by Weston Ochse
Then there was Nancy who liked to sit in the corner and pull the stuffing out of things, like pillows and stuffed animals and a white poodle with a collar naming it Maxi.
John sat beneath the broad arms of the saguaro and found himself screaming and laughing at the memories of his friends, his nemeses, himself. So many of them, he’d never known and he’d have never known if it hadn’t been for that brain-butcher of a psychiatrist who’d sat unfazed as John split and splintered, becoming too many for one. The man had ignored his pain. Perpetually unfazed, he’d readily supplied an answer for every shriek of John’s many. The psychiatrist had sat on his leather chair with only slightly raised eyebrows as Rufus came forward, took control, and threw him from the fifty story window of the high-rise office. When the little prick hit the sidewalk, he was still gaining speed.
John stood and lifted the sack of pure white sand. He emptied the contents in a thin circle around both him and the saguaro, the effect to isolate him from the world. Next he grabbed a pouch full of salt and flicked its contents onto the ground within the circle. He was skyclad, unfettered by clothing—as pure as a babe under the Sonoran sun.
“With salt, I consecrate thee and bless this circle. In the divine names of the Goddess and her consort, the Horned God. Blessed be.”
He dropped the pouch and sat facing north. He screamed at the world, at himself, the ragged howl cleansing as the anger spewed upon the wind.
Yeah, they’d helped him, but they all had one thing in common.
They were angry.
Too angry.
And that was his problem.
He could never achieve the necessary purity within his mind as long as he was angry. Even at rest it was a continuous rage. John had patterned his entire existence upon the necessity to free himself from the splintered halves—to become not only normal, but superior. The knowledge was his. He’d learned from teachers in distant lands. He knew secrets that were thought to be only myth. He could travel at will and incorporate his being with another.
If only his selves would cooperate and allow him that small perfection he desired, he could educate the world by command and lethal authority. He had so much knowledge to give, so much information to spread, things that could improve the lives of so many. There needn’t be any homeless. There didn’t need to be any doctors or hospitals or asylums. There were cures for everything. God had provided the secrets of the universe to the world. The One had melded it into the DNA and allowed evolution to perfect the machine. Yes, John the New Baptist had so much to show the world…if only he could help himself a little bit first.
He willed his anger down deep into the hollowness of his legs as they crossed in front of him, the lotus position simple after thousands of days of practice. He concentrated on nothing, allowing the hatred and rage to dribble through his soul.
He began by purifying his ethereal sheath, the pranamaya kosha. He couldn’t see it, but his aura was most certainly a swirl of dark colors, reds and blacks spinning around his pranamaya kosha. John’s vision turned within as he traveled along his body’s internal highways. He swept all negative energy before him, sending it to the pile, concentrating on the perfectness of nothing.
His physical sheath, the annamaya kosha, was in a constant state of purification. Other than the Karmic Tea, not a single drop of alcohol or non-organic mixture had passed his lips in over a decade. He’d been fasting for twenty-four hours and his body sang. Soon he achieved his atma puri, and he entered into the City of His Soul.
His self a calmed void, he lifted a shell encrusted bota bag from his feet and pulled out the stop. Carefully, he tipped the bag to his lips and felt the heady mixture of yarrow, mugwort, opium and datura sear his throat. The black edge of the opium bound him to the earth, but it was the datura, favored root of Native American spirit masters, that allowed him to fly free. The yarrow connected him with the Horned God of the Wiccans, Achilles to the Greeks, and protected him from psychic assault. The mugwort was for his namesake and granted him favor from John the Baptist, the original, cast down by the followers of Jesus for speaking the truth. His own mixture, John called it Karmic Tea and the potion had proven itself many times.
The bitter datura overpowered the other ingredients as it sought to unfetter his spirit. It took precious energy to maintain his place upon the plane. He couldn’t leave too soon. That would be foolish, wasteful. He had a mission, and until he’d excised his current demon, there’d be no travel. He held fast on the ajna, the last of his psychic knots that would send him free of his body, and concentrated on his Chakras.
