Nirvana Effect

by Craig Gehring

When he began to examine his memory, Edward was startled to discover that he knew with certainty the whole path of his life. He could dive into his past and pull up a full recollection of what he’d witnessed - every sight, sound and sensation instantly available.

  A Christmas kiss. Callista. He re-experienced it as though he were living it. The fireplace. The music playing. Her warmth.

  He rapidly flicked through a dozen more memories. All were shockingly complete. What was more, he could just pull up data.

  What was the name of my first grade teacher?

  The answer flashed into his mind the instant he formed the question.

  He picked a random number. Element number 64?

  Gadolinium. He’d never memorized the periodic table before. His mind had pulled its response from a distant memory of the chart.

  He closed his eyes. He started calculating. His mind leaped to associations which had never occurred to him five minutes before. Huge chunks of his data, his education, his memory blew into view to assist him in evaluation. He rapidly inspected old conclusions and faulty evaluations, blew them out like so many cobwebs. He could see everything from his schooling, and yet could know without looking at any of it.

  One of the first mysteries he’d been working on since he’d awakened came to light in little more than a glance. Manassa. Mahanta. Mahanta’s words to the crowd. “No mortal Mahanta leaves here tonight.” The Onge root of Manassa: ‘mana’ - of Polynesian origin, meaning ‘powerful, magical, of gods’, and ‘sa’ - Onge for ‘boy, child’. Mahanta’s words: “As it is sung in the psalms of our ancestors, I shall slay the panther as a child, and defying my elders, remain a child immortal.” The hut. The “throne.”

  Mahanta died. Manassa lives. They are the same - Manassa is the boy now deified.

  In those minutes he reached many other conclusions, resolving the past, the present, and what might lay in store. Much of it might have perturbed him if he weren’t so detached. The emotion connected to the facts with which he calculated had distorted and blocked them from use.

  Much needed to be contemplated further, but at present there was an immediate threat to his survival. He wondered at how he’d been able to go so far off on a tangent. He had to secure his own survival, not experiment with his mind.

  Mahanta. My life is in the hands of this young man. Edward assessed his chances at escape. Mahanta could not be predicted, and Edward’s condition was more than questionable.

  The young man took this drug, and so killed the panther to become a god in the eyes of his people. He is a powerful threat. Edward sorted through every encounter he’d had with Mahanta in his months at the village.

  In retrospect, it was no wonder he’d been so inquisitive, yet so reserved, and why there’d been such strangeness about him. He must have been planning this for a long time.

  Observation: Mahanta gave me this drug.

  Evaluation: If he had reason to fear me, he would not.

  Conclusion: He has a purpose for me, so he will not kill me yet or permit me be killed.

  With that matter put to rest, at least for the immediate present, Edward worried over what intentions the Onge had for him since they knew he’d spied on their ceremony.

  He remembered Nockwe’s injunction: “If the tribe learns what you saw, either I or someone else will have to end your life.” Edward wondered now if there were any teeth left to that threat.

  Considering this hut, it seems Mahanta has established control. The whole tribe must have worked day and night to erect this “temple”. As long as I am useful to him, I have no threats to worry about.

  Edward had no idea what that use might be.

  He turned his attention to his injury, realizing that he had subconsciously shut off the pain coming from his head to aid his concentration.

  He deliberately turned the perception of pain back on in full. The devil took out his pitchfork again and began wreaking havoc on his brain and the nerves along his body. He was amazed at how much control he had over his own perceptions, even the undesirable ones.

  Edward could sense every part of his body - every gland, every organ, every function. He noticed his pulse was racing. He could detect the subtle rush of blood along his veins, the pressure that forced the oxygen-laden cells to all his organs.

  He slowed his heart rate as easily as he might consciously slow his breathing. He had once seen a medicine man do the same. The witch doctor had even stopped circulation in his hand for a time, but it had taken much hypnosis and to-do.

  Edward just monitored his heart rate at will. He knew that if he so desired, he could take conscious command of every function of his body, automatic or otherwise.

  What was this drug in his system? What was this trance he’d entered into?

  It was too real for him to think he was dreaming or delusional. It was the most real moment of his life.

  There was a task he had to tend to before he wasted any more time. He remembered the simple words of Bri’ley’na. “Fix your head.”

  Edward explored his injury without moving. He could sense it. His body knew what was happening. There seemed to be a near-fracture in his skull that was giving him the trouble. The bone was weak and the tissue bruised. Blood pooled in places it shouldn’t. The bone would weaken further. His mind knew what was wrong.

  He sensed an energy near the injury, one that he couldn’t touch. It seemed to have its own perceptions connected to it, neurons that kept firing off the same signal.

  He picked up what it was broadcasting. The impact of the kick. Nockwe kicked me and then…nothing. There was something there. There were other kicks. He kept prying, and finally it flew into view of his consciousness.

  The damaged cells had recorded their attacker. They were just energy waves, playing over and over again from the nerve bundle. His mind translated them into something he could make sense out of.

  Nockwe shouts. Then others. The impact. More impacts. Nockwe says to get away, to leave him be, that he is dead, and if not he will be tried.

