by John Norman
Putting aside for the moment somewhat facile, if plausible, attempts to explain these dreams, let us briefly consider certain aspects of what we might be attempting to explain.
As you might suppose, my friend was much impressed with the clarity and detail of the dreams. Paul had, it seemed, in this other life, the delusory dream life, a family, a mother and father, and brothers and sisters, some of whom had died in infancy or childhood. He had had certain diseases, accurately described, which he had survived, and which many others had not. He knew the districts in his area, the animals, domestic and wild, the crops, their times of planting, local coins, the taxes, places to fish, local roads, places where he occasionally stole apples with other young men, and had once been caught and flogged, and so on. He was familiar with feast days, and festivals, local clergy, rituals, processions, customs, and so on. Too, of course, he was familiar, most obviously, with the dialect in his area, which it seemed he spoke natively, having been apparently born and raised in the local parish, beyond the precincts of which he had seldom ventured.
One of the oddities here was that my friend, after independent research, of a rather scrupulous nature, could find nothing in Paul’s background to explain these dreams. He had never, as far as my friend could discern, had an interest in this historical period, nor had he ever, as least as far as my friend could determine, researched the area or time. How then would he have obtained this information, much of which seemed genuine, and some of which could be independently established.
Before we address these issues, I will state one last anomaly.
I have mentioned the dialect spoken by the French lad. My friend had Paul describe one of his dreams in that tongue, and this, with Paul’s permission, he recorded, which recording he later submitted to linguists and historians at a well-known local university. The language appeared to be related to modern French, but, if at all, remotely. The authorities expressed skepticism as to the authenticity of the dialect, which pleased my friend. That was precisely what he wished to hear. This pleasure, however, was short-lived, for this negative appraisal, shortly thereafter, upon further scrutiny, by yet further authorities, was not only reversed, but resulted in demands for the original manuscript from which it had doubtless been taken. Not only was this one of the few extant examples of the dialect in question but, if authentic, it was the only one in existence, it seemed, in which a common fellow, a laborer of the time, had, presumably by dictation to a cleric or scholar, recounted the activities of his day. This sort of thing, of course, in itself, eventually aroused suspicion. That was not the sort of thing which in those days would have been done. Who would have been interested in listing the sordid details of a common, unimportant life, too, details which would have been so familiar to contemporaries as not to have been worth recording. Accordingly, the final assessment was that whereas the dialect was authentic, interestingly, amazingly, the recording itself must have been based on a fabrication, largely on the grounds of its content.
We now have some sense of what is to be explained, and some understanding of some of the troubling problematicities involved.
How then might we account for this sort of thing?
Most obviously we might suppose Paul to be some sort of charlatan, a master showman of sorts. Whereas at the time, at least up to the end, that seemed the most likely explanation, there were yet several obvious objections to accepting it uncritically. It appeared that neither Paul nor his friends and acquaintances had the resources to manufacture such an elaborate facade of authenticity. It would have taxed the expertise and erudition of the finest period linguists and historians. Secondly, Paul, as far as we could tell, was not the sort of person who would have had the least interest in perpetrating so egregious a fraud. Too, my friend doubted that he was even morally or psychologically capable of doing so. Thirdly, rather than attempting to exploit his experiences, or draw attention to himself, he seemed most anxious to conceal the entire matter and, if possible, to rid himself of what was apparently to him a recurrent, wretched affliction.
There were, I suppose, other possibilities, but, on the whole, these appeared so remote, so unlikely, so preposterous, that their consideration was almost tantamount to their dismissal.
Illustratively, to delve into absurdities, one might speculate about time travel, or parallel worlds, coincidence, reincarnation, and such matters.
Consider the option of coincidence.
What could be more absurd than to suppose that mere coincidence could account for the data in question?
Suppose the following: You decide to spout, or write down, what are to you nonsense expressions, sheer gibberish, and so on, for an hour or so, and then you discover, several years later, that by an interesting coincidence you had unwittingly produced a complex text in an obscure, ancient language not even understood at that time by scholars. I suppose one could have such a coincidence, but does it seem likely? Too, that is only an hour’s speech, or transcribing, or whatever, not hundreds of hours spread over a period of months.
Coincidence would be possible but it does not seem probable.
Similarly, reincarnation does not seem likely as an explanation here, though perhaps one might find it more plausible than coincidence.
On this hypothesis one would suppose that Paul was recalling, somehow, seriatim, and in detail, the events of an earlier life.
Putting aside dubieties appertaining to reincarnation itself, such as the role of the brain in consciousness, the nature and variabilities of a self, the “residential peculiarities” of housing a given consciousness successfully and effectively in domiciles as diverse as those of insects, elephants, sponges, fish, and giraffes, we note two difficulties which would seem to arise even within the theory of reincarnation. First, it is commonly accepted that, say, a dog will not recall its previous incarnations as, say, a herring, and that a human will not recall his previous adventures as a squirrel in 4th century Wales. In short, that incarnations are closed off from one another. On the other hand, there are individuals who claim to recall former lives, and so we will not press this point. More importantly, incarnations, whether recalled or not, are usually understood as being linear, so to speak. In this case, we would rule out reincarnation in the case of Paul because his lives seem to alternate, so to speak, and to exist, in a sense, simultaneously, a sleeping existence in one life giving rise to a waking experience in another. Whatever this might be, it is not reincarnation as reincarnation is normally understood.
