by Robin Ray
CHAPTER 3
Minutes later, the perplexed visitor found himself sitting streamside in a wooded area not far from the Green. The woods, he noticed, were very quiet. In fact, too quiet. Where were the North American songbirds he’d been used to hearing, like thrushes, robins and warblers? Even the occasional squawking black crow would make him feel at ease; the silence, it seemed, was almost agonal. The morning sun, peeking like a voyeur of light through the trees, did feel good to his face, temporarily whisking away the bizarrity that was the day thus far.
With his head cradled in his hands, he ran his fingers through the tight curls in his hair trying to make sense of what’s been going on. So far, when he added 2 + 2, all he got was orange. Reaching for a shrub of deer ferns, he plucked a leaf off it and examined it in his fingers. It felt like a leaf. It smelled like a leaf. It even tasted like a leaf, albeit with the bitterness of acidic pine. Putting it aside, he picked up a small stone and also gave it thorough scrutiny. Like the fern, it also felt real, so he tried skipping it in the stream and he succeeded. Crawling to the edge of the cool flowing rill, he dipped both hands in the water, sniffed the small, clear pool in his hands, and lapped it up like a thirsty mongrel. It sure tastes real, he thought, even as good as the bottled water I buy at Trader Joe’s. Then, leaning over the stream to take another hit of the mountain-filtered water, he saw a reflection of the elephant-faced angel on the glassine surface. Gasping, he jumped backwards into L’Da standing right behind him.
“Dang it!” Gregory admonished the visitor. “You scared me. I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Yeah,” the man in white apologized. “I get that a lot. Sorry.”
“Tell me something, man, straight up,” the new arrival begged, “am I hallucinating? Is this one of those ‘roofie’ moments? No, wait, this is Barry Pepper’s work, right? What’s he paying you?”
“You’re not hallucinating,” L’Da swore, “and I don’t know who Barry Pepper is.”
“Then somebody dropped acid in my drink.”
“I assure you,” L’Da promised, then changed his head briefly back to the ivory elephant’s and said, “you’re not hallucinating,” then resumed human form again. Gregory is, of course, taken back by the bizarre display.
“I wish you wouldn’t do that, man,” he scolded the angel. “You’re gonna give me cancer.”
“Sorry. Won’t happen again.”
“Okay,” Gregory questioned him, “so if this is heaven, how come everything feels real? The plants, the water, my skin…”
“Well, what were you expecting?” the white-suited gentleman asked. “A giant bed of clouds and a bearded old man in a toga floating in the air strumming a harp?”
“Well…”
“You’re very skeptical,” L’Da remarked, “but I’ll show you something and hope it doesn’t traumatize you.”
“Make me a believer.”
“Look into the water,” the stranger requested.
Gregory returned to the stream and glanced in the water. Slowly, a two-lane road appeared, followed by trees and houses along each side of it. Then, a dark blue Ford Focus was seen making its way down the street. As the auto got closer, the face of its driver became clearer. It was Gregory Angelicus, man about town, behind the wheel, lost in the reverie of the jazz he was listening to from his car’s MP3 player. Just then, a rusty gray Fiat turned sharply off the main road and slammed right into the Focus, forcefully crushing and thrusting it backwards into the young man with the sax in a case on the sidewalk. Both the Fiat and Focus burst into flames. Seconds later, the image disappeared only to be replaced by one just as dreary.
A light sputtered on in a cold and clinical room containing several stainless-steel cabinets, metal examining tables, sinks, and medical supplies galore. Gregory, his eyes firmly on the image, suddenly recognized the room.
“That’s the King County Medical Examiner in Harborview,” he realized, having visited it many times as an employee of the city of Seattle.
He watched as a doctor in a lab coat entered the clinically cold chamber with a conservatively attired black woman in her mid-30’s by his side.
“What the hell?” Gregory blurted. That’s my sister!”
He then watched as the doctor walked over to one of the metal cabinet drawer and slid its content out – a still body beneath a white sheet. The woman, clutching her chest in fear, stared as the doctor pulled the cover back from the corpse’s head. When she saw it was her heavily scarred brother, Gregory Angelicus, she broke down in tears.
“No!” the PI yelled, slamming his hands in the water. The images then disappeared. Shocked, Gregory could barely catch his breath.
“Now, do you believe?” L’Da quizzed the skeptic.
“I…”, he began saying, clutching his head in his hands. Unable to hold back anymore, he started bawling himself. “What the fuck!”
“Sorry I had to show you like this,” L’Da apologized. “Sometimes the direct method is the best, as cruel as it might seem.”
Gregory ceased his crying after a few seconds of letting his tears soften the pain of the revelation. “What about that young guy with the case on the sidewalk?” Gregory asked. “Did he die, too.”
