mirror affixed to the inside of his closet door.
The scars were still there. He stared at them, trying to make sense of it, and finally gave up. He walked to his dresser, pulled boxers, shorts, and a t-shirt out, and tossed them on the bed. Was it a work day? Should he be getting ready for another exciting day of paper pushing at Carthen, Douglas, and Prescott? He decided he didn’t give a damn if it was.
No way was he going in. He’d call in sick. He had to have some time to get this all figured out.
He dressed, walking out into the living room as he was tugging his t-shirt into place, and gave Libby another call. He got her voicemail again.
Okay, call work. Maybe Tania was already there. At least she’d be able to tell him if he’d gone batshit insane or not.
But a call to Carthen, Douglas, and Prescott Financial Consultants also connected to voicemail. He glanced at the clock. It was 7:42, and the office didn’t open until nine. So that wasn’t that odd.
Yes, it is, the sinister voice in his head said. It’s all odd. There’s something seriously wrong here.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, and returned to the phone and dialed his parents’ number. His dad was an early riser, and would already be off to work at the electrical repair company he owned and managed. His mom, on the other hand, was a nurse at Colville General Hospital, and she usually worked the afternoon-into-evening shift. Chances are, she should be home…
… but six rings in, it went to voicemail. “You have reached the home of Thalia and Dennis Kyle,” came his mother’s voice. “We’re not able to come to the phone right now, but leave your name and number—”
He hung up.
Who else? Who else could he call?
No one, said the sinister voice. They’re all gone. Everyone you know is gone, like in those creepy movies where people vanish one by one, and eventually only the main character is left, slowly going crazy…
“Oh, shut up.” He picked up his cup of coffee and went to the window. It still stood open, the curtains fluttering a little. He pulled them back, and looked out from his vantage point on the second floor of the building.
He saw just what he expected to see. Cars moving down Lee Street, slowing as they approached the stop sign a little further on. A tweedy elderly man walking a little white shih-tzu down the sidewalk. Trees, bright green in the July sunshine. A corner of the apartment parking lot, where an overweight woman was trying to maneuver a car seat into the back of a little Toyota Corolla while clutching a screaming infant in the other hand.
All ordinary, nothing that was inexplicable or mysterious or ominous.
He took a sip of coffee.
So he was home. He was home and it looked like no time at all elapsed, through all of those weeks and months he’d spent in other worlds, trying to find his way back. Whatever the meaning of it all, at least he was back where he belonged.
But the scars, came the sinister voice, the one he thought he had successfully silenced. What about the scars? You don’t get scars in a dream or a hallucination.
There was no good answer to that. He drained the rest of his coffee, and walked back to the telephone, and dialed work again. This time when he got voicemail, he said, “Hi. This is Duncan Kyle. I’m feeling sick today, and won’t be in. If anything urgent comes up, give me a call. I’ll be in tomorrow. Thanks.”
He hung up, then grabbed his sandals and slipped them on, took his keys from a hook next to the door, and left his apartment.
Duncan spent the morning driving around Colville. He passed his workplace, but the windows were still dark, the parking lot empty. He went to the Colville Bakery, got a scone and another cup of coffee, and then got the idea of going to see if his dad was at work. Dennis Kyle would undoubtedly wonder why Duncan wasn’t at work himself, but he decided he’d make up some excuse on the fly. There had to be something, someone to tie him down, bring him back into the familiar world he’d left, and in which everyone who had appeared in both worlds seemed to have blown away in the night like leaves in a storm.
K & G Electrical Repair was on North Pine Street, across town from his apartment. Dennis Kyle had started the company over twenty years ago with a friend, Adrian Gartner, who had wanted out of the business five years in. Dennis Kyle had bought out Adrian’s share, but the company stayed K & G, mostly because the name mattered less to him than the quality of the work and the loyalty of the customers. The business was housed in a long, narrow two-room space in a large, low brick building that also was home to an appliance rental store and a place that sold pet supplies. The front room had bins and cabinets filled with parts, tools, and equipment, the back room was a small office containing Dennis’s desk, a computer, and a file cabinet with twenty years’ worth of receipts and records. It was a spare, practical place, no frills, orderly and pragmatic.
