by John Norman
“Yes,” he said.
“Brunetto,” I said, “is a fine young man.”
“My brother, too, was a fine man,” said Giacomo.
“Brunetto would not hurt a fly, even if he could,” I said.
“The thing can hurt and kill,” he said. “Brunetto is no more than its cave, its den, its lair.”
The conversation made me uneasy. Clearly Giacomo accepted, or largely accepted, the myth, or theory, of the evil eye. In his view, I supposed, if the operation was successful, we would be, in effect, freeing something dreadful, something frightful, releasing it from its prison, to do its work, whatever that might be. I thought of unwittingly pressing a switch, which might activate the timer on an explosive device, of opening a jar which might contain a gas, or deadly bacteria, releasing these things into the atmosphere, of opening a door, behind which writhed vipers.
How much did I really know about the world, I wondered.
My colleague, I knew, was much more at ease with his own world view than I with mine. In Greece and Rome he would have accepted auguries and omens, in the Middle Ages werewolves and witches, in a later time indivisible atoms and action at a distance, or phlogiston and the ether. In our time he had accepted what he had been taught, as uncritically as innocent millions before him had accepted what they had been taught. If there was a lesson here, or a pattern, it would seem to be change. Could we now, in effect, with the inconsistent vagaries of quantum theory and relativity, the contradictions of cosmology, and such, be substantially at the end of wisdom’s road? Or would there be, in time, new darts launched, new balloons floated, new guesses hazarded, new, mighty truths proclaimed, new arrogances, new scratchings at the wall of mystery?
“What do you know of these things?” asked Giacomo.
“Very little, I am sure,” I granted him.
“I think you smart fellows are right,” said Giacomo. “There is much nonsense in talk about these things.”
“Yes,” I said, encouragingly.
“But I am afraid,” said Giacomo.
“Of what? I asked.
“Of the part,” said Giacomo, “that is not nonsense.”
He then left my office, though I would have been willing to continue the conversation.
The operation took place a few days later.
I shall try to relate certain subsequent events with no more commentary than seems necessary for clarity.
I will say, in way of preface, that I think these things all have a natural explanation, that nothing supernatural is involved. On the other hand, I think that they suggest, on some level or another, that nature may be more complex, or subtle, than we commonly suppose. I deliberately avoid adjectives such as ‘greedy’, ‘self-seeking’, ‘fierce’, and ‘sinister’, as they suggest the limitations of anthropomorphism.
Yet suppose, if only as a fancy, for it somehow seems appropriate, that some fiendish thing was incarcerated in a dungeon, in absolute darkness, for years, chained down, rendered innocuous, unable to move, capable of little more in that frustrating, enclosing, confining stygian darkness than brooding and hating, and consider how, over the years, that hatred, day by day, drop by drop, might increase, filling the stony crater of its foul soul, forming therein, as it were, a dark lake, ever rising, of waiting, inflammable pitch, ready to burst into vengeful flame at the first touch of light. Who would be so foolish as to move aside the stone that seals that pit? Who would be so unwary as to carry a torch into those recesses, who so unwise as to explore that darkness?
It was a Tuesday afternoon in September, a bright, cool day, that the bandages were to be removed. The room was a private room, and a pleasant room, light and airy. It was in the west wing of the hospital, on the twenty-third floor. A bouquet of flowers, in a blue vase, was on a stand near Brunetto’s bed, making the room fragrant.
Five people were present, other than the patient, Dr. Hill, who had performed the operation; Dr. Roberts, his therapist; myself, as an interested observer, invited by Dr. Roberts; the young man’s uncle, Giacomo Silone; and the nurse in attendance, Miss Henry. It was she who had brought the celebratory flowers, ensconced in their vase, on the stand near the bed. They were within an arm’s reach of the bed and Brunetto could reach out and touch them, feeling the softness of the petals. Brunetto loved flowers and their tactualities and perfumes to him were doubtless analogous to the beauties of the visual world to the sighted. Now, it was hoped that he, in a matter of moments, could see them as well.
