The Man He Never Was

by James L. Rubart

  He studied Eden. Was she playing with him?

  “No, I chose.”

  “Good, good, good. I wouldn’t want you to be here unless you wanted to. But now that you are here, I believe astounding revelations can be yours.”

  “I see.”

  “No, Toren.” The corner of Eden’s mouth turned up. “I’m afraid you see very little. But there is hope that you will. For you have come and you are now here. You are most welcome in this place. And with all that I am, I hope you remain till the end.”

  “I’ll leave you two now.” Alena came close to Toren and took him by both arms. “I wish you well. You are light, Toren, for God is light and you are in him. We will see each other again soon.”

  Eden motioned around the room again. “What do you think?”

  Alena exited, and Toren eased into the room with cautious steps. The space was octagonal, maybe forty feet in diameter. Each of the eight walls was painted a different color: one white, one a cobalt blue, one a forest green, one deep gold, one black, one crimson, one nut brown, and one purple. Toren’s mind said the colors should clash, but his heart instantly embraced the contrasts.

  Each wall—except one—boasted a four-by-four window that filled the room with natural light from the sun, still hours away from its descent into the ocean surrounding the island. The effect on the room was one of vast openness. The windows were framed with thin strips of wood, intertwined and stained with a high-gloss finish.

  The one wall without a window was directly to Toren’s right. Instead of a window, a wooden door took up most of the space. It reached almost to the ceiling and was at least four feet across. What looked like eastern white knotty pine had been stained dark. Intricate patterns were carved into the door’s surface, patterns that looked like a language to Toren’s untrained eyes. Emotion surged through him, as if what was behind the door had the power to both inspire and destroy.

  Above and below the windows were photos, artwork—everything from exotic paintings to sketches in pencil and charcoal. Wood pieces bearing Scriptures hung from a few of the walls. Others showed small mirrors etched with quotes. The room stirred an image in Toren’s mind of Alena’s store, but it also evoked a far deeper feeling of the unknown and hidden ideas.

  “Where am I?”

  “Do you like it?” Eden asked.

  “I must have walked for two miles.”

  “Just under two.”

  “Why would Alena build this place so far from her store? Why not make it more accessible?”

  “There are many reasons, but only three that matter. First, she did not build this place. We discovered it—or I should say, those before us discovered it. Yes, in years past, we have made some enhancements, improvements we hope, but it was here long before us.”

  Eden strolled to the front of the octagon and ran her fingers down the wall painted cobalt blue. She continued to speak, her gaze fixed out through the window on the sea.

  “Second, if we had been the ones to build, I imagine we would have chosen this very spot. The octagon is a place we prefer others do not discover. If you were to search for it by hiking the area, you would not find it. It is on the side of the island least traversed, with treacherous terrain. And the octagon is walled in on three sides by a thick forest and high cliffs. The tower we stand in has been camouflaged so that even from fifty yards away, it would be challenging to see.”

  “Haven’t you been spotted by boats passing by?”

  “Perhaps. But the octagon is built into the rocks. And considerable money was spent to make it blend in with the trees to our right and left. Even if someone were to spot us, we would be a curiosity at best, and with the difficulty in getting to us, we feel quite safe. Most people who walk this earth give up seeking long before they reach the end of a mystery.”

  Toren peered through the window straight ahead and spotted two sailboats on the water. Beyond them, a white Washington State ferry was pulling away back toward Anacortes. He turned back and surveyed the room. Anticipation shot through him. He felt like he was twelve again, at his first real football practice, in his oversized pads and slightly too small helmet. The room itself seemed to vibrate with hope and light. Yet a tinge of danger seemed to lurk in the corners of the room, even though there were no shadows. He tried to shove the thought from his mind.

  “This place astonishes and terrifies me at the same time.”

  “Yes.” From behind Toren, Eden’s voice floated toward him. “This is a very special place. It is a place of wonder where the mind is of little use. In fact, your mind will almost certainly be a stumbling block here if you’re not careful. This is a place of heart, of spirit, of truth. A place where there is much to discover if you can let go of your intellect.”

  “If you didn’t build it, who did?” Toren turned to face Eden.

  “Those who did the work before us.”

  “The work?”

  “You didn’t think we invited you here only to play, did you?” She laughed, and the sound filled the room and his head.

  “No.”

  After staring out through the window again, past the point of being rude, Toren fixed his gaze on the woman he knew but didn’t know. “Thank you for inviting me here.”

  “Ah, yes, the thought that your life is controlled by another.” Eden strolled toward him.

  “What?”

  “You invited yourself here, Toren. Long ago.”

  “I’m guessing you’re going to explain that statement?”

  “Of course I am, if you need me to.”

  Toren stared at the closed door that led to the staircase—a sensation of dread and expectation filling him.

  “Are you quite well, Toren?”

  He spun to find that tiny smile once again at the corner of Eden’s mouth.

  “You’re going to explain more of what this room is, what the training is, what exactly we’re going to do here, yes?”

  “Of course.”

  “But you’re probably not going to explain any of those things when I’d like you to. Or you might.”

