False mirrors, p.7
False Mirrors, page 7
I sure had that wrong, he mused, tugging the notebooks he wanted from the box. The anthropologist had quickly discovered that Jim's enhanced senses were as much of a curse as a blessing. After a dose of over-the-counter cold medicine had nearly cost the Sentinel his life, his Guide had made it his business to become an expert on anything and everything which could possibly pose a danger to his partner. And he had kept copious notes, as anal about his research as Jim was about housekeeping.
Let's hope all that effort pays off now, he thought grimly as he focused his attention on one of the journals he'd selected and started to review his notes.
He slammed the lid on the fifth box, seething in frustration and pushed himself to his feet. Grimacing at the painful tingles in his legs and the ache in his lower back, he limped out of his room toward the kitchen. His eyes automatically sought the clock on the microwave.
"Three-thirty?" he groaned. "Can't be..."
He grabbed a new mug, poured the remaining dregs of coffee from the carafe into it and stuck the cup inside the microwave, jabbing angrily at the control panel. He leaned wearily against the edge of the counter, feeling his anger drain away as the appliance hummed to life. He was too tired to hold onto the raw emotion for long, and he didn't need the negative energy sucking him dry.
I'm already running on fumes as it is.
He took a deep breath and released it slowly. He had checked every reference he had against the few sensory clues that either Jim had given him or he had observed himself, and he had found nothing to match what was happening to his partner.
He'd felt a surge of hope when he located the results of a vision test he'd run shortly after he had met the detective. Most human beings could detect light only within a narrow segment of the electromagnetic spectrum, but the data had implied that the Sentinel had a visual range which went well beyond 'normal' limits. Over the years, Blair had seen the proof with his own eyes. Day or night, his partner's eyesight was impressive. Searching for a connection to the vision problems Jim was experiencing now -- the flashes of light, the increased sensitivity -- the anthropologist had reread his notes on the experiment eagerly, but they simply confirmed what he already knew. The scribbled entries in the margins were no help either.
So what if snakes can detect longer wavelengths of infrared light and insects can detect the shorter wavelengths of ultraviolet? Or that snakes are deaf to air-borne sounds? While probably interesting in the obscure, those tidbits don't do me a damn bit of good at the moment.
The microwave 'dinged' and Blair punched at the release button. He muttered a curse at the sight of the bubbling black sludge. Great... I must have screwed up the settings... He gingerly lifted the cup by the handle and quickly deposited it in the sink. The two mugs of tea he had prepared earlier were still on the counter. The tea wouldn't supply the caffeine fix he needed, but it would at least be palatable. "Assuming you can manage to set the timer right this time," he grumbled. He placed one cup in the microwave and carefully entered the proper codes. While the clock ticked through its countdown, his mind ticked through his partner's list of symptoms.
Altered sleep pattern, persistent headache, lack of control over his sensory dials, lack of appetite... those are all pretty general... could mean problems with one sense or all five... lights are brighter... sounds are more intense... touch he hasn't mentioned... have to remember to ask him about that... smell... well, it's pretty obvious that sense is working, given his reactions to one particular odor...
Blair shuddered as the scene in the morgue played out in his head once more.
Thank God that other body was there. Whoever she was, I owe her a debt of gratitude. If it hadn't been for the lack of that damn smell on her corpse, I wouldn't have been able to convince Jim he wasn't going insane.
Frustration and anxiety spurred him into motion. He grabbed a kitchen towel and channeled the nervous energy into a determined cleaning spurt, scrubbing at invisible specs of dirt and moisture on the countertop.
You've all but ruled out changes to his environment, food and beverage intake, and his contact with any other foreign substances. What's left?
Stress, which a cop's life provided in abundance, could account for the Sentinel's problems and changes in behavior -- especially the loss of sensory control -- but Blair suspected it was a contributing factor, not the underlying cause. His partner had been under far worse strain in the past and this particular combination of symptoms had never materialized. It was possible the headache was a manifestation of a medical problem though, something entirely unrelated to his senses. That thought gave Blair a new set of chills.
Jim's in great shape. He works out regularly, he eats better than he ever did before I entered the picture and he isn't taking any medications outside of the aspirin he's been downing to deal with the headache. Still, if I can't come up with another explanation, I'm going to have to get him into the hospital for some tests... oh yeah... that'll be fun...
Blair glared at the pristine Formica wishing the sparkling, inanimate surface would spring to life like a Ouija board and answer his desperate questions.
His senses are all functioning, they're just erratic... all but taste supercharged... but not all the time. Whatever that smell is, it seems to be the trigger. He's had at least marginal control over the dials except for when he's been exposed to that odor... then he loses it. Why? Is it sense memory kicking in? Has he come into contact with that smell, maybe even the killer at some point in the past and his subconscious is trying to remind him?
Blair took a last swipe at the counter and balled up the towel, tossing it aside. There was only one way to test that theory.
We'll have to try to analyze the odor... break it down... figure out exactly what it is. If that doesn't do the trick, then I'll have to walk him back through the times he's reacted to it...