Dr. Hill’s pleasantries that afternoon seemed to me a bit forced. I think he was a little apprehensive, as is not unusual in such cases. It is difficult to know in advance the degree to which such an operation achieves or fails to achieve the hoped-for success. Much depends, for example, not merely on the condition of the optic nerves, but, as earlier suggested, on the condition of an extensive and subtle network of neural pathways. He had every reason, however, based on the operation itself, as far as I could tell, to warrant the optimism which he seemed determined to project.
Roberts, who regarded Brunetto with almost proprietary benevolence, was at hand, to learn the results of the operation and, if necessary, to supply any assistance or support compatible with his field. particularly if, tragically, the operation proved ineffectual. Too, I think he wanted to be present at what he hoped would prove, in its way, to be a credit to his own therapeutic skills, for he regarded himself, correctly enough, I believe, to have been instrumental in bringing Brunetto to this climactic and hopefully joyful day. He had invited me, I think, primarily that he might be provided with a professional witness, one who could understand and appreciate what he had done, overcoming as he had profound traumas and deeply rooted resistances, a professional witness who might comprehend and objectively validate his achievement, to be manifested in this rewarding moment. I suppose we are all, to one extent or another, vain and insecure. But I was glad to be present, independently, for Roberts was my friend and, too, of course, I hoped the best for Brunetto and his uncle, both of whom I had come to know over the last few days, and particularly the uncle.
Giacomo seemed agitated. It was the first time I had ever seen him in a suit and tie. He seemed to feel out of place in such finery. Oddly, he kept his right hand inside his jacket.
Miss Henry was the primary nurse into whose care Brunetto had been consigned. As I had dropped in on Brunetto at various times after the operation and during his convalescence, I had noted the attachment which seemed to have been formed between himself and his nurse. Certainly she had been more often at his side than would have seemed necessitated by purely medical considerations, and, indeed, had occasionally been found in attendance at hours other than those required by her shift. I think I have mentioned that Brunetto, aside from his disfiguration, now hopefully a thing of the past, was a handsome young man. Too, I had gathered that his kindliness, his thoughtfulness, his intelligence, his humor, his good nature, his open and generous character, left little to be desired. One can only conjecture how the blind Brunetto understood the soft hands, the gentle words, the considerate attentions of his nurse, but, could he have seen her as we saw her, what he saw would have been sure to please him. Each, it seemed, had found another, to whom each was willing to give his heart.
“How do you feel?” asked Dr. Hill.
“Well, sir,” said Brunetto. “Thank you, sir.”
“Take my hands,” said Dr. Hill. “We are going to sit in a chair, here, beside the bed.”
He helped Brunetto into the chair.
“Nurse,” said Dr. Hill. “Draw the blinds. Darken the room.”
She did as he asked.
“I am going to remove the bandages, Brunetto,” said Dr. Hill.
“Yes, sir,” he said.
“We don’t know how this will turn out,” he said. “The room has been darkened, but there may still be pain. That will pass. You can close your eyes, if it hurts t
oo much. As you have not had sight since infancy, you will probably have to learn to see. One learns to see, to recognize shapes, to understand how close, and how far, objects are from you, and so on.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you afraid?” asked Dr. Hill.
“Yes, sir,” said Brunetto.
“Steady,” said Dr. Hill, softly.
Brunetto held out his hand, and it was grasped in the small hand of Miss Henry.
“Steady,” said Dr. Hill, soothingly.
In the reduced light of the room I was aware that Giacomo, who stood near me, was almost inflexible, as though with terror. He seemed rigid. A tear had run from his left eye. His jacket had come open a little and I could see his hand within. It was clasped about the rounded handle of what might be a stiletto or dirk. Alarmed myself, I had no desire to alarm him. I put my hand gently, reassuringly, restrainingly, on his arm. He did not resist or pull away. His grip on the handle seemed to tighten. His gaze was fixed on Brunetto.
