The Reincarnationist Papers

by Eric Maikranz

  My second attempt proved much more difficult. In the fall of 1982 I began to write and understand the strange language I'd seen him use. The N's were backward, as were the R's, and in addition to several new letters, several familiar ones were not used. I practiced a full year before I could functionally read and write it without having to slip back into the past of the man who haunted me. In time, I came to know his name, Vasili Blagavich Arda.

  The story of my miraculous skill at the organ was known, though largely ignored by my mother and father, but my ability to read and write, in what I had now identified as Bulgarian, was more difficult to prove.

  I wrote page after page of text and read aloud to them from Bulgarian books I'd sent for from the University of Minnesota, but all to little more than idle fancy. They were amused at my claim when I first made it, but when I told them it would make sense to any 'other' Bulgarian who read it, they became concerned. When I told them that I knew the organ and the language from another man's memories they became annoyed and when I told them that I remembered another life in another land in another time with another family they became angry, especially my father.

  I wanted so badly to tell them, to tell anyone and have them understand, but the more I told them about my memories the angrier they became, until I finally fell into silence. That was the last chance I gave anyone to understand me.

  With only two months of high school to go, I told them I was leaving and wouldn't be back. After all the other shocks I had given them, this one went almost unnoticed. Almost.

  When they accepted that I was really going my father attempted a half hearted reconciliation and my mother gave me the lighter. She must have recognized some of the same Russian Cyrillic letters on its worn surface and thought it was the same as the Bulgarian letters I'd shown her. Two nights before I left, she pressed it into my hand after supper. She didn't say anything when she gave it to me. Instead she held me tightly, stroking my blond hair as she rocked us both back and forth at the table. I went up to my room, packed my things and cried all night.

  The animosity between my parents and I had ended, but the new memories unfortunately had not, and the next night, my last night there, I burned the barn down with my new lighter.

  When my eyes refocused, the lighter was shaking, still inches above the line of vodka. 'Concentrate.' I drew in a lungful of smoke and blew it at my shaking right hand like a shaman exorcising a demon. I moved my head down next to the floorboards in order to watch the miracle up close. The summoning is always the most exciting part. People carry flame around and use it every day but only a few ever realize its potential to consume and rage like a monster.

  I slowly moved the lighter closer to the edge of the narrow wet trail of vodka. I love to summon the monster, the monster that brings the truth back over bridges from the past, the monster that eats little boys, the monster that brings deliverance. I moved the lighter even closer, beckoning it until it came. When the distance to the floor was close enough not to cause injury, the little flickering sprite in my hand leapt from the lighter to the floor and began to run along the length of the inch wide strip. It had been yellow in my hand but turned blue within a faint yellow outline when it hit the floor and started running. It reached the large puddle and flashed a brilliant blue, lighting up the entire second floor before running silently down each of the long fingers. The room began to fill with light, it was coming.

  I got to my feet for a better look at it. It ran out to the end of each finger and hesitated, still flashing brilliant electric blue around the room. Then slowly, so slowly I almost couldn't see it, it began to creep outside the lines of vodka onto the methanol and wax coated floorboards. I could feel it coming to life. The flames went from blue to light orange as it burned through the vodka and caught on the accelerants. It was spreading slower than I anticipated, but it was spreading. And then like a miracle, it was there in the room with me. It got up on its knees and grabbed hold of the center post next to the point of origin. The tiny flames licked at the wood and then jumped up a notch, inching ever upward. It can do its work once it gets up on its feet and starts moving around. I found this out the first time I summoned it.

  My last week in Minnesota, another disembodied memory hit me. It was stronger than all the others and was different in that it couldn't be controlled. And it still intrudes into my current life powerfully and often enough to demand satiation. It happened in Macon, Georgia in 1966. He was a six year old boy named Bobby Lynn Murray. I didn't inherit many memories from Bobby, but this one, seen through a child's eyes, is the strongest of any of the three lives worth.

  I watched the small flames climb the post all the way to the top where it met the rafters. I looked at its progress around the room and realized I was the ghost in here, this was for Bobby.

  He was amazingly industrious for a boy of six and on that last day he built a tower out of wooden Tinker Toys that was taller than he was. The tower stood in the corner of his small room by the window. Its skeleton was made of brightly painted thin wooden rods joined by round wooden wheels with drilled holes. It had taken him all day to build it. He returned to his room after supper to play with it and reorganize the sticks on the sides so all the colors matched. His mother Judith came in at eight o'clock to put him to bed against his protests. He wanted to stay up and build it even higher. He lay in bed looking over at it, wondering if he would have to move it outside to make it as tall as he wanted.

  His tower stood silhouetted in front of the curtains. A street light beyond his bedroom window shined every night. He got up and walked over to the tower to re-inspect it in the dim light. There were two cords that opened and closed the curtains, but the one within his reach only closed them tighter. He could see there was work to be done, but he couldn't tell which rods were which color and construction couldn't continue unless it followed the same color code as the rest of the tower. Turning on the light never worked because somehow she always found out he wasn't in bed.