“Yes,” the stranger nodded, solemnly. “He’s already here.”
The astonished arrival cuffed his mouth. “Oh, krunk!”
He leaned backwards to let the whole idea sink in. He was as dead as bell-bottoms, yet he could feel the texture of his elastic skin, the softness of his sheet, the coarseness of the dirt beneath his legs. He turned to L’Da. “So, you’re, like, God?”
“Not quite,” he answered. “In Eastern religions, I am known as a deva, in the west I’m an angel.”
“An angel!” the deceased man cried. “So, that thing with the elephant face…”
“That’s one incarnation of me, yes,” he acknowledged. “We assume this human form because it’s something your mind can understand.”
“This is too much,” Gregory moaned. “How many angels are there?”
“Infinite.”
“Really? Can I touch you?”
“Be my guest.”
Gregory got up and, timidly, felt the texture of the angel’s clothes, hands and face. Nothing seemed out of place or extra ordinary. Not only did he look and sound like a man, he also felt like one. Out of curiosity, the PI used the sharp finger nail of his right pinkie and scratched the angel’s face. Nothing happened to L’Da, but of course, Gregory winced and recoiled from the incision he just caused himself on his left cheek. Blood started trickling out of the small gash.
“So…I’m dead,” he deemed, wiping away the blood. “Can I die again?”
“That’s the good news,” the angel told him. “You can’t.”
“Really?” Gregory asked. “So, I can, like, run head on right into that tree and not feel a thing?”
“Oh, you’ll feel it alright,” L’Da assured him, “and end up in traction for months. You just won’t die.”
“Oh, no? Sweet. So, what’s the bad news?”
“You can’t create, either – or, more specifically, procreate.”
Gregory scratched his head. “Why is that?”
“You’re a non-corporeal body recreated around a soul,” L’Da said, stretching forth his left hand where a glowing ball of light appeared over his palm then disappeared, “to help it reach enlightenment.”
“Wait. What?” the addled new arrival asked. “Non-corporeal? What’s that?”
“An image.”
The PI looked puzzled. “I’m an image?”
“Do you know what a computer is?”
“Of course.”
“Well, in that computer there is a hard drive,” the angel explicated. “On that hard drive are files. When you erase those files, you create an image in the disc. A rebuilding program can rebuild your lost file from the image.”
“We can rebuild him. We have the technology,” Gregory joked. “Seriously, though, you rebuilt me?”
/> “Not me,” L’Da reassured him. “It’s sort of automatic. All the karmic particles you accumulated in your life…”
“What are karmic particles?”
“I’ll explain later. Don’t interrupt,” he scolded the anxious questioner. “All the karmic particles you accumulated in your life infused, bound and shaped your soul. Your memories, talents, form – all there. Even though there is karmic matter from past lives, it’s in your soul. This “you” was recreated from that transmigrated soul using celestial matter which is all around us; they just can’t be seen till it takes shape from its template.”
“The soul,” Gregory mused, shaking his head. “That’s a lot to swallow.”
L’Da changed his tone to something less aggressive, something soothingly empathetic. “You’re rebuilt naturally from an image, so to speak.”
“Why?” the PI asked.
“To continue your life’s work which is help get your soul towards enlightenment.”
“That makes sense, I guess,” Gregory ascertained. “But suppose I don’t want enlightenment? As a matter of fact, I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s the ultimate destination of the soul – a state of all knowing, a state of bliss, a state of equanimity with nature, a state of perfection. The soul wants to get there because its true essence is purity, but because of eons of decay, it’s reborn continuously until it gets to that place through the dissipation of obstructive karma that’s been bound to it. And that, my friend, is why you’ve been transferred here. Your earthly actions have elevated your soul to a higher plane.”
“But I can’t have kids.”
“No,” the angel sadly admitted. “A few citizens adopt children but they soon find out it’s a bad idea.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see…later.”
“Man,” Gregory asked, “so if people can’t procreate, how do they get their rocks off?”
L’Da smiled. “Use your imagination.”
“Um, thanks, no,” the detective said. “I think I’ll spare myself the images. What’s that you said before? Transmigration? Transferring? What is that? How does it work? Am I gotta wake up in the morning next to Mike Tyson and a tiger in my living room?”
L’Da took a deep breath and shook his head. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished.”
“Let’s walk,” the angel suggested, “and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Gregory and his new friend sat cozily enjoying scones and coffee at a rickety, round, wooden table near the front window of the Renaissance Bakery & Café. Besides the two, the bakery/café was populated by other diners, mostly men from about 24 to 70 years old and beyond. To the PI, out of all the attendees, the faces of two very capable musicians he’d admired over the years, sitting together at a table near the back, looked familiar.