John invoked the twin Gods of the knots. Calling upon Sakti Hakini first, “I am that I am that I am that I am…” began to flow from his lips in an unending monotonic stream.
As he chanted, he began to shape his energy. He massaged his aura until it met at the midline and became a blinding line of energy, bisecting him both in the pranamaya kosha and the annamaya kosha.
He addressed the second God of the knots, the multi-faced creator, Kali. “I will I will I will I will…” replaced the previous mantra, intonation absent as he concentrated.
He concentrated on molding the energy until it was a tight oval of power, a concentrated essence from which he could perform the necessary actions to exorcise himself. John ensured that the ajna was still blocked, then moved up to his crown Chakra.
Called the Sahasrara, its mastery allowed him the wide-open spaces of his mind. Like a surgeon, he could enter the realms of thought where he could reshape, repair and remove. There’d be no chant for this. He’d already left his senses far behind. The circle would protect him from without, while the yarrow would protect him from within.
He envisioned a serpent, rising from the nastiness of his stored and isolated hatred. He formed it from the rage and it became Shiva, master of the Sahasrara. With one last check of his ajna, he entered his own mind.
And it was the blue of calm. There was no sky, no land, no air. It was his mind and it was how he willed it to be. He saw in every direction at once and he saw forever. He admired the solidity of his mind and the hue. He’d been in too many minds, and other than the time he’d been allowed to spend in the tranquil mind of Swami Abhayamudra, his was the most seamless.
Except…
John felt a minute tick of anger as he watched dark motes dancing, disrupting his landscape. Like dirty crows, they scavenged through memories, consuming details, transforming them to their own benefit. He allowed the entities their freedom. He’d gather these fragments in time. Like the others, they’d surface and he’d exorcise them. Deconstruct himself. So many, yet there was always time. If not in this life, then the next. He could wait. He didn’t want to, sometimes he almost refused to, but he could wait.
A whiteness flitted across his vision and he pinned it.
It fought, struggling to free itself.
He willed it shape.
It took form.
He willed it speak.
Yo, Johnny boy. What up? asked a scrawny middle-aged black man. The fragment was pure seventies.
Like always, John wondered at the form. It was something he refused to control. The form had been created by his mind long ago and it revealed the pure essence of the fragment. To change the form would only make the fragment harder to control.
“Who are you?”
Just another one of the flock, drawled the man as he patted the edges of his Afro. They’re hiding somewhere around here. They’re afraid of you.
“Do you have a name?”
Sure. Call me Mason.
“Mason,” said John softly. “Did I know you or are you a construct?”
Did you know me? parroted Mason, acting hurt. Did you know me? Hell yes, you knew me boy. I was your idol. I was your man. Hell, if it wasn’t for me, you would have died.
“Show me,” commanded John.
A memory surrounded him and the fragment, the blue coalescing into a darkly vivid truth.
Mason was dressed in a crimso
n robe holding the hand of a young John, a boy he only remembered through pictures. Before them was a swirl of dark shapes. His mind was still unable to show him the entire picture, or unwilling to allow him evidence that he’d even had a childhood.
John felt the strength of Mason’s grip, and then extra pressure as the man squeezed too tight. Half a child, an adult John twisted and stared through young eyes as Mason glared at a shadow.
“It’s not his time,” the man had said. “Use the other.”
It had been a command. They were strong words, fueled by a hearty soul. Mason was a protector. The real man had saved him from something. He’d kept John safe. A warmth suffused John and the scene disappeared, the blue more full.
“You saved me.”
Fuck yes, I saved you. Hell, boy. We always knew you were somethin’ special. That is, those of us with the gift. It was your father who was always tryin’ to use you, make hisself more powerful like he was some kind of fuckin’ Abraham.
“Why now? Why come forward now?”