  Bobby had seen his mother's new boyfriend William use matches as a light at night when they all traveled in the car to Atlanta. Bobby had taken a book of matches from the dashboard and kept them to use in case the street light ever went out. He went to the foot locker at the end of the bed and opened the lid exposing a myriad of toys inside. He slid his small hand down one side and into the corner of the trunk until he found the paper matchbook, then walked back over to the tower, took a single match and tried to strike it by imitating what Will had done. After seven attempts, one sparked and lit. The red tip flashed and was completely consumed in a second. He was too busy watching the process of the match burning to notice the light the flame gave off. He was fascinated by the flickering of the blue and orange flame and watched it change the blue, gray paper of the match into a black, shriveled and twisted cinder. When it burned down to his small thumb and forefinger, he dropped it and put his scorched fingers in his mouth. The match went out before it hit the green carpeted floor.

  He carefully lit another one, this time studying the colored rods on the floor. He picked up a yellow one and held it and the match close to the tower to check if he was on the yellow side. The flame miraculously jumped off of the match and onto a support rod in the tower. He stood there puzzled at how this little sprite could jump on its own. The flame raced up the yellow rod, blistering, then blackening its paint before jumping over the unfinished connecting wheel on its way to the next highest rod. Young Bobby stood there hypnotized by the metamorphosis happening in front of him. In minutes the entire skeleton was aflame as well as the edge of the curtains behind it. The polyester in the curtains dripped burning globs of plastic onto the carpet, igniting it. By the time the flames on the tower had died down and Bobby noticed what was going on, it had spread to the wood paneling on the walls and ceiling surrounding the window.

  The monster always acts the same whenever it is summoned. It had already moved out across the floor to the front wall and was on its way to the corners. I retreated back fro
m the point of origin toward the strip of unprimed floor that connected the back window of the far wall with the top of the stairs. The flames had engulfed the center and forward posts and were halfway up the rear one. By the time I retreated onto my safety strip, the yellow flames were three feet tall on the floor. The foot thick rolling flames on the ceiling were blood red and much cooler than the ones on the floor due to lack of oxygen in the upper air. Soon the color of the bottom ones would get darker, orange, then red, and then just before it gets drowsy and bored I would free it.

  The flames quickly advanced to the forward side of the unmopped path then slowed to a crawl. I stepped farther back from the wall of flames and toward the window. The heat was becoming intense. My leather jacket helped to shield some of its attack. It crackled and popped as it took hold on the wood itself. Not much time left. The flames at the point of origin leapt higher than the surrounding ones and formed a symmetrical volcano-shaped mountain that reached almost to the quiet flames of the ceiling. As the cone rose, it changed from yellow to orange to red at the top. Almost time.

  My mouth hung open and I drew the thin air in long gasps like a trapped miner. I unzipped the left pocket of the jacket and removed one of the baseball sized stones I’d taken off the street. The volcano slowly shrank back from the ceiling taking the darker hues back down with it. Suspended in between the two layers of flame, a foot thick band of gray smoke undulated softly. I was becoming drowsy and had to fight to keep my eyes open. I bent over at the waist and breathed deeply from the heavier air at knee level before straightening and throwing the stone at the tall window pane next to me.

  The stone struck the surface and continued through normally, but the splintering glass exploded inward, as the fresh oxygen was sucked inside. I turned away from the blast of air and flying glass. The monster roared angrily as we both breathed deeply and I looked up in time to see that the stone I'd thrown had sent a ripple across the flames on the ceiling. The flames were still blood red at the leading edge of the ripple, but were bright yellow and scrambling hungrily downward in its wake. The thick layer of grey smoke burst into turbulent swirls as it fed on the fresh air. In its changing shapes, I could see Bobby.

  The boy stepped back toward the center of the room. The burning carpeting under the tower sent crackling flames racing through its fragile superstructure. The monster hissed as it ate at the thin veneer on the walls. Bobby watched his tower lean to the left and fall over after a few seconds.

  "Mommy!" he shouted in response to the destruction of his work. "Mommy!" he cried out again as he ran toward the door only to find the top half of it already yellow and orange. He stopped in his tracks and looked at it as it crawled down the door and the wall surrounding it. His young emotions went from anger to fear when he realized what was happening.

  "Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!" He screamed until he became winded in the thin air of the room. He stood there breathing heavily and watched it eat at the door, little yellow teeth took small bites in front while the orange back teeth chewed violently. The heat pushed him away from the door and he walked back to the footlocker at the end of the small bed.

  It had spread across the ceiling and three walls but was only a quarter way across the floor. He sat down on the toy chest and fought to keep his eyes open against the smoke as his head began to swim.

  "Mommy," he said softly. The word came out in a weak exhale barely audible over the crackling of the paneling.

  "Bobby!" shouted a voice beyond the door down the hall. "Bobby!" shouted his mother louder and closer to the closed door.

  Bobby, breathing heavily, looked up lazily in time to see the door knob twist. In a motion that was too quick to see, the door flew open, inward and slammed against the flaming paneling of the rear wall. His mother Judith stood in the open doorway framed in dark orange flames, she looked down curiously at her open hand where the door knob had been a fraction of a second earlier. She raised her eyes in search of her son just as the monster raced toward the fresh air in long yellow tongues. The flames caught instantly on her threadbare blue and white cotton robe.