Fold by fold, wrap by wrap, Dr. Hill gently removed the bandages.
“There,” said Dr. Hill.
Miss Henry gave a small cry of distress and pulled her hand away from that of Brunetto.
He turned his head toward her, slowly, but it was not clear that he saw her, or recognized her. It was as though she might have been a stranger, not welcome, improbably present, intrusive, otherwise meaningless.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dr. Hill, sharply.
“Cold,” she said. “His hand! It is suddenly so cold.”
“Physiological reaction to stress,” said Dr. Hill.
“Characteristic?” asked Roberts.
“Not unusual,” said Hill. “Brunetto, Brunetto!”
“I am not Brunetto,” said the patient.
“Can you see?” asked Dr. Hill.
“Yes,” said the patient.
“Does it hurt?” asked Dr. Hill.
“No,” said the patient.
“It is just lights and patterns now?” said the doctor.
“No,” said the patient.
Giacomo said something in Italian. He was tense, trembling. “It is not Brunetto,” he whispered, in English.
I cautioned the old man to silence, lest he disturb the patient, or the others. If the others heard, they gave no sign of it, for their attention seemed fully focused on the patient.
“You have waited a long time to see,” whispered Dr. Hill.
“Yes,” said the patient. “I have waited a long time.”
“You must learn to see,” said the doctor.
“I learned to see long ago,” said the patient. “Do you think, in the darkness, I would have forgotten? I have learned to see in a thousand bodies.”
Giacomo with a cry of agony pulled away from me and rushed wildly toward Brunetto, the blade of the dagger, a long, narrow blade, some nine inches in length, brandished over his head.
I managed to seize Giacomo and wrest the dagger from him.
“What is going on!” cried Dr. Hill.
Doctor Roberts helped me to thrust the tearful, hysterical Giacomo to the side of the room, back, away from his nephew.
I held the flat of the dagger blade down with my foot, and, with my hand, pulling upward, snapped the metal from the handle.
“Uncle, uncle!” cried Brunetto, “what is happening?” He held out his hands wildly, as though dazzled, and suddenly hurled into a new dimension of experience. “Is this seeing?” he cried. “It is so strange!” Nurse Henry rushed to him and put her arms about him. He seemed, instantly, to know her, and to welcome her sheltering presence. “Margaret, Margaret!” he whispered.
Then Brunetto’s voice changed again, and it seemed eerie, flat, cold, malevolent. “I will have more light,” he said. He thrust Miss Henry to the side and she fell bewildered, stumbling, against the side of the wall. He went to the window, seized the cords and drew up the blinds, and the light of the bright September afternoon flooded the room.
After the darkness I think that all of us had to shield our eyes briefly from its intensity.
We were aware of Brunetto at the window, a dark figure silhouetted in the frame, against the light, turning about, facing us.
He seemed taller, somehow.
“Do not meet his eyes!” cried Giacomo.
“Nonsense!” cried Dr. Hill, angrily.
Giacomo was fumbling in his pocket and he drew forth, on a leather string, an amulet, which he held before him. It was the first such amulet I had seen, for at that time I had not inquired into certain arcane, troubling matters.
As Giacomo was disarmed, and an old man, we did not impede his progress toward his nephew.
He stood before the figure at the window holding the amulet up before him.
The figure at the window regarded it, imperturbably.
“Where is Brunetto?” said Giacomo.
“Do not fear,” said the figure. “He is safe.”
“The amulet! The amulet!” said Giacomo, holding it up before the patient.
It seemed then that Brunetto smiled, a small, pitying smile. “Oh, yes,” he said, “magic, wonderful, defensive magic! Oh, fear, fear! What quaint beliefs you have. Such things are inefficacious, of course, though we find it a sensible precaution to act as though they were, to withdraw from them, and such. That leads you to believe that you can protect yourselves. That belief is very useful for us. Otherwise you might hunt us down with method and without mercy. They make our lives easier. Too, we welcome that you shun us, for that protects those of whom we make use. By all means, keep your distance. Give us our freedom, dear Giacomo, sweet, deluded fool, give us our solitude, our place, our territory.”