Another of these unlikely conjectures would be that of time travel. Aside from initial implausibilities pertaining to time travel, of the sort made clear by a complex variety of diverse puzzles and paradoxes, we note that time travel, as usually understood, involves a device of some sort, a vehicle or machine, for effecting the temporal translations supposed to occur. One, we may suppose that no such technology, even if in some sense possible, currently exists. Two, it seems clear that Paul would not have access to such a mechanism, even if it existed. One could speculate endlessly, of course. For example, perhaps time travel does not require a mechanism but is facilitated by incantations or potions, or perhaps there are time slips, where one might lose one’s footing, so to speak, and slide into the past, or future, or, if there is a mechanism, perhaps it is not ours, but has been constructed by aliens who are using Paul as a guinea pig, not wishing to risk one of their own superior sort in such an perilous endeavor, until the technology is perfected, and so on, and on, and on. But I think we can rule out time travel because, in its various manifestations or techniques, it does not seem to fit Paul’s case. Normally in time travel, at least as commonly conceived, one would live normally in the new time, so to speak. For example, one would sleep in the new time, awake in the new time, conduct oneself in the new time, and so on. The sleeping/waking cycle of Paul does not seem to fit the usual understanding of time travel. Too, in a normal time travel, if one can speak so, one would be a stranger, a visitor
, in the new time. One would not enter it with a place in society, a detailed awareness of customs and mores, a knowledge of the languages, an emplaced family, and so on.
Let us now consider the hypothesis of parallel worlds, though one sees little point in the geometrical analogy. If one wishes such analogies, why parallel? Why not intersecting, why not tangential, why not overlapping, porous concentricities, and so on?
Despite some speculation on the part of perhaps whimsical physicists and mathematicians who are willing, interestingly, to suppose anything whatsoever if it helps their equations balance, or seem to balance, there seems no reason to think there is more than one world, more than one universe. Where would one put it? If this is an illegitimate question, why is it an illegitimate question? Is there more than a verbal answer to that? Physics, if loosened from evidence, might degenerate into mathematical fantasy. Mathematical elegance has doubtless its own appeal and beauties, but these virtues do not entitle it to supersede evidence, to neglect experiment, to replace fact. Perhaps there are unusual dimensions, even infinite sets of such, superior to our familiar, prosaic length, width, depth, and time, but, too, perhaps there are not. One recalls natural place, the center of the universe, celestial spheres, ether, phlogiston, and other triumphs of science. But let us not dogmatically deny parallel universes. Let us rather, if interested, ask if they are intelligible, if they are likely, if they are needed, if they are good for anything. But, at this point, without additional encroachments on the speculative entitlements of mathematicians and physicists, let us return to the case of Paul. Parallel worlds seems unhelpful in this case. For example, Paul’s France, so to speak, has normal dimensions. He does not find his experiences there bewilderingly incomprehensible to him, much as a cat might find differential equations hard to follow, or as a coelenterate might turn aside from the intricacies of high finance with a clear conscience. But, might there not be parallel worlds with the same, or similar, dimensions to ours? Why not? But does this help us out? It does not seem so. How would one communicate with the other dimension, how would one access it? And in sleep? So precisely? And with such diurnal and nocturnal regularities? And why, if entering this other dimension, would one not experience normal staying times, normal times of residence, so to speak?
In the light of these speculations, and others, it seems we are returned to the hypothesis of charlatanry, however implausible it might seem in Paul’s case.
My friend, to whose care Paul had remanded himself, resolved to embark upon a novel therapeutic venture. To this day, despite my reassurances, and support, he blames himself, certainly mistakenly in my view, for its apparent consequences.
Paul’s case, as you have perhaps surmised, bore some resemblance to what is now commonly known as the multiple personality syndrome. It had many differences, of course, and certainly was not, strictly, an instance of that syndrome. Nonetheless, because of the sense of more than one life involved, the resemblance was there. Whereas there are variations on the multiple personality syndrome from case to case, there are occasionally, in such cases, what might be called “unilateral leakages,” or, more technically, “unsymmetrical awarenesses.” The notion is that one of the personalities, say, A, may be aware of the other personality, call it B, but the B personality, as we may refer to it, remains unaware of the A personality. In Paul’s case, he was clearly aware of his “other life,” so to speak. Had he not been, he would not have sought counseling, and so on. On the other hand, the other life, so to speak, the putatively medieval life, was completely unaware, as far as we can tell, of what we may call the contemporary life, or, more simply, the Paul life.
