The Reincarnationist Papers

by D. Eric Maikranz

  “I bring before you Evan Michaels,” she said, addressing the whole panel, “a neophyte who claims to be one of us, a Reincarnationist. I believe his claim to be true and therefore have gathered you so that you may pass judgment on him. It is his wish to become a candidate for the Ascension.” The remnants of her words floated about the room after she’d finished.

  “Very well. Does the candidate know what is involved?” the old man asked, his tired voice echoing ominously.

  “Yes. He has been informed. I will act as his advocate and as a witness for him.”

  The old man shifted in his seat as he addressed me. “Do you, Evan Michaels, wish to join our family and enter into the Cognomina?” His heavy, gray eyes looked as fathomless as time itself.

  I felt every eye in the room on me. I knew what saying yes would mean to the life I’d known and to the life I saw around me in this room. “Yes,” I said simply as I planted both feet firmly in this new world.

  “Very well. Let us begin,” he said, leaning back in his chair.

  Poppy motioned for me to sit down. The young scribe’s hand began writing in sweeping strokes on the blank pages.

  The old man looked over and nodded at the professor, who tilted his angular head back and looked down his long nose at me. The wooly hair on his head resembled the eraser of a thin pencil. “Let’s start at the beginning, Mr. Michaels. How many lives do you remember?”

  I looked over at Poppy for instruction.

  “Answer him,” she whispered.

  I turned back to the panel and looked into the man’s sunken eyes. “Three, including this one.” I heard the scribe’s pen begin to scratch across a blank page.

  “When did the first one begin?”

  “April 4, 1892, outside the small village of Voditza in Bulgaria.18 It is about sixty miles west of Varna.”

  “Good, very good,” the professor said. “The more detailed and exact you are in your responses, the easier this process will be.

  “What was your name in this first incarnation?”

  “I was called Vasili Blagavich Arda.”

  “What were your father’s and mother’s names?”

  “Blag Ivanovich Arda was my father, and Liuda Poriskovna Arda was my mother.”

  “What were your brother’s and sister’s names?” asked the demanding professor as soon as I had answered.

  “I had no brothers or sisters.”

  “When, where, and how did you die for the first time?”

  I took a drink of water from the glass on the table. “It was in the fall of 1968. I was living in Istanbul. I don’t know how I died or the exact date. I only remember that I collapsed on the floor of my room.”

  “What do you remember after that?”

  “I remember being a little boy in Macon, Georgia.”

  “What was your name?”

  “Bobby Lynn Murray.”

  “And your mother and father?”

  “Judith Anne Murray. I never knew my father.”

  “When, where, and how did you die the second time?”

  “It was in our home in Macon. I died in an accident,” I said, hesitating.

  “What manner of accident?”

  “A fire,” I said, staring forcefully at him. He looked down at his notes before he continued.

  “How can you be sure about the date?”

  “Because I went back to Macon three years ago to see his grave and to try to prove to myself that I wasn’t mad.”

  “Are you?” interjected the androgynous Asian on the other end of the bench.

  I paused and looked deliberately at each judge in turn from right to left. “No, I am not. But I wasn’t sure at that time.”

  “Tell us about that time,” the professor demanded.

  I leaned over to whisper in Poppy’s ear. “Can I smoke?” She nodded, and I lit a cigarette. “If you’ll indulge me, I’ll start from the beginning and work forward.”

  The professor nodded slowly.

  “In the fall of that first strange year, I began having odd dreams and visions, most often when I was awake. They seemed random at first, then eventually, they began to form an order and make sense. They were memories. The first memories I had, Vasili’s memories, were from the Bulgarian countryside. In that Minnesota winter, the visions, or memories, grew longer, more vivid, and more prolific. In time, I gained control over them, eventually reviewing them over and over until I was comfortable with things like language and music that I knew from this other person’s memories. I began to question my grasp of reality early on when the memories first started to suggest a separate consciousness from my own. I questioned myself, but what was I to think? By that summer, I could read, write, and speak Bulgarian. The memories had become tangible. It was real.