Exposing his Sentinel to something which obviously terrified him was the last thing Blair wanted to do. What if he couldn't control Jim's reactions? His partner was still standing on shaky ground. What if Blair pushed too hard and sent him careening off the edge of the precipice? He shook his head angrily.
Come on, Sandburg. Think! he admonished himself. Turn the problem around. Try a new --
A crashing roll of thunder pulled his gaze to the balcony as the lights went out, plunging the loft into darkness.
~~FLASH~~
Wind and rain beat against the glass doors, sending sheets of water coursing down the panes. The dark clouds boiled and thunder rumbled ominously. Mother Nature released the full fury of her power with a sonic boom of thunder and jagged streaks of lightning that lit the sky to diamond-white brilliance. The force of the assault rattled the glass doors and sent an answering tremble vibrating through his aching muscles...
~~FLASH~~
Another volley of violent thunder and an ear-piercing strike of lightning nearly rocked him off his feet. Blinded by the afterimage of the flash that danced madly across his retinas, Blair stared out into unending night, swamped by an overwhelming wave of terror...
~~FLASH~~
He stared at his ghostly reflection in the glass doors, too dazed to question how or when he had moved from the kitchen. The rivulets of water cascading down the panes mirrored the tears that streaked down his cheeks...
~~FLASH~~
Lightning flashed again and the thunder rolled in a counter point beat to the drums in the music. His focus shifted outward, following the swirling masses of clouds. Pain flared behind his eyes and the sensation of being physically removed from his body grew stronger...
~~FLASH~~
Suddenly he was in the dream again. The hallway still stretched before him...
The lights flared to life.
"Whoa!" Blair hissed, taking a startled step backward. He caught sight of his own reflection in the glass panes of the balcony doors and froze. "What the hell?... How did I...?"
He stared out into the storm, running trembling fingers through his hair, trying to remember when he'd moved from the kitchen.
He couldn't.
Lightning flashed again, and he retreated, stumbling backward until he came up hard against the couch. His knees gave way and he sank down on the arm, hugging himself against the nearly overwhelming emotions which raged through him in mimicry of the storm outside.
~~FLASH~~
Alone...
"NO!" he snarled. "That was before... this is now!"
He dragged ragged snatches of air into his lungs, his chest heaving with the effort. A screaming voice inside his head warned he was in danger of hyperventilating and he struggled to regain some semblance of control.
It's not real... It was a flashback... this isn't three months ago... there's no poison in your system... the cup of tea cooling in the microwave isn't full of cleaning chemicals... and you're not alone... Jim's right upstairs!
The thought of his sleeping Sentinel gave the reeling Guide the final incentive to get himself under control. He turned and glanced upward, straining to see if there was any sign of his partner on the stairs. Nothing. No sound but the storm. No movement from the upper loft.
Blair breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank God... I don't want him to see me like this..."
He pushed himself to his feet and staggered across the room to the kitchen. He grabbed the mug of tea out of the microwave and raised it to his lips, grateful for the soothing warmth. He forced himself to stand there and drink the entire cupful, taking small measured sips between each deeply drawn breath. When the mug was empty, he set it down on the counter with exaggerated care.
"Well... that was... unexpected," he murmured shakily. "So was it deja vu at its worst, or is someone trying to tell me something?"
He turned slowly, his gaze drawn to the ancient book on the kitchen table. He swallowed hard and walked over to pick it up. Fingering the tooled pattern of the leather cover almost reverently, he stared out at the slowly abating storm, his shoulders slumping as his partner's teasing comment from the previous morning rang in his ears.
"First it's fairy tales now it's fables... what is it with you, Sandburg?... Real life not exciting enough for you that you've suddenly developed a passion for the Brother's Grimm? Is that what's in the book you've had your nose buried in for the last few days?"
"Not fairy tales or fables, man, although you were close," Blair whispered. "It's a story... about a journey... one I thought I'd started upon three months ago..." He clutched the book to his chest, imagining he could feel each stroke of the raised lettering of the title through the fabric of his shirt -- 'The True Path; a treatise on Shamanistic practices'.
A guidebook for a Shaman.
His throat tightened and he closed his eyes against despair. Finding the book had been the answer to his prayers... at least he'd thought so when he'd found the ancient tome tucked away in an obscure used book store. He'd been searching for answers to what had really happened to him three months earlier.
The official version of events was simple: tea bags which he'd kept in a container at the station had accidentally been contaminated with an industrial strength cleaning solvent. He'd drunk the tea and unwittingly poisoned himself. Under normal circumstances, the experience would have been painful, but not necessarily life-threatening. A particularly nasty strain of influenza had turned a serious situation into a nearly fatal one. The combined effects of the virus and the poison had incapacitated him. Fortunately, he'd been found in time. Unable to reach him by phone, Jim had contacted Simon. The captain had come to the loft to check up on the anthropologist at his detective's request. Blair had been immediately transported to the hospital. He'd woken hours later to find his partner at his bedside with a very 'logical' explanation for his dilemma. After a week's stay in the hospital to flush the toxins out of his system he'd been released. No charges were pressed. Case closed.