John wanted to ask more. This was new. He wanted to interrogate the fragment about his past. He wanted to know, maybe unravel the whole, but he knew better. The fragments were tricky if you let them. They were always truthful, but they could keep you going. They would answer your questions as they were asked which was not always what you wanted. The format of the question was imperative. It was as if the fragments knew of the ajna and sought to keep him busy until he ran out of energy.
Momentum, came the answer.
“What?” The question escaped too quickly. It was an invitation for the fragment to elaborate. John told himself to be more careful.
Momentum. We feel some events happenin’—some unhappinin’. The shit’s deepenin’ everywhere and seems to be slidin’ towards you, boy. You know we got your best interests at heart, so don’t be worryin’ about us. All I can tell you is what I know and what I know is that the others decided it was my time. They thought if you saw me, you’d know your trouble, but shit, boy, ain’t nothin’ can get you as long as we’re here. Hell, that’s our whole purpose. You’re one strong motherfucker and with us at your back, ain’t nothin’ that could stomp us, so leave us alone why don’t you?”
John bit back a question and thought carefully. Very carefully. This was taking too long.
“How do you represent my trouble?”
You mean little ol’ Mason?
“Answer!” Again, John found himself arguing with a fragment, arguing with himself. It was time to take charge and end this.
I am the most like him. We are both protectors. Our appearance is similar. The fragment shrugged. All else is invisible, but his disturbance has been known to us. You’ve been too busy to notice, but he’s strong and clouded.
John was becoming angry at the fragment’s vagaries. Was he to kill every black man he came across?
“What else?”
It sounds stupid, but the only other thing we get is…
“Answer.”
…a maggot.
“A maggot?”
You know, them little white worms that feed off the dead?
“Yes. I know what a maggot is.” John felt his power begin to wane, the ajna slipping. “Now, come to me. Let me thank you. Let me love you.”
It’s about fuckin’ time you thanked me, boy, said the fragment as it merged.
And John clamped down hard. He called again upon his Sashasrara and molded the luckless fragment into energy. For a fleeting moment he missed the Dolemite man, the fragment’s love and past deeds the reason for his hesitation. Gripping the deconstructed fragment, John called upon Azreal: “I invoke thee, Oh Azreal. Archangel of Neptune and ruler of the invisible powers. I ask thee now to open my third eye and show me the light. Let me see the future. Let me see the past. Let me see the present. Let me see the kingdoms of the unknown. Let me understand the light of the MacroMind. So mote it be.”
With his adapted Wiccan prayer, John the New Baptist launched from the confines of his mind and entered the realm of the MacroMind, dragging the fragment with him. The MacroMind was a deeper blue with a representation of the earth below and a Dark Sun above. John cast his sight once again forward as he searched for a host. Perhaps one of the many homeless.
It wasn’t long before he spotted a grouping of energies close by in the desert. He willed himself closer and saw that one of the energies was strobing in electric spasms. This energy was already fragmented, evidencing another splintered mind. With a rush, John descended. He felt the woman stiffen and read her thoughts. She was an illegal being carried across the border by her son and his family. Roberto. Old, bones brittle. Please don’t drop me. She rode high on her son’s labor-hardened back. John felt the pressure of forgetfulness surrounding her thoughts, dulling them, making her a risk to herself and others. He recognized Alzheimers. The disease made her perfect. She’d never know what hit her. He released his fragment, sending it to the fate of Rufus, Nancy, Little Ernie, Margeret and a dozen more.
He departed, a little more perfect. Not a moment too soon, he felt the ajna slip. He left the MacroMind and returned to a world where imperfection was the rule and where he would be ruler.
* * *
Chattanooga, Tennessee
Bergen tripped over a small stick and fell to one knee. He hit hard, but not hard enough to dislodge the sloppy grin from his face. He’d never drunk alcohol before. There’d been plenty of times where he could’ve stolen some of his father’s stock, but he’d never felt the urge. He was a good boy and good boys didn’t get drunk.
Yet, after their incredible victory over Greg and everything evil the bastard bully stood for, drinking four or five beers had just seemed the perfect thing to do. He’d have drunk more if they hadn’t run out.