  “I couldn’t go to Bulgaria as a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old and visit the places where Vasili had been. Though it was the surest way to prove to myself that those memories were real, that Vasili had lived at all. My opportunity at vindication and my peace of mind came with the second set of memories, those of young Bobby Lynn Murray. The memories of his short life came to me within a period of two weeks. They came after Vasili’s memories. It was at the end of those two weeks that I left my home and parents to find the truth.

  “I packed several changes of clothes, cleaned out my meager bank account, and took off on my motorcycle, headed for Georgia. It was eerie as I neared Macon. I started to recognize certain landmarks. I’d be riding along and suddenly know there was a bridge ahead, or I’d know which highway to take before I consulted the map. I rode through town unaware I was navigating until the bike coasted to a stop in front of Bobby’s old house. The home came as a big shock. It was different than I had remembered, of course, as the original was destroyed in the fire. A new one was built on the old foundation and stood out from the older homes surrounding it. I recognized the neighboring houses and the school he had attended. I walked for hours around his old neighborhood in a daze, each building, each street, each crack in the sidewalk speaking to me like some long-dead, neglected ghost now begging for attention.

  “I found Bobby’s grave after a three-hour search in the munici­pal cemetery. It was a plain headstone, white with block letters and no scroll or artwork, the kind put up by the state when the next of kin can’t afford anything better.

  “That was it. All the proof I’d ever need was planted in the ground at my feet. There I was, alone in the cemetery with myself and my mother. The warm sun and fragrant air of magnolias invited me to stay. I touched her headstone as a son should and laid on the rich grass above Bobby as if to get close enough to reunite the memories with their bodies.”

  The scribe’s fountain pen moving across paper was the only sound for some minutes after I’d finished.

  “Where did you go after that?”

  “Nowhere in particular at first. I wandered from town to town, working odd jobs for gas and food money. Eventually, I landed in Los Angeles.”

  “So am I to understand that you didn’t realize you were a Reincarnationist until three years ago?” the old man asked, leaning forward.

  “That is correct.”

  “So you remembered both your first and second incarnations in this life, your third life?”

  “Yes,” I said. The panel leaned back as one and began talking softly among themselves. “What’s happening?” I asked Poppy. Her eyes were locked on the panel.

  “Nothing. Your situation is unusual, that’s all. You’re doing fine.”

  They conferred for several minutes before the professor leaned forward and spoke. “We want to go over some details of what you’ve told us. It’s sort of like coloring in an outline. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I think so.”

  “I want to start from the ending. When you made your trip from Minnesota to Georgia,” he said, looking
down at his notes, “how long did it take?”

  “About a week.”

  “Did you incur any traffic violations along the way?”

  “No,” I answered, somewhat confused.

  “Did you incur any on your route from Georgia to California?”

  “Yes, one for speeding in Texas.”

  “Where, exactly?”

  “Slayton, Texas.”

  “Can you name any of the places in which you worked along the route from Georgia to California?”

  “There were a lot of people I worked with for only a day, doing odd jobs, but I do remember the businesses that I worked for. The Farmers Co-op in Huntsville, Alabama; Masher Lawn Service in Lake Charles, Louisiana; The Bailey Cotton Gin in Amherst, Texas; Globeville Mining Co. in Globeville, Arizona; California Dreamin’ Motorcycle shop in Barstow, California.”

  “What was the year and manufacture of the motorcycle on which you traveled?”

  “It was a 1976 Honda.”

  “Was? You no longer own it?”

  “No, it was stolen.”

  “Was it registered in your name?”

  “Yes,” I said, lighting another cigarette. He looked down at his notes as though searching for his next question. “It was blue, by the way,” I said, putting my lighter away. “In case it turns up in the course of your investigation, I’d like it back,” I said with nervous laughter. A few chuckles came from the gallery and panel. The professor smiled and continued with a series of rapid questions.