  The intense heat pushed Bobby off his seat and onto the floor. He crawled under the bed to get relief and looked out after the flash subsided, only to see his mother's thrashing figure aflame in the doorway.

  That was the last memory I had from Bobby.

  The angry yellow flames boiled down from the ceiling, knocking me to my knees. I ran a gloved hand over my hair to make sure it wasn't burning. It wasn't, but I kept the cool leather of the palm side of the glove on my scorched neck for a second to ease the pain.

  I'd made a mistake. The burn on the floor was going exactly as planned, but I hadn't expected it to spread this far back on the ceiling so quickly. The blood red flames had crept silently and unnoticed all the way across the ceiling above my safety strip and setting it free had almost trapped me. The flames edged ever downward like a giant oppressing hand.

  I crawled on my hands and knees toward the top of the stairs and stood up only after I'd scrambled, head first, two thirds of the way down. I stopped for a second to collect myself and to listen to the roaring above me. It sounded like a jet was landing on the second floor. I turned, ran down the stairs and opened the deadbolt. The door opened quickly and I was met by an onrush of garbage tinted air. I left the door open and walked quickly down the alley and across the street, stopping beside the building that faced the burning warehouse. Two more windows had been melted by the heat and yellow flames boiled into the night sky. I turned away and stepped into the darkness of Los Angeles, leaving my monster raging inside the empty warehouse, still looking for the boy.

  I was halfway down the alley when the spotlight hit me in the back. Turning around, I saw a police car parked at the end of the alley behind me. I continued walking down the alley, stalking the elongated shadow in front of me. My heart raced, my mouth was dry, my neck hurt. 'Calm down, they don't know it's me, they can't know it's me. Take it easy, keep walking. They'll question me, maybe take me in, but they can't put me at the scene except for...' I ran my still gloved hand over the front pocket of my jeans and felt the outline of the key to the warehouse door. 'Fuck-Fuck-Fuck!'

  "Stop walking and turn around with your hands in the air!" called an authoritative voice over the cruiser's public address system.

  I took off the right glove and shoved it into my pocket after the key.

  "Now asshole!" shouted the voice.

  I was three quarters of the way down the alley when I took off running.

  4

  I turned the corner at the end of the alley and glanced over my shoulder to check the position of the police car. It was gone from the alley entrance and a large black police officer, silhouetted by the burning warehouse, was already halfway down the alley running toward me. I missed a stride as I fished the key out of my pocket and threw it onto the roof of the building on the corner. My Converse high top sneakers made little noise as I ran, allowing me to hear the footfalls of the cop's hard-soled shoes behind me. He had gained slightly when I ditched the key but was slowly falling behind as we ran down the sidewalk past closed shops and empty storefronts.

  I had first heard the distant sirens when I took off running and finally saw the source as two white fire trucks raced up the street toward us. Their blaring prevented me from listening for the police cruiser or my pursuer's footfalls. The cop chasing me was still falling behind but had taken his pistol out. It jerked up and down in his right hand as he ran. He tried to shout something but stopped as the sirens closed on us. The lead engine was half a block away when it swerved to the right in anticipation of a left hand turn at the cross street in front of us.

  I took a long stride off the curb and onto the asphalt of the cross street, committing myself to beating the lead fire engine across the street. The white truck swept wide into its turn, committing itself to making the corner. The driver’s eyes widened as they meet mine and his companion pulled feverishly at the air horn cord. The blast from the hor
n mounted in the middle of the grille hit me squarely in the left ear and I lengthened my stride as the heavy chrome bumper neared to within two feet of my leg.

  I continued running in longer strides and looked back to see the black cop tentatively cross the street after the second truck had passed. He saw me looking back at him and he leveled his semi automatic pistol at me. "Stop or I'll shoot!"

  I ran on and measured a turn into the next alley behind a stone church. A shot rang out behind me, sending a chill down my spine.

  "Stop now! Last warning!" He'd stopped running and stood still, gun aimed at my back. A few more feet and I'd be in the alley.

  My legs seemed to move in slow motion and each stride seemed more difficult than the last. Like a child being chased in a nightmare, I couldn't run as fast as I wanted to. A few more steps, and 'Now'. I veered sharply to the right into the warm welcoming darkness of the alley.

  I felt it before I heard it, a sharp pain in the heel of my left foot, like someone had hit it with a baseball bat. The echo of the shot followed. The next stride brought my left foot forward, which collapsed as soon as my weight shifted onto it. I stuck out my arms to break my fall as I crashed into a low railing and flipped over it, falling down a flight of dark stairs to the garbage covered landing of a basement door below street level.

  My fall was broken by a foot deep pile of old newspapers, boxes, and other trash. The pain in my foot was blinding. I placed my right hand on my heel and felt an inch wide gap ripped into the rubber sole at the back of my sneaker. I could barely see my hand in front of my face in the shadows of the sunken stairwell, but I could feel that it was coated in warm, slick blood, a lot of blood. "Fuck, this hurts," I groaned, cradling my foot.