Afterlife Crisis

by Randal Graham

  Of course you can’t explain anything to a True Believer like this Norm. I’d told him several times that all of this “Climate Change” he feared hadn’t been caused by Isaac Newton, and that it was simply an emanation — do I mean an emanation? — of the Author’s recent revisions. I’d tried on more than one occasion to explain that Newton’s plans to “change the world” encompassed only quantum thingummies, and that nothing that you couldn’t fit on the head of a pin fell within the purview of this Isaac’s schemes, if purviews are the things I’m thinking of. “Do I look like a quark to you?” I might have shouted, rising to my full height and indicating in no uncertain terms that neither I nor anyone else was put at risk by Isaac’s plans, but where would that get me? True Climate-Change-Believer that he was, Norm Stradamus would merely shake his head in a mournful sort of way, believing that I was a lost lamb who failed to string along with the flock and that my lack of faith in his words of doom would lead to my undoing. I therefore opted for a slight change in the topic of conversation.

  “What about Vera?” I asked.

  “What about Vera?” he said, putting a bit of topspin on the word “about” in a way I hadn’t.

  “Will Vera be joining the assault?”

  “It’s not an assault,” said Norm. “We plan to enter R’lyeh by stealth. Once we’re there, we’ll disconnect the ancients from the network and put an end to Isaac’s plan. I expect that, once that’s done, the Regent will want to confront Professor Newton himself. If everything goes as planned, I wouldn’t want to be Isaac Newton tonight.”

  “Leaving aside the question of whether you would or wouldn’t like to be Isaac Newton,” I said, a touch impatiently, “I return to my previous question. You’re going to R’lyeh. The Regent is going to R’lyeh. Some of the Regent’s personal guard are going to R’lyeh. Rhinnick Feynman, not so much. But what of Vera? And for the matter of that, what of Oan?”

  “We considered bringing Vera,” said Norm, still wringing the hands like a champion toady, “but we decided it’d be better to leave her here. Too unpredictable.”

  “Ironical, what?” I said.

  He stared at me, confused.

  “Ironical that a person who sees the future would herself be unpredictable,” I said, connecting the dots so that even a True Believer possessed of the meanest intellect could perceive them.

  He didn’t offer so much as a chuckle. Instead he responded in earnest.

  “It was her gift of television — her ability to see the future — as well as her knowledge of R’lyeh itself that made us consider bringing Vera along with us. But on the balance the Regent felt she couldn’t be trusted.”

  I raised a censorious brow and took in a lungful of air preparatory to come to this Vera’s defence, for if there’s any bird who could be counted on to speak the truth as she saw it, it was Vera. Norm Stradamus seemed to perceive my growing wrath and made a placating gesture.

  “Sorry, no. I don’t mean ‘trusted’ in that sense. I should have said ‘relied upon,’ O Hand of the—”

  I glared at the man and he corrected himself post-haste.

  “I mean, I should have said ‘relied upon,’ Mr. Feynman. Do forgive me. The Regent felt that Vera mightn’t be relied upon to carry out orders in a pinch. The Regent doesn’t know her. Nor do I. And though it’ll be a loss to be without her television, the Regent felt that we could rely on my own gift of prophecy.”

  “But I thought your soothsaying skill was more of the longish-term variety. Peer off into the distance, write a few cryptic stanzas revealing what’s to come about several hundred years down the road, and leave them for all and sundry to misinterpret until some vaguely similar event has come to pass, then look back on it and say, ‘What ho, Old Stradamus got it right.’”

  He looked wounded for a moment but must have seen the justice of my remark.

  “Even so,” he said, shoulders slumping, “we cannot take Vera with us.”

  While this old prophet wouldn’t have known it, his response had pleased me greatly. This assault on R’lyeh — or this bit of stealthy trespassing, whatever you’d like to call it — struck me as the sort of plan you might get out of a couple of hospice residents who’d been hitting the sauce all night. I mean to say, while Vera and I had managed to slip into R’lyeh once, this had been by pure chance, and we’d lucked into it by dint of one of Vera’s handy on-the-spot predictions. Whatever views you hold about City Hall, you’ll have to agree it’s a high-security joint, and any plan to slip in undiscovered is fraught with peril — peril that I was happy to see that self and chums would avoid.