  “What color eyes did your mother, Judith, have?”

  “Blue.”

  “And hair?”

  “Brown.”

  “Where did she work when you were a child?”

  “She worked in a carpet factory.”

  “What kind of car did she drive? Tell me about your grandparents? Where did they live? Where did you go to elementary school? Did Bobby ever have any injuries?” There seemed no end to the professor’s questions. The volley back and forth went on for hours. I focused my eyes on his mouth as he spoke, studying the gaps between his teeth in an attempt to stay alert. “Did you have any pets in Georgia?”

  “No,” I said automatically. I snuffed out the cigarette and dropped the butt in with the twenty-plus others.

  “Did your mom have any lovers while you were growing up?”

  “Huh?” I asked, snapping out of a daze.

  “Your mother, Judith. Did she—” The old man in the center raised his hand to cut him off.

  “Let’s break for the night. It’s a very good start, Mr. Michaels.” His long, white beard danced under his chin as he spoke. “We’ll pick it up here tomorrow.”

  Poppy led me out of the room while the others milled around and talked. “You look tired,” she said, walking above me up the stairs.

  “I’m exhausted, mentally. What time will it start tomorrow?”

  “After dinner again. I’ll come and get you when we’re ready.”

  “I was hoping you would join me for dinner. I haven’t really seen you since we came here.”

  “I . . . ah . . . sure, I could do that. I might have to leave a bit early though, for preparations.”

  “Great.” I took several steps before continuing. “I have a question for you,” I said up to her. “I have several questions, actually. First of all, is that spear on the wall the same one you told me about, the one they once used to kill candidates?”

  She laughed. The sounds carried up the slanting shaft of stone stairs and shot back down at us. “You make it sound so morose, but yes, it is the same one.”

  “Why is it still hanging behind the panel?”

  “I don’t know, really. I suppose we keep it as a symbol of discerning the truth. Speaking of which, you did well tonight. I was thinking about halfway through the proceedings that this whole Ascension could go very quickly.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Two reasons. It’s relatively easy to verify historical facts these days. And number two, you only have two trips worth of material to account for. The last person who went through this in the 1920s, the one who was older than I, took months of sessions like that one tonight. That would be a real grind. I shouldn’t think yours will take that long at all.

  “The rest of your questions will have to wait,” she said, opening the door at the top. “I’m going to sleep and I suggest you do the same. I’ll see you later today.” She walked quickly down the hall and up the stairs to her suite. I looked out the window in my room as I undressed for bed. Light purple and blue bands of light clung low to the city’s morning skyline.

  “what time is it?” I asked Diltz on the way to the kitchen.

  “Three p.m., sir. There’s still some food left in the dining room.”

  “If it’s no trouble, I’d like to have a driver for the rest of the day. I want to see the city, get some fresh air,” I said.

  “It is no trouble. When would you like to leave?”

  “Right after I get a quick bite to eat.”

  He nodded.

  “When do I need to be back?”

  “Seven o’clock, sir.”

  “Oh, I almost forgot. Poppy will be dining with us tonight, Mr. Diltz.”

  “I’ll make the necessary preparations, sir.”

  the driver knew every part of the city but less than a dozen words in English, and after three silent hours of alpine vistas, I was eager to get back and continue.

  “How was your tour, sir?” Mr. Diltz said, opening the front door.

  “Excellent. The scenery around here is wonderful. I think I’d like to take a cruise on the lake next time.”

  “I will make the arrangements, sir.”

  I noticed something peculiar as I walked in, and it struck me as odd that I hadn’t noticed it before. There was no handle or latch on the outside of the door. There wasn’t even a place for a key to activate the locks. The door could only be opened from the inside. There always had to be someone inside the building. It was never vacant, ever.

  “We’ll dine in the same room as last night. I spoke to Poppy moments ago. She’ll be down to join us shortly.”