My friend speculated, plausibly, in my view, that a way should be found to break into the medieval life, to enlighten it, to make it self-aware of its deprivation and misery, and its meretricious, deceitful nature. This done, communication opened up between the lives, my friend hoped that Paul’s medieval life would yield to the contemporary life, give up its strictures and limitations, and relievedly become one with the contemporary life, this assuaging Paul’s symptoms, and hopefully returning him shortly thereafter to a productive, satisfying normality.
Paul welcomed my friend’s suggestion, and, together, as they could, by means of a variety of techniques, imaginative anticipation, mental preparation, projective rehearsal, explicit resolution, frequent repetitions of intention, psychological suggestion, and others, even hypnosis, they sought to bring it to fruition.
Never hitherto had Paul attempted to communicate with the other Paul. Indeed, it was not clear that this would prove possible.
Can one, so to speak, telephone the 14th Century?
We know of it, but could it know of us?
The hope, of course, was that there was some sort of link here, and that, obviously, was Paul himself.
As nearly as we can tell, Paul was successful.
The communication, it seems, may have been effected.
Things from this point on are not altogether clear. There are discrepancies between the two police reports, despite the fact that the original report, and the second, were filed by the same officer.
It took place on Central Park West, in Manhattan.
The reporting officer heard a terrifying, long, drawn-out scream of agony. This occurred about two AM. He spun about but the sidewalks seemed clear. He then, some twenty yards away, saw a body on the sidewalk. At this point we will follow the account in the first report, that subsequently revised.
As though about the body on the sidewalk the officer sensed, if he did not literally see, at first, a crowd of unruly, strangely clad individuals swarming about the body, kicking it, spitting on it, and abusing it. He heard sounds, screams of fury and bitterness, but could not follow the language in which they were uttered. It was unfamiliar to him. It seemed then that he could see these individuals, like shadows emerging from shadows. Their eyes, he claimed, were terrible. Many held primitive implements of some sort. A young woman was shrieking and crying near the body. She was brutally pulled away, back into the deeper shadows. The officer blew his whistle, furiously, for several seconds, and then, wisely or not, charged toward the body, and the shadows about it, his night stick raised. He felt that he struck something, the feel of it in his arm and shoulder, and then something edged tore at him, and he fell backward, bleeding, and the shadows were gone, only the body remaining on the sidewalk. That is pretty much the gist of the first report. The second report does not report hearing a scream, nor anything other than finding the body on the sidewalk, no shadows, no crowds, no cries. He was, however, injured, however it may have occurred. Some long-bladed, curved instrument had apparently struck him shortly after detecting the body. It cut through his jacket and shirt, and half severed an arm. It was an unusual wound, much as might have been caused by a large, wielded blade, such as a scythe. It is supposed the wound was the result of an obscurely motivated, independent attack on the officer, perhaps by some maniac, unrelated to the finding of the body.
The body, of course, was that of Paul. It was naked, and it bore the marks of closely encircling chains. It was blackened and scarred, and seared, and it stank. If one did not know better, one might say it had been burned at the stake.
The Face in the Mirror
Mirrors are strange things, and what one might see in them.
Perhaps you have had such experiences. One does not know how common, or uncommon, they might be. Certainly one does not talk much about them, and, I suppose, for good reason.
Have you ever been afraid to look in a mirror, for fear of what you might see?
I do not mean that you might be dissatisfied with your image, something so simple, that it was, say, unkempt, sallow, bruised, or such. I mean something quite different.
Suppose something not yourself, or certainly not recognizably yourself, was there.
Some people are afraid to look into mirrors.
Did you know that?
/> They do not know what they might see.
Suppose what you saw in that silvered surface, so innocent, familiar, placid and smooth, so like a window, was not you, but something quite different.
Have you had that experience?
Might it not be an ancestor, or a stranger, or something else, perhaps an animal, perhaps one unfamiliar to you, unfamiliar perhaps even to your mythologies, or might it be something more terrible, more bestial than a beast.
Or it might be something like a human, but not a human, not really, something like a human, but not a human.
Perhaps it resembles you, but you know it is not you, not really you.
But similar.
What does it want with you, if anything?
It puts its hands, or paws, on the glass, from the inside. I could show you the scratch marks. They are deep.
It is no wonder that some people are afraid to look into mirrors, especially, at night.
Fear of the dark has been selected for, doubtless. I do not think it is simply a matter of a partial impediment of vision, for an absolute darkness is seldom found in nature. There is the light of the moon, and stars. I suspect, rather, it has primarily to do with something that took place long ago, over thousands of years, with what hunted and prowled at night, things with excellent night vision. Night was a time of danger. Apes who did not fear it would surely at their hazard share the night with sinuous, stealthy, and silent things, things swift, unwelcome, and hungry. And so those to whom the night seemed disconcerting and hostile might huddle together until morning, their predilections to be rewarded, and deepened, and confirmed, in the callous lotteries of the jungle. And the gift of fire, would it not have been as much a weapon against the darkness, as a comfort in the cold? In any event, fear of the dark is common in ground apes, and we still, on the whole, respond to genetic cues honed in their way by ancient knives, knives moist, curved, and barbaric.