“Brunetto, Brunetto!” wept Giacomo, calling out to his nephew.
I had with me a pair of dark glasses. Usually I used them, when needed, for driving, and kept them in the glove compartment of the car, but this morning, given the brightness of the day, and the walk from the garage to the hospital, I had them with me. As the light in the room seemed unnaturally bright, it being a cloudless, intensely sunny day outside, and the afternoon light was streaming in mercilessly through the wide, double window, I retrieved the glasses from their case, in my inside, left jacket pocket, and put them on. This was, you understand, in order to be more comfortable in the bright room, but I suspect, on some level, my action was motivated less by a rational concern to reduce glare, particularly under the circumstances, than to protect myself from something fearful, the nature of which I did not understand, but had begun to suspect. It was perhaps a matter of ancient instinct, insight or intuition. Or perhaps it was in response to Giacomo’s plea not to look into the eyes of Brunetto. What might lie in such eyes? How foolish I felt, but this emotion did not long linger.
“Brunetto,” said Dr. Roberts, obviously upset himself, “stop this foolishness! You are obviously the victim of some sort of superstitious syndrome, some sort of temporary disassociation. Come down to the office. I’ll lead you there. I’ll help you. You can use some sedation. You can rest for a while. Later, we can conduct some tests. Afterwards, with a little friendly talking to, about this and that, we’ll all be the same again.”
Dr. Hill stepped back, and to the side. What was going on was clearly not within the area of his expertise.
Giacomo had fallen back and was leaning against a wall, his head in his hands. The leather string of the amulet was still wrapped about this fist, the amulet dangling from it.
“Brunetto,” whispered Miss Henry, frightened, pleadingly. She held her left wrist, which had probably been bruised when she had fallen against the wall.
“Who are you?” asked the patient.
“Don’t you know me!” she cried.
“I am Dr. Roberts,” said my colleague.
“Yes,” said the patient. “I know your voice. You are he who caused m
e great pain. Because of you I lived twice through the burning of my eyes.”
He then seized my colleague by the shoulders in what seemed an unbreakable grip. It was almost as though Roberts had been rendered unspeakably helpless, hypnotically paralyzed.
“Do not meet his eyes!” cried Giacomo.
Dr. Roberts screamed, a horrifying, wailing noise, and, released, reeled backward, holding his hands over his eyes.
“Stop whatever you are doing!” I cried.
Brunetto suddenly turned toward the flowers. He put out his hands, unsteadily. “Flowers!” he cried. “Music, there! So beautiful!”
I hurried to Dr. Roberts and tore his hands away from his face. Then I released his hands. Where his eyes had been there were now only two black, sightless, steaming holes.
I looked up to see the patient, with a movement of his right hand, brush the vase of blue flowers from the stand, and it shattered on the tiled floor, a welter of petals, stalks, water, and broken glass.
Miss Henry was on her knees, in the water, glass and flowers, weeping.
He then went and stood before Dr. Hill.
“Mr. Silone,” said Dr. Hill.
“I will let you live,” said he, “for it is you who released me.”
“Brunetto!” gasped Dr. Hill, shaken.
“But you will live only as I please,” he said.
“You’re mad!” cried Dr. Hill. “What have you done to Dr. Roberts!”
“We are solitary, my kind,” said the figure. “Each is an enemy to the other. We are territorial, save in the moment of mating. I will not risk my being in contest with my brethren. You will not release another. Look into my eyes!”
“Don’t” I screamed.
But I fear it was too late, as Dr. Hill seemed to collapse at the feet of the figure who loomed over him. Dr. Hill clutched tiny, shriveled fingers to his heart, and stared glassily at the floor, and blood ran from his nose and mouth.
“The knife! The knife!” wept Giacomo.
I broke it,” I said. “It’s useless!”