  We raided the pristine platters in the main dining room and then retreated to the side room again.

  “I must admit, I enjoy dining with you like this,” Diltz said, taking his seat. “I almost always eat alone.”

  “Don’t you have a family?”

  “No, I do not. My position here is a full time one and affords me little time to be social. Besides, the secrecy that I’m entrusted with doesn’t leave much personal time.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I wouldn’t say he was happy about his condition from the way he spoke, but he was disciplined about it. He was perfectly suited to his job, or his job was perfectly suited to him, I couldn’t tell which. Probably both.

  Poppy came in carrying a plate and a bottle of wine.

  “How are they getting along in there, Madame?” Diltz asked her.

  “Oh, fine.”

  “Thank you for joining us,” I said, taking the bottle from her.

  “It’s pleasantly quiet in here.”

  “Yes, it is quiet, and it gives me an opportunity to ask a few questions we didn’t have time for last night.”

  “All right,” she said, taking a seat.

  “What is the story behind that grotto we were in last night? It’s enormous and it looks very old.”

  “It was once part of an old church. For hundreds of years, the Cognomina had access to the grotto by paying the church a tribute. When the church was destroyed by fire in 1743, we bought the ruin and built this edifice over the foundation and the grotto.”

  “How old is it?”

  “No one knows for sure, but it was probably excavated by the Romans as part of an old temple. A Mithraic temple would be my gues
s,”19 she said.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, staring at my plate of food.

  “It’s bigger, too, much bigger than the part you saw. You’ll see it soon enough, I think. The festival will be held in the larger part.”

  I let my mind wander and fantasize about what was beyond the curtain. We ate for a few minutes in silence. I could tell Poppy was quite distracted by not being involved in the noise down the hall. “Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?” she asked.

  “Yes, there is. I’ve been thinking about something you said the night before we left. We were talking about humanity as it relates to our condition, and you mentioned that you thought man lives unnaturally.”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I understand what you’re talking about, but I’m not sure.”

  “It’s simple. Modern man lives in an unnatural world. He lives in a world dominated by dogma. Take Christianity or Islam for example, though any religion will do since they all work on the same principle. This devout man lives unnaturally because every day of his life he bites back on his desire and restrains himself from what he really yearns to do and say. And for what purpose? So it will get him into heaven? So that it will get his name in the book of life? Rubbish!” she dismissed with a wave of her fork. “You and I are proof that this is nothing more than a hoax, a farce. Each day that he bites back only propagates another day and another day and another day of the same mundane existence, the same unfulfilled existence that is so pathetic and weak. You know it’s true. You ask any of these devout men what they would do if they knew the world would end at sundown of that day. The answers would astound you. Husbands wouldn’t know their wives, mothers wouldn’t know their sons, brothers wouldn’t know their sisters for the answers you would find. You would find the true being that lives under the false exterior, shackled and estranged from the completely natural desires that flow like a strong, ancient river through the transitory and fickle sediments of dogma and religion.”

  Diltz placed his fork down. “These sentiments might very well be true, but I don’t know if I would go so far as to call religion a hoax,” he said.

  “Islam, Christianity, and Judaism before that,” she continued, “are the biggest hoaxes ever perpetrated on the human race. It robs man of his dignity and his freedom. People say that religion is the basis of our civilization. I say to you verily that it is a corruption of all that man is. Man lives his life in some socially engineered family unit and sells his time by the hour because he is too afraid to live in those hours. He is afraid to look beyond the veil that surrounds him because he knows no other way, because he is born into this bondage. And it is this way because some ancient text tells him this is how he should live. That is the corruption. That is man’s true fall from grace. But man is told a lie about that even. He is told that his fall from grace happened because one man and one woman supposedly sinned at the beginning of time and that we are guilty simply by being men and women by way of that original sin. That is the least original joke ever told. Unfortunately for man, it is the most prolific.”