The unofficial version didn't end so tidily. Blair's memories of the incident were vague, warped by pain and delirium. He had been alone at the loft that weekend. Jim had flown to Denver on a prisoner extradition with Henri Brown, leaving the grad student in Cascade to finish a paper for one of his classes. When the first of the debilitating symptoms had struck, Blair hadn't realized he'd been poisoned. He'd been completely 'out of it', vomiting up blood, doubled up in agony. He dimly recalled an urgent need to find help, but he'd been in no shape to seek it -- not through any conventional means at least.
Yet Jim had known. Hundreds of miles away from his failing Guide, the Sentinel had sensed something so frightening that he had called in the cavalry, sending a skeptical police captain to the rescue. It had been close. No one had come right out and said it, but Blair knew he would have died if Simon hadn't arrived when he had.
Blair had been lost in a dream, or so it had seemed at the time. Dim as his other memories were, the images of the 'vision' were indelibly etched on his mind. He'd 'walked' through the loft door and had stepped into a hallway filled with green doors. The pattern in the carpet runner had been filled with shapes and figures which had seemed involved in their own little game of hide and go seek. Behind the doors there were voices and sounds, yet he'd been unable to open any of them. He'd traversed the seemingly endless corridor searching for a way out, screaming for help, drawn back into the dreamscape time and time again as his body struggled against the effects of the poison. The surreal universe kept shrinking, doors disappearing, until there was only one left. He had struggled to reach that final door, desperate to make contact with his Sentinel, whose protective presence he sensed on the other side of the green panel.
When it too had finally disappeared, he'd been terrified. Alone. He had almost given up. Only the thought of leaving his Sentinel alone as well had kept the agonized Guide fighting for survival. When a new door had appeared in the swirling fog he'd stationed himself in front of it, instinctively understanding it was the portal which would lead him home. Unable to open it himself, he had waited, held in stasis by a voice which promised salvation, until the door had opened and he had opened his eyes to find Jim hovering over him.
How had the Sentinel known his Guide was at death's door? Blair had worried at that question during his stint in the hospital. Jim kept hedging each time he brought it up, but the anthropologist had been certain his partner was hiding something. It wasn't until they returned to the loft that Blair had gotten confirmation of what he'd suspected.
When pressed, Jim had finally admitted to having a dream which eerily matched Blair's 'vision'. Blair had known then that it hadn't been delirium. No matter what logical explanations anyone else offered, he was convinced that what he'd experienced had been real -- that the 'dreamwalk' had led him to his Sentinel and that it had allowed him to send off a psychic call for help.
"I started on a journey that night," Blair whispered to the silent loft. "A first venture into the world that Incacha's bequest opened up for me. A Shaman walks in more than one world. I thought that's what my dream was all about. I thought that once I'd taken that first step that the way would become clear... that the next ones would be easier..."
Yet despite his best attempts, there hadn't been any next steps. No matter what he'd tried, he hadn't been able to find his way into that alternate world again. And he wanted to, not only for his own sake, but for his Sentinel's.
I need to understand this so that I can help him... Blair pressed the book tighter to his chest and pushed away from the table, pacing out his frustration and his fear. But I've failed... I've failed Incacha and I've failed Jim.
In a fit of irrational anger, he threw the book across the room. It skittered across the hardwood floor and landed face up, the fragile pages fluttering for a moment before they settled. A bolt of lightning sizzled across the sky at the same time, sending a shiver up the younger man's spine and covering his skin with goosebumps. He turned toward the stairs to the upper loft anxiously listening for any sound from his partner, but again, there was nothing. Like a silent shadow, the anthropologist slipped across the room to where the ancient volume lay. Blair's hands were shaking as he stooped to pick it up. He froze, transfixed by the contents of the page it had opened to.
The path to visions: Ayahuasca... the rope of the dead...
The glass panes of the balcony doors rattled as a gust of wind slammed into them. Rain pelted against the side of the building as the storm broke loose again. Blair was drawn back to the windows, the book clenched in his hands.
Drug induced hallucinations... Is that what it takes? Can the doorway to the Shaman's universe only be reached by that means?
He stared bleakly at his own ghostly reflection and grimly considered that frightening possibility. There was precedent to support the theory and it wasn't all archaic practice. Many tribal cultures still used hallucinogens in ritual ceremonies. Ayahuasca wasn't the only option. Some groups of native Americans used poisonous mushrooms like the Amanita muscaria to induce 'visions' during religious ceremonies. In Mexico and Central America peyote, mescal bean, the mushroom called teonanacatl, and a seed called ololiuqui were often used in the quest for spiritual enlightenment.
Blair had observed some of the rites himself and he'd read a great deal of the scientific research. The use of peyote by native Americans was noted by Europeans as early as the 16th century. At the end of the 19th century, a German chemist, Arthur Heffter, had demonstrated that mescaline was responsible for peyote's pharmacological effects. He had proven that Mescaline was related to the amphetamines and that when ingested, it could produce hallucinations -- frequently of a visual nature and characterized by vivid colors, designs, and distorted space perception.
Peyote was widely used by native Americans in the Southwest, and had been incorporated as a sacrament into the Native American Church in 1918. In the user's view, peyote symbolized spiritual power and was eaten to induce a hallucinogenic trance and communion with God.