  “Of course, we’ve already interviewed Vera thoroughly,” he continued, “and asked her everything she recalls about your visit to R’lyeh. We’ve even pressed her to make predictions about the Regent’s plan. She was most helpful. She was able to peer into the future and give us insights into guard deployments, security schedules, even a few passcodes that are sure to be highly useful. She seemed reluctant to help us, but the Regent can be most persuasive.”

  I hadn’t liked the sound of that, and would have pressed the man for further and better particulars about the Regent’s methods of persuasion, but again he charged ahead, seeming to be fully committed to his plan of hogging the conv.

  “Oan, of course, will come along,” he added, quickly. “She has proven herself a good and faithful servant of the church, and she understands the stakes. And of course she’ll carry your banner. Although you won’t be there in your capacity as — if you’ll forgive me — as an icon of the church, she’ll be there as your betrothed. Rest assured that your — excuse me, Mr. Feynman, are you feeling quite all right?”

  I gripped the bedpost, for the room seemed to pirouette around me at the mention of my betrothal and the associated image of Oan waving the Feynman banner — not to mention Feynman waving the Oan banner — for the duration of what could be a lengthy sentence. The prospect of having the Feynman reputation linked with one as goofy as Oan caught me amidships, and something in my bearing and aspect seemed to convey this fact to Norm. It was still early in the day, but I’d have given my left kidney for another one of this soothsayer’s patented tissue-restoring martinis.

  “Speaking of Oan,” I said, composing myself as best I could, “I’ve been wondering. Do your prophecies, or quatrains, or other future-delving writings have anything explicit to say about the planned nuptials?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” he said, abashed.

  “How about something from the old stockpile?” I said. “Say, an old prophecy you haven’t thought about in a while, but that, in the light of recent information, might be interpreted in a way that relates to self or Oan?”

  “I . . . well, possibly,” he said. “I mean, when Oan announced your betrothal I did peruse my earlier writings to see if any might be stretched to — or rather, reinterpreted in a way that might relate to the blessed news, but as yet I’ve been unsuccessful. I had intended to keep trying,” he added, more abashedly than ever.

  It has often been said of Rhinnick Feynman that, whatever his faults, he always bends an ear when opportunity comes knocking. Who was it who, when offered the merest hall pass while on his first sojourn in the hospice, parlayed this simple pass into a chance for self and others to take to themselves the wings of the dove and escape the hospice altogether? Who was it who, down several hands in a game of Brakkit against neophyte player Ian Brown, had made up several plausible rules on the spot to win the tournament? Feynman, R., that’s who. And it was this same Feynman, R. who, having listened to Norm Stradamus take the blame for failing to dredge up any dusty prophecies relating to self and Oan, heard the gentle rapping of opportunity at my door.

  “Spare no efforts!” I cried. “Strain every nerve! Return to your dusty journals! Dredge up your ancient files! Seek whatever you can find about yours truly. Anything at all. And then,” I added, sneaking up to the true stratagem o
r scheme, “see if you can find anything at all about an unnamed man of mystery in Detroit Mercy Hospice. One who had a substantial career in that institution, but who may have — for reasons cloaked in mystery, or Authorial revision — been forgotten by those who knew him.”

  The man appeared unnerved by my sudden burst of enthusiasm. I gripped a shoulder and pressed on.

  “Hear me out,” I continued. “You must see if you can find any prophecies about this stranger — this unknown, forgotten character who lived in Detroit Mercy, hobnobbed with Zeus, bunked with Ian Brown, and embarked on many adventures within and beyond the hospice walls — and see if they match up at all with anything you know about me. See if your prophecies might be interpreted to suggest that I and he are one.”

  “You and he are one what?”

  “One person, I mean. That I am that mysterious stranger.”