  “Of course.”

  Her face seemed to radiate light. She was having fun, and yet underneath the exterior was a solemn foundation that he found impossible to ignore.

  “Will you join me?” Eden motioned to the two chairs and table behind her.

  “Of course.” He winked, and she smiled at his weak attempt at humor.

  They sat, and she poured him a clear dark-red liquid from a teapot. It steamed as it swirled its way into the cup.

  “Tea?”

  Eden gave a tiny nod. “This is a tea that is not well known outside of a small area in the Himalayas. There it is plentiful. Here it comes at a price that is steep, but it is needed for what we are about to accomplish.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To continue on your journey, of course. To go deeper. To concentrate your energy on the central point of this path. It is my point as well. The point of everyone who has chosen to traverse this passageway.”

  “To learn to open our eyes.”

  “Go on.” She handed him his cup of tea.

  “To learn to see clearly. To gain perspective. To see the truth.”

  “Yes, Toren.” She picked up her cup, brought it to her mouth, and blew.

  “It will open you, if you believe it will.”

  “The tea or the journey?”

  “Take a sip. Then we will start to explore the greatest lesson of life. The only lesson that ever truly matters.”

  “To learn to love.”

  “Yes. To love. So simple, isn’t it?”

  Toren took a tiny sip of his tea. It tasted hot and cold, sweet and bitter at the same time. A second later, an image of The Center shot into his head, then the scene of him losing it with Sloane, and the plate smashing into the glass cabinet, and the tiny scar on Sloane’s beautiful neck.

  “I don’t think learning how to love is simple at all.”

  “Nor do I. It is a state most of us
find impossible to attain.”

  “You just said—”

  “No, I didn’t. Knowing the path—which can at times be simple—and walking the path—which is often the most challenging adventure the soul will ever go on—are two extremely different disciplines.”

  Toren took a longer sip of the tea this time, and immediately a tingling sensation sprinted down his throat, then expanded into his chest. The expansion slowed as the feeling spread down his legs and into his arms. Peace, thick and warm, filled him. By the time it reached his feet and hands, the tingle moved like molasses. He mentally begged the tea to work its way to his extremities faster.

  Minutes later—it felt like hours—the sensation crept up his neck into his face, ears, head, and finally his hair. Then every cell in his body seemed to explode like the finale of a July Fourth fireworks show, and new images flashed across his mind: Sloane and him rappelling down a sheer rock face, working together to hand out meals deep in the heart of Seattle, sipping tropical drinks on an island halfway across the world, and holding young children in Africa who melted into Sloane’s arms.

  In that moment Toren wanted nothing more than to drink that tea for the rest of his life. After staring into his cup at the liquid that seemed to swirl of its own volition, he lifted the cup for another sip. Eden stopped him.

  “No, Toren, we need to start slow. One drink is enough for now. If you choose to come again a week from tomorrow, we will sip together once more.”

  He felt like a teenager who’d kissed a girl for the first time, then learned he’d have to wait another year for his next chance.

  “What is in that tea?” He set the cup back on the saucer without taking his eyes off his host. “What just happened to me?”

  “I don’t know.” She placed her own cup back on the table. “Please understand, I’m not evading your question. You see, the tea affects each person who drinks it differently based on what they believe it will do for them. For some it does nothing. For others—much more than I can imagine. So why don’t you tell me what it did for you? What you felt, or sensed, or saw.”

  “My past. My future.”

  “And what does that stir in you?”

  “Hope.”

  “What hope?”

  “That the things I saw, that I imagined, can become reality. That the visions are what God has for me. For Sloane. For us.”

  “Excellent. It is wonderful to hear that.”

  “So how do I make those things happen? How do I bring them into existence? How do I fix things with Sloane? How do I take tomorrow and—”

  “Tomorrow?” Eden laughed, light laughter that seemed to hang in the air like a subtle perfume. “You do not take tomorrow at all.”

  “Why? If what I saw is real, or has a possibility of becoming real, then I have to—”

  “There is no tomorrow, Toren. It does not exist. The same with the days behind us. The past is gone. There is only now. As Jesus put it, tomorrow has enough worries. As Isaiah wrote, you must think no more on the things of old. Let us live in this moment instead of living in our memories, or living in the imaginary days that are coming, the places and dreams and yesterdays and tomorrows that can exist only in our minds.”

  “But what about making plans? Setting goals? Telling Sloane what I saw, what God is telling me?”

  “It is an honor to be on this journey with you, Toren.” Eden steepled her hands. “Before you go—”

  “Before I go? I just got here.”

  She smiled, her dark eyes almost disappearing into her face. “Before you go, allow me to answer one of your questions. If you have any, that is.”

  One? He had thousands, but the one that demanded first rights was about the ornate door.

  “I want to know what is behind that door.” He pointed.

  “Yes, most of the souls who come here do.”

  “I’m drawn to it. I want to know why.”

  “I would want to know the same.” Eden looked at the door for a few seconds, then turned back and fixed her eyes on Toren. A mixture of intensity and delight filled her gaze.