“Are those two who I think they are?” he asked his host. “George Harrison and Ray Charles?”
L’Da glanced at them. “Looks like it.”
“Wow. What could two icons like that be talking about?”
“Why don’t you go ask them?”
“Yeah, right,” Gregory winced. “I could just see that. Hey Ray, Hey George, I was just in the neighborhood, pardon my sheet but, you know, wanted to see if you guys would come over to my house for a barbeque. Frank Sinatra and Duke Ellington’s gonna be there. Don’t forget the Cristal.”
“People up here are much more approachable than you think,” L’Da promised him.
“Oh, yeah?”
“They don’t care that you’re walking around looking like David Duke.”
The PI moaned, shaking his head. “Too many freaks, not enough circuses.”
“That’s not original,” the angel noted.
“Yeah, I know,” the embarrassed PI, bowing, solemnly admitted. “I gotta work on my comebacks.”
Affixed to the brick-exposed walls were black and white photos of jazz greats like Ornette Coleman, Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Barney Kessel, Wes Montgomery, Lena Horne, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday and Benny Goodman. A dark brown baby grand sat sad and alone, aching to be played, on a small stage near the entrance to the kitchen. The street outside was now hustling and bustling as more people went walking and riding past the café, some of them in rickshaws, and almost all attired in loose fitting gear.
“I know you must have a thousand questions, Gregory,” L’Da began, “and all will be answered in due time, but tomorrow, you’ll have an orientation at the Playhouse. I can’t stay too long right now because I have to catch up with someone in a little while.”
“Sure. Okay, let’s see…” Gregory mused, rubbing his chin. “Tell me about this transference business.”
“You have a soul.”
“Yes, yes I do,” the PI agreed. “You know, that’s weird to hear me say that. I ain’t been to a church since I was baptized. Sorry, I’m not a religious person; never was.”
“I’ll have to recap some of what we’ve spoken of before…” the angel said.
“I’ll have to recap some of what we’ve spoken of before,” Gregory snickered, mocking the angel using a husky, British voice. “You sound like that guy from Lord of the Rings.”
L’Da ignored his insouciance. “If you were to build a human being out of the exact same parts all humans are made from, your creation would still have no life. It’d just sit limp on your construction table doing nothing. You must remember the soul as the spark and maintainer of life.”
“I’m listening.”
“The universe is filled with endless souls, always in motion like meth heads…”
“Oh, no! You just didn’t say meth heads.”
“I figured I’d use a term you’d be familiar with,” the angel smiled. “Those souls zip around at super speed, passing through all objects since they are smaller than atoms which, as you may remember from high school chemistry, is comprised of protons, neutrons and electrons.”
“Of course,” Gregory stated, although he had no clue what the angel was talking about since chemistry class = naptime, as far as he was concerned, anyway.
“Atoms join together to form molecules and are held together by chemical bonds.”
“Like the Bloods and Crips,” the ever-mirthful detective said, then, adopting a gangsta’s swaggering tone, added, “Let it rain, let it drip, bust a crab in the lip.”
“You remember H2O, right?” L’Da asked, ignoring the PI’ s irrelevant outbursts.
“Water.”
“Well,” the angel said, shaking a finger, “not yet. Two hydrogen atoms and one oxygen atom is just a molecule. A whole bunch of ‘em clumped together is…?”
“Water!”
“Now it’s water,” L’Da acknowledged. “Most cells are water because they’re the most abundant molecules on Earth, something like 70%.”
“Mama said put down the basketball and hit the school books. Did I listen? Noooo.”
“So now we go up, from molecule to macromolecule to cell organelles to cells.”
“And when Mama Bear and Papa Bear are knocking boots, their cells get together to make Baby Bear.”
“Crude, but true,” L’Da nodded. “At the very smallest union of the sperm and egg, an errant soul gets trapped. That energy of the soul moving the atoms and molecules around, causing them to attract more molecules based on the DNA in the genes of Mama Bear and Papa Bear, is called vitae – life.”
“Sweet.”
“When the body dies,” L’Da continued, “the tiny soul slips out through the now dormant cells and, depending on the karma it has accumulated in this life and the lives before it, it’ll rise up because it is lighter or, if weighed down with karmic matter, move downward.”
“Heaven or Hell.”
“Or on Earth in a different host – animal, plant, whatever it would give life to.”
“How do you know all this?” the detective asked.
“You are capable of knowledge, right?”
“Yes…”
“It’s not tangible, yet it exists.”
Gregory looked even more doubtful. “And…?”
“The fact that you can ‘know,’ that you can ‘experience,’ that your ‘temperance’ can change when all humans possess the same number of cells, senses and so on, they were all awakened and affected by that spark and maintainer of life, the soul.”