  “But why would a prophecy suggest you were some mysterious stranger? If you’re speaking of the time of the Intercessor — when the Intercessor himself was housed in the hospice — then we need only turn to Oan to ask what she knows of this person. You see, at the time in question she was not only a member of the church flock, but also a trusted advisor at the hospice and head of Sharing Room activities.”

  None of this was news to me, of course, for as you know, I was at the hospice and had been crushed under Oan’s iron heel over the course of innumerable hours of her Sharing Room disasters. At least, I had been there in one of the Author’s prior versions of my biography. But as I think I’d mentioned before, I seemed to be the only person who remembered that particular chapter of the Feynman bio. Yet if some reminder could be found — some method of convincing Oan I had been her student, and one whom she had counted as a pain in the neck to end all pains in the neck — then this could go a long way toward convincing Oan to extricate herself from our betrothal. Keeping this goal in mind, I pressed on.

  “Nevertheless, my dear High Priest,” I said, striking while the iron was h., “I urge you to roll up your sleeves, press your nose to the grindstone, spit on the hands, and do whatever else it is that High Priests do when getting down to business and exerting maximum effort. Comb the archives! Leave no quatrain unturned! Assemble the eager, undergraduate acolytes keen to move to higher heights in the church! It is vital to my interests — nay, to those of the established church,” I added, putting on some fancy touches, “that these references be found! Prophecies of the mysterious stranger, and the link between him and me, are your top priority!”

  I mean to say, I recognize that this was all a bit thick, but if you’re going to be stuck with the title of Hand of the Intercessor, you might as well squeeze from it whatever juice you can.

  Norm seemed less enthusiastic than I’d hoped.

  “Yes, well, of course, O Hand of the, er, that is to say, of course, Mr. Feynman. I’d be happy to conduct a search, and even to involve additional acolytes in the effort. The more of my prophecies we verify, the happier I am. It’s just, well, you see, at the present moment—”

  “You have other things to do,” I said, showing my own gift for prophecy by finishing his sentence.

  “Yes, Mr. Feynman. I do promise to review my prophecies, just as you suggest. But first I must attend to the trek to R’lyeh, and the effort to stop Professor Newton. These are now our primary goals. It’s not that your wishes are unimportant. Far from it! It’s just that the Regent believes Professor Newton’s plans for Detroit must take priority, and I agree with her decision. I mean, Newton could destroy everything! He could radically change the way Detroit works! His efforts to change the climate could—”

  I raised a silencing hand. I’d heard more than enough of this blighter’s misguided babbling on the topic of Climate Change and the fallout of Isaac’s plans, and couldn’t bear to trouble the Feynman ears with another goofy pronouncement, however well intentioned.

  “Have it your way,” I said, and if I sighed a bit, what of it? “You busy yourself with the Isaac situation, and I’ll hold down the fort—”

  “Hold the fort,” he said, interrupting.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You said you’d hold down the fort, Mr. Feynman. Forts don’t need holding down. They merely need holding. As in, ‘The fort is under siege. I’ll continue to hold it against enemy intrusion while you pop off on some other mission.’ That’s what the expression means. One party holds the fort for those who occupy the fort that is under siege, so they’ll still have possession of the fort when the other party returns. In the present instance, you’ll hold the fort — referring to the Regent’s home — while I’ll go off to R’lyeh on my mission. ‘Hold the fort.’ Not ‘hold down.’”

  “A bit pedantic, what?”

  “It’s just, well, it’s not as though the fort is going to float off into the sky,” the chump continued. “It isn’t a blimp. Forts are buildings. You’d only have to hold a fort down if—”

  “Have it your way,” I said, waving an exasperated hand. “I’ll hold the fort. You buzz off to R’lyeh, unplug the frozen geezers, air your peeve at a maths professor, and I’ll hold the fort without holding it down. I shall spend my time conferring with Vera or seeing what I might achieve on the Zeus or Terrence front.”

  I seem to have said something wrong, as one so often does. And the effect it had on Norm Stradamus was to intensify his hand-wringing, foot-shuffling, apologetic manner. He cast his eyes downward and seemed to blush beneath his beard.