Pushing himself up, Bergen sought balance and struggled against the sudden imperative to wobble. Seconds passed before his knees locked into their familiar bend. He giggled. Leaning forward, he allowed momentum to pull him towards a small oak. His hands met the rough bark and slowed him enough so that when his cheek met the wood, it was only a rough caress.
They’d kicked some serious bully butt.
Although his brother Doug had received the brunt of the bully’s attention, Greg had at one time or another cornered them all. Each one of the boys had been beaten, bruised and bloodied.
Yes, the victory was truly flawless. Julius Caesar, Attila the Hun, Alexander the Great, even Rambo would have been envious at the surgical precision with which they’d administered the ambush.
Bergen swayed into a small pine. He batted the offending branches away with his hands, feeling the needles seek his tender places. Taking one last swat at the branches, Bergen stepped past the tree, then turned and kicked it twice for good measure.
Yes. He was invincible—a Bergen David to a Greg Goliath.
Placing his hand upon a rotting stump, Bergen steadied himself. The world had gone out of focus. Some of the trees, saplings and bushes along the forest floor were coalescing and doubling. Was he drunk? Turning so his back was to the stump, he removed his glasses. With his small stubby hands he rubbed at his eyes.
One thing was for sure, he needed to get home. The quicker, the better, because the longer he stood, the worse he felt. What had once been fun was becoming perilous. Walking was difficult. His stomach churned.
Bergen replaced his glasses and stared at the path in front of him. There seemed to be two of everything. Momentarily panicked at the possible dangers of his journey home, he was able to calm himself with the seemingly logical solution that walking between the images would perhaps be safer. Stifling another giggle, he let go of the tree and allowed the heaviness of his head propel him forward.
In no time at all, Bergen had weaved his way to the thigh-high weeds that marked the edge of the forest. The two-lane, black-top road rippled like a deep dark river. He stared at it in wonder, then collected himself. What he needed was a bridge to cross the road. His mother would be seriously upset with him
if he was to come home wet. God knows it would be hard enough to sneak into the house without her figuring out he’d been drinking, but soaking wet would be a dead give away.
So, Bergen stood and waited for a bridge to appear, or maybe a barge, anything that would allow him dry access to the other side of the black-top river. He swayed slightly, matching the movement of the weeds surrounding him until they became one, nudged by the small gusts of summer wind.
Bergen wasn’t certain how long he’d been waiting, but it was the sound of an engine that brought him back. He turned and couldn’t stop the giggle from escaping as a red, polka-dotted white car pulled up to the bank he was standing upon and stopped. Four vaguely familiar heads turned and seemed to consume him with their eyes. Ignoring their predatory stares, Bergen failed to stifle his laughter. This was what he had been waiting for—finally, a way across the river.
He opened his mouth to greet the two people, but was forced to pause as images of an old television show surfaced through the thick stew of his mind—a car that both floated and flew. A cool car. A magical car. So instead of a hello or a hi or any of the other greetings Bergen had learned to be the standard, slightly off-key lyrics erupted from his open mouth.
“Chitty chitty. Chitty chitty. Chitty chitty. Bang Bang.”
“What the fuck is his problem?” asked two of the heads.
“Just one of my brother’s little punk friends, is all. They’re a bunch of retards.”
Bergen heard the words and somewhere within the still sparking synapses of his mind he understood what they meant. Yet, like a broken record, he was stuck, and there was nothing he could do but follow the grooves until bumped.
“Chitty chitty. Bang Bang. Bang Bang. Bang Bang.”
What seemed like half a dozen hands reached out and grasped his shirt front, jerking him to the edge of the floating automobile and dangerously close to the rushing water beneath it. Two sets of eyes narrowed. Remembering what his father had said about the importance of staring a person in the eye when they spoke, Bergen began to swivel his head back and forth. Left. Right. Left. Right. But it wasn’t fair. He only had two eyes, not four. How was he supposed to keep up? How was he supposed to tell the truth?