“It almost seems like you’re using the soul to explain the existence of itself.”
“Yes, you’re right,” the angel said. “The soul is the author of its actions. For instance, the universe is a closed system. I’m sure you’re familiar with the law of conservation of mass – matter can neither be created nor destroyed, simply changed or rearranged in space. We know the soul exists because there is movement through the universe. The soul is a pure substance trying to escape this reality of going around and around, the concept of life and death. But because the soul is loaded with karma, it needs a host to rid itself of that karma. And we know karma exists because of the existence of inequalities, suffering and pain that weighs the soul down, trapping it in the cycle of life and death. I know this seems odd, but in their very finest, tiniest state, these qualities are like dust or matter which clings to something that passes from living body to living body and gives life to cells capable of division. That dust, and the something it clings to, is karma clinging to the soul.”
“You’re asking me to accept that suffering and pain are tangible qualities?”
“Inasmuch as you can refer to knowledge and love and chastity as “things,” in their absolute minutest form imaginable, they’re bonded to karma because we call those qualities real. Inanimate creations cannot acquire these qualities. You need to breathe, to eat to stay alive, to procreate, to build, to survive. You have the knowledge of your own existence. What inanimate object can do that without the spark to give it life, the spark commonly referred to as the soul? Imagine this: if you can doubt the existence of a soul, you can also doubt love and hate doesn’t exist, but they do.”
“This is kinda…I don’t know, maybe too deep for me,” Gregory admitted. “I wish there was a simpler way to explain “your” soul. This is kinda “whoosh,” going right above me, you know?”
“Okay, how about this? When you look up at the night sky what do you see?”
“The red-eye from Seoul to Seattle?”
L’Da groaned. “Higher up.”
“Stars?”
“Millions and millions of them. The majority of those stars are still alive, beacons of light, hundreds of light years away. A few, though, have already died and we’re just now seeing their light. In other words, we know those stars existed because of the light they left behind. And here’s an interesting thought – the dinosaur age is still upon us.”
“What do you mean?”
“This universe is so very vast that a world extremely far removed from this one is still seeing earth as it was 65 million years ago. Fields and fields of dinosaurs all over.”
“I think I feel a stroke coming on.”
“You’ll be okay.”
“What’s karma made from?”
“Just particles,” the angel replied. “It’s their amount and type that’s important.”
“What types do they have?”
“Many,” L’Da answered. “Harming karmas, like perception-obscuring; non-harming ones, like life-span determining.”
“Can they be counted and weighed, you know, like fruits in a supermarket?”
“Nope. The trajectory of the soul lets you know if it’s weighed down or not.”
“Trajectory, huh? Too bad you just can’t reach out and grab one.”
“You know,” the angel mused, “in a way, you can, just like you can with an emotion.”
“How do you even grab an emotion?” Gregory quizzed him. “It has no mass.”
“If two persons are indistinguishable in all of their physical properties, they must also be indistinguishable in all of their mental properties. In other words, some ‘thing’ is making identical people different. That ‘thing’ may not take up three-dimensional space as is commonly recognized, but that’s immaterial. Light and sound take up no physical space but they can be detected and measured. Emotions also take up no physical space, but there they are.”
“That’s, um…that’s, um…”
“That theory was actually postulated by several of your earthly philosophers – G.E. Moore, R.M. Hare, Donald Davidson and many others. They call it supervenience.”
“Supervenience?” the detective asked. “Is that, like, a super convenient store? You know – a Safeway in a 7-Eleven? You’re not laughing.”
“So, there’s mind-body supervenience – every mental phenomenon must be ground in some underlying physical base. Shall I continue with this line of dialog?”
“Nah,” Gregory objected. “That’s enough for one day. I can already feel my brain cells dying one by one.”
“In due time, you will learn about karma.”
“How is it that if I hit you I feel the pain?”
“That will be explained later on,” the angel promised. “It is related to karma, though. Here in Heaven, you’re protected from negativity because the soul is on its way to liberation. If someone means to cause you harm, the level of their negative karmic particles will rise. This sudden lift translates into pain. Remember, according to supervenience, pain would have physical properties.”
“Well, dang,” Gregory swore. “I hope I don’t trip on a rock and push somebody on a fork.”
“You’ll definitely feel the pain,” L’Da promised, “but it won’t add to your karma because there was no malicious intent. You’d just have to be more careful.” He then stood up. “Well,” he apologized, shaking Gregory’s hand one final time, “I have to be off now. Feel free to wander around some more, talk to people, get to know the lay of the land, sample the fabulous nourishment. The chefs here are worth their weight in gold. I understand all of this will be hard for you to accept, but in due time, you will learn more.”
“In due time, I’ll develop schizophrenia.”
“No, you won’t,” the angel assured him.