  “Ah, well, yes. You see, O Hand of the, er, O Mr. Feynman, that, well, I’m afraid you won’t be able to see Vera or Terrence. The Regent has decreed that you’re to stay in your room.”

  I goggled at the man. I mean to say, I hadn’t read the occupational description of Hands of Intercessors before I’d landed the gig, but I’d assumed I was at least free to move about the joint on my own recognizance, as the expression is. I put these facts to Norm.

  “I’m sorry,” he began, and I remember thinking that I hadn’t met someone so keen on apologizing since I’d last hobnobbed with Ian, who explained the habit by claiming to be something called a “Canadian.” Perhaps Norm was Canadian too.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Feynman,” he continued. “It’s for your own safety. Strange things are afoot at present. Reality quakes — like the one we experienced in the Regent’s dining room — are rearranging the world. Climate Change is afoot! Everything is unpredictable — even, if you don’t mind my saying so, for me!”

  He smiled as if to indicate this was comedy. Seeing that I was not impressed, he resumed his downcast expression and carried on. “In any case, you’ll have to remain here, safe in your room.”

  “But dash it—”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Feynman. There are forces at work that you can’t comprehend, and there isn’t time to explain them. But rest assured that you’re safe here — that the Regent has made provision for your protection. Isaac doesn’t know the location of this home.”

  “But surely it’d be safe for me to roam the grounds, or at least move freely about the house, hobnobbing with my fellow guests and domestics.”

  “Sorry, no. The Regent says you’re to be locked here in your room.”

  “Locked?” I ejaculated, appalled.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Feynman.”

  The thing about Feynmen is that, whatever the provocation, we know when, and when not, to press an issue. I could see that nothing was to be gained by bandying words with Norm Stradamus, so I acquiesced to his decree — or rather the Regent’s, I suppose — that I remain stashed away in the Feynman storeroom for the nonce. At least I appeared to acquiesce: that was the genius of my plan. For after a few well-chosen words indicating my acquiescence, and a few more well-chosen words in the vein of goodbye-and-see-you-latering, and after hearing the lock click behind the departing Norm Stradamus, I hatched a plan to push along the secret Feynman agenda: a plan I’d put into motion just as soo
n as the coast was clear.

  I knew straight away that it was an ingenious plan, largely because it was one of mine.

  Chapter 26

  The first step in the ingenious p. was, for a man of my unbridled and untamed nature, the most difficult step, for it involved a good deal of waiting around. Waiting around for most of a day. For I had to bide my time, locked securely in my HQ, until the Regent and her regiment of jackbooted sarcophagus-unpluggers had vacated the premises, giving me the space I required to get down to brass tacks and put the Feynman plan in motion. Only once the coast was clear could I get this show on the road.

  One thing I’ve often noticed, and something I probably ought to have taken up with Isaac Newton when we had our tête-à-tête and he started babbling about time travel and other temporal whathaveyous, is what I like to call the relativistic nature of time. Perhaps you’ve noticed it too, viz, time’s habit of whooshing by like a high-strung rabbit when you’re engaged in some pastime that grips the senses, and, by sharp contradistinction, time’s alternate practice of dragging its heels and oozing along at the pace of a unionized snail when you’re fed up to the gills with whatever it is you’re doing and wish it would end instanter. I imagine that the Author, in His wisdom, wished to bathe the world in irony when He arranged matters this way, making the hours whoosh along like a rocket ship when you want them to slow down and then slam on the brakes whenever you want time to stomp on the gas and pick up the pace. This latter aspect of time, viz, its inclination to creep along and smell the roses whenever you’re eager for it to zip along, is — based on my own empirical observations — most frequently experienced during sermons, university lectures, and Detroit Mercy Sharing Room sessions. But the point I’m making now, in case you were wondering, is that I observed the same phenomenon in my present situation. The time between Norm’s departure from my room, and the eventual departure of the Regent and her gang, weighed heavily upon yours truly, and seemed to drag along for at least a geological epoch or seven.