  “It is a very special room, a special place. A place to let go of what you know about your Father so you can know your Father. It is a room of prayer. A place of peace, a place to be silent, a place to scream, a place of solitude and thunder. A place of visions and hope and worship. A place to celebrate and rail at life, to weep, and a place to be bound to others with a love you cannot imagine—the love of the Christ in all, unified. And it is a place to be utterly alone.”

  “Can I see? Can I go inside?”

  “That’s not a concept we use here often.”

  “What concept?”

  “We don’t use it at all.”

  “I’m not following.”

  “You want permission.”

  “Yes.”

  “There is never a need to ask permission in this room, because all things are permissible here, as Paul says in the Scriptures.”

  “Except for taking another sip of my tea.”

  “No.” She clapped her hands like a little girl. “That is the glory of God’s grace. You can have more, right now, if you’d like. However, though all things are permissible, not all things are profitable.”

  “And another drink of tea would not be profitable.”

  “No, it would not be. It is a wise choice to embrace the truth of the Scriptures.”

  Toren gazed into Eden’s eyes for a long moment. A message of challenge and love and wonder and unseen worlds flowed past his mind and into his spirit. The hair all over his body tingled as if the room pulsed with static electricity.

  “Are you well, Toren?”

  “More than.”

  “Good.” Eden rose and strolled to one of the windows, her back to him. “I’m looking forward to our next time together.”

  “Can I go inside?”

  “The room I just described?”

  “I’d like to take a look.”

  She turned halfway and motioned to the door. Toren waited only a moment before easing over to it. When he reached it, he spun back. Eden stood motionless, still gazing out over the water. He turned back and started to reach for the knob, then stopped. Everything about the room had been giving him a singular message from the instant he’d stepped inside, but it didn’t present in a way his mind could understand till that moment. As certain as he’d ever been, he knew that this room, this octagon he’d been invited to, or led to, or maybe in some weird way brought himself to, would at some point bring about his redemption—or his death. The thought didn’t scare him. He embraced its truth, because without question it was the only way out of his prison of fury.

  He slid his fingers onto the dark wood handle and was only slightly surprised to find the handle warm. Toren would have been more astounded to find it a normal temperature. He glanced once more at Eden, but she hadn’t moved. Toren counted to three—it just seemed as if this moment needed a countdown—turned the doorknob, and pushed.

  The door didn’t move, not even a shudder. He pushed again, harder this time. Again nothing. It felt like shoving a boulder.

  He spun and stared at the back of Eden’s head. “What am I doing wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “It won’t open.”

  “Yes, it will, Toren. The door most certainly will open. I’ve done it many times. As have many others. It is the most important room here.”

  He turned back, tried again. Same result. In four long strides he was across the room and standing next to Eden.

  “I can’t get the door open.”

  “Yes, you can.” Eden laughed. “Did you not hear me?”

  “I heard you, but it’s not happening.” Toren mashed his lips together. “Tell me. What am I doing wrong?”

  “In this place”—Eden spread her arms wide—“there is no wrong. Only right. Don’t try to accept that. It flies in the face of most of what you believe. We will have time to talk about that later. Right now all you want is to know how to ope
n that door, so let us concentrate on only that task. The reason you cannot open the door has nothing to do with the door and everything to do with you. Something is holding you back.”

  “Nothing is holding me back except the fact that the door won’t budge.”

  “Why won’t it budge?”

  “I don’t know! If I knew that, I could open it.”

  “What is holding you back, Toren?”

  “I just told you, nothing is holding me back.”

  Eden closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. Her arms hung loose at her sides and a subtle smile crossed her face. “Close your eyes, if you will, and answer a question for me.”

  He did as she asked. Five seconds. Ten. Thirty. Patience. Finally Eden said, “Remember what we just talked about. Do not think about what came before you got to the octagon—that is gone. Do not think about what the future might or might not bring. It does not exist. No. Let the thoughts of the past go. Let thoughts of the future go as well. Instead, concentrate on this moment. This place. Where you stand right now. Think about the floor beneath you. Feel the wood pressing up into your shoes. Ponder whether you can feel a breeze against your face in this moment. Consider the idea that your skin or mind or soul still maintains a hint of the tea you drank. Or contains none of it. Yes?”

  He nodded.

  “Now go to the deep place inside yourself, beyond your body, beyond your mind, beyond all the images you brought into the octagon when you stepped inside ten minutes ago. Go into the place where the Spirit of God dwells, into the temple, your heart, and tell me what you find there.”

  “There’s nothing. I think—”

  “No. Don’t think. Deep calls unto deep. Don’t think, Toren. What is there? Don’t think. Simply go there.”

  “Okay.”

  “There is no time, for he is outside of time. There is no yesterday, there is no tomorrow, for the Spirit holds all moments in his hands, yes? And where are you?”

  “I’m in—”

  “You are in him. You are in Christ.”

  “He’s in me and—”

  “You are in him.” Eden’s fingers settled on Toren’s shoulder. “He is in you. You are in him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes,” Eden echoed. “In that place. You are there?”