  The pain, the voices. Mahanta’s voice.

  The pain subsided noticeably. Connected nerve bundles were helping it discharge as he played the energy of his attention across the damaged area.

  Finally, the nerves stopped sending out their distress signal.

  Fascinating.

  Edward’s glandular system had tried to go into motion to heal the fracture, but the hormones and blood cells never reached the injured area. The misfiring nerves had kept telling his body over and over again that he was still being injured. Edward got the glands going again.

  He remembered back to his classes in medicine. The Jesuits were so well-trained. There were certain healing conditions one tried to create in a body. Regular heart rate, regular breathing, increased circulation. Reduced pain. High protein intake. The first four he enforced directly on his body by will alone. The last he substituted by working his stomach glands out of starvation mode. It might deplete his store of resources but he needed his head mobile and functional. He needed to heal.

  And of course, the last healing condition was a given. Sleep. He directed his body to it and instantly he was out.

  4

  Doctor Callista Knowles treated her last patient of the day. He was a small native boy whose father had offered a chicken in exchange for medical care.

  She had declined the payment. Callista was a doctor, not a farmer, and in the three years she had practiced in the port city of Lisbaad, natives paying anything at all had been few and far between. She made her way with a grant from St. Mary’s and the occasional paying foreigner who found his way into her clinic from the docks.

  The two islanders had knocked on her door after hours. Callista had locked up more than half an hour earlier, but she could tell that the man must have trekked from an outlying area.

  The boy was in no shape to walk; his father must have carried him most of the way. The man’s legs trembled. His body had sagged with relief when Callista opened the door.
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br />   She put her hand on the boy’s head. She had stopped using thermometers after the first month in Lisbaad, unless it was a paying patient who would expect it. The back of her palm did just as well. The boy was running a fever, but not too bad. His father looked at her expectantly. She smiled to reassure him.

  She checked the boy’s eyes, mouth, and ears. The boy coughed. She checked his lungs with her stethoscope. She made breathing motions to him and got him to mimic her. She didn’t like what she heard.

  “His lungs are sick,” she told the father in Tamil. “He is hot, he has a fever.” She went to her medicine closet and pulled out the last of her antibiotics. There would be another shipment in a couple days. Until then the island would have to cope. She’d be sure to point out the deficiency to the next inspector from St. Mary’s. “You are a farmer?” she asked the father.

  The man nodded.

  “You are not to let him work for two weeks. Every day you are to give him one of these, until they are all gone. Do not save them. They will go bad. Do exactly as I say.”

  The man nodded.

  “What did I say?” she asked.

  “No work, these every day,” said the father. Tamil was obviously not his first or even second language. On this island, everyone spoke a bit of everything, though. He pointed at the medicine bottle full of pills from the clinic’s dispensary.

  She nodded. “Very good.”

  “No work?” asked the little boy in much better Tamil than her father. “And candy every day? Yippee!” He rocked back and forth on the exam table with all the enthusiasm he could muster. He coughed again.

  “Not candy, medicine. Only one each day. It doesn’t taste good. And no running around and playing, either. Rest.”

  The boy sagged his shoulders. She couldn’t suppress her smile. He would make it, and she needn’t worry.

  She said to the father, “Come back in three months. Free. Duiyon will make you an appointment.”

  Another person knocked at the door. “Excuse me,” she said. “Please follow me back to the reception area. Duiyon will be back from her errands in a few minutes.”

  She checked the front door. It was James.

  “Dr. Seacrest,” she shouted through the door. “We’re closed. If it’s treatment you seek you’ll have to come another time.”

  “Just need to borrow some sugar, neighbor,” he shouted back. She opened the door let him inside. James was about fifteen years older than her, in his early forties. He was wiry yet handsome and walked with quiet aloofness. She knew the majority of his sex appeal was due to the fact that he obviously didn’t give a shit about anything. Not her sort of guy - but he certainly caught her eye, today. He’d just had a haircut, and something about the way he’d done it reminded her…Oh, stop it.

  The two doctors had the distinction of being the only two whites of their profession on the island. “How can I help you?” she asked. “I’m out of sugar, as well as everything else in the dispensary. I have some water, but it will evaporate soon. And they just got my last antibiotic.” She filed charts, making sure he saw that she wasn’t wasting any time in getting out of there.

  “Actually I just wanted to borrow some of your time. I have reason to celebrate, and wanted to take you out to dinner,” said Seacrest boldly.

  “Well, I appreciate your offer, James, I really do…”

  “Why don’t you take me up on it just once, Dr. Knowles? It’s my birthday.”

  “It was your birthday seven months ago.”

  “This is my real birthday. I’ve grown older,” he said.

  “James, will you ever give up?” she asked.

  “Hmmm…” he said. She walked down the hall to the exam rooms. She changed the paper towels running across the beds and sanitized. As she sprayed she thought about Seacrest. She got a feeling about him that made her want to keep her distance. A lot of had to do with the mystery as to how he ended up in Lisbaad. It was something he wouldn’t talk about.

  Of course, it’s still a mystery to me how I ended up in Lisbaad…

  She had to admit there was a feeling she got about every guy that made her want to keep her distance.

  Dinner sounded nice, though. It was something she rarely was able to treat herself to. Seacrest, in his Corvette and infinitely deep pockets, was more than capable of delivering a fine dining experience.

  When she walked back into the reception room, James was crouched near the natives, muttering with them. He stood up when she walked in.

  “What are you up to?” she asked with cocked eyebrow.

  “Apparently, Mr. Guin here had to carry his son eight miles to reach this clinic. It will be another eight miles before they get to sleep.” He paused.

  “Mmhmm?” she prodded.

  “I have made them an offer,” said Seacrest.

  “And what is that?” asked Callista.

  “I will drive them in my glorious candy apple red quad cab ‘95 Corvette with all leather interior all the way to their farm, if you will agree to accompany me and then let me take you out to dinner.”

  He smiled gamely. He knew he had won. She sighed and looked at the little boy. She envisioned his eyes lighting up as he took what was most likely the first car ride of his life. Probably he wouldn’t even need the pills after that.

  I do it for the children…he does look handsome today…and ten, fifteen years is not all that much difference on this island…it’s just a date…

  5

  The pain had changed. Edward sensed that his body had made definite progress on the head injury, but the torture along his nerve channels had grown much worse. It felt as though every neuron in his body were generating charge, ripping up and down his body like electric fire and ice.

  The feeling of disconnection was gone. Instead, he felt much too connected to his body.

  He heard a din of voices nearby, hundreds of voices. Some sort of crowd. They were muttering, shouting, displeased.

  He felt trapped, and for an instant he fought the impulse to jump up and flee. He checked himself. Sudden motion would undo every bit of healing he’d done.

  According to the reasoning he’d conducted before he’d fallen asleep, running would serve no purpose and could actually estrange Mahanta, the only reason Edward was still living.

  That logic, however, seemed hazy at best. He didn’t feel like he could process again everything he’d gone through before the sleep. Just the thought overwhelmed him. He couldn’t bring back into recall the concatenation of evaluations that had led him to that conclusion.

  I guess I could…very slowly…

  He picked it all over in his mind as best he could. The pain dispersed his concentration. The salient points stood out. Manassa is Mahanta. Mahanta, for now, is a friend.

  His mind drifted to the drug that Bri’ley’na had injected into his veins. And I had worried it was mud. A dream he had buried a decade ago resurfaced.

  Edward stands in Father’s study. Father is kneeling, praying on his rosary. Thomas has just left the night before. “Are you sad, Edward?” asks Father.

  “No, sir.” But his voice is cracking.

  “It’s fine to miss your brother.”

  “I do miss him.”

  “Let’s prayer together.”

  “I don’t want to pray tonight, father.”

  “That’s when we need to the most - when we don’t wish to.”

  “I don’t want to go off like Thomas, father.”

  Father chuckles. “Then what do you want to do?

  “I want to learn about science, father. I want to learn about electricity, biology, chemistry. I can’t stop reading about all of it. I want to make a difference.”

  “You will be a Jesuit, then, the most learned of the priests. You won’t be a Franciscan like your brother Thomas. You’ll be a Jesuit like Allen.”

  I don’t want to be a priest, father. I don’t want to be like either of them.

  That part was never said.

  Edward had held hope
. After Edward had won a scholarship to Oxford, his father had let him attend for his bachelors “to prepare him for the priesthood.” All while he was in school, he’d held hope, though, that his course would change.

  As he’d neared graduation, the pressure had mounted. Father. Then brothers. And then Cali - a different sort of pressure, and a final one. It left him with a terrible question: had those dreams ever been real? Though he held them so hard, had they fled?

  They had. Now, after his experience with this mysterious substance, the dreams rushed back to him in full.

  He knew that under its influence, with the inhuman mind that it gave him, he could solve mysteries that had plagued humankind for centuries.

  That substance is not of God. The voice of his father. Edward ignored it.

  It’s a drug, Edward, his cautious side protested. He quickly quelled it.

  I don’t know what it is. Whatever it is, I need to learn more.

  “Edward.” Edward opened his eyes. Mahanta sat with his legs crossed on his velvet pad.

  “Manassa,” answered Edward with what might have passed for a smile. He noticed his throat didn’t croak so much this time.

  “We shall name me something Western in time,” Mahanta said thoughtfully in English. Clearly Mahanta felt comfortable in Edward’s company.

  Edward said nothing but took note of this. Mahanta was hinting at something that Edward wasn’t awake enough to decipher.

  “How is your head?” Mahanta asked.

  “Better and worse. My nerves…”

  “It is the lleychta, the nectar - the unfortunate side effect of its trance.”

  Edward could hear a growing din of Onge voices outside the hut. They were getting loud enough to contribute to the aching in his head.

  “It hurt before I was given it,” said Edward.

  “I tried to give it to you twice, while you were out, when it looked like you wouldn’t make it. But it doesn’t work while you are knocked out. I didn’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been knocked out and given it to myself before.”

  Edward couldn’t help but chuckle at this. He was awarded immediately by a fresh throbbing radiating from his spine out to his toes and fingers