The young man came to the doorway and nodded at Benson. “This way, please.”
Benson was led to a small sitting room. Yogi Sanjay Nullatumbi sat on a upholstered chair. “Come in, please, Mr. Benson.” He was an aging man with dark skin, a white beard and graying hair down to his shoulders. He wore a long white robe. “I am happy to see you. Please sit down.”
He indicated a chair and nodded at the Indian to sit in another chair. Benson noticed that there was a television console in the corner.
“Now, how can I help you?”
“Dr. Hart suggested I visit you,” said Benson. “I have a strange story to tell you.”
“Yes?”
“I went to Dr. Hart at the university to get his advice about … he called them oobies.”
“Yes. Astral projection.”
“I wanted to learn about them.”
Nullatumbi nodded and waited.
“I believe that a man is trying to kill me through what you call astral projection.”
Nullatumbi leaned forward slightly.
“You may have read about it in the papers. The police have already questioned him about four other deaths.”
“Kheim. Yes, I know. The police will learn nothing.”
“Those four people were part of a committee trying to get Kheim deported. Back to Vietnam.”
“And you’re convinced that he killed them through astral projection?”
“Is that possible?”
“Mr. Benson, for God, all things are possible.”
“Are all things possible for Kheim?”
“You have come to ask me how to avoid this Kheim?”
“No, no. I have come to ask you something entirely different. I want to learn astral projection.”
“You want to enter the spirit world? For what purpose?”
“To get at Kheim.”
“Mr. Benson, this is very disturbing. Astral projection is to be used only for reaching God.”
“That’s not what Kheim is using it for.”
“That may be true. He’s a bad man. But he is also a diligent student and a Tibetan monk. God will take care of him.”
“And who will take care of me?”
Yogi Nullatumbi gazed at him but did not speak.
“And how will I get my daughter back?”
Still Nullatumbi remained silent. The young Indian shifted in his chair.
“Mr. Benson,” Nullatumbi said finally, “I am afraid that I cannot help you. First of all, astral projection is only for a few. It takes many years of religious discipline to prepare the soul for such travel.”
“Dr. Hart says that there are many who leave the body almost by accident.”
“Mr. Benson, even if you were to learn the technique of spirit travel, it would be a terrible event for you. And Kheim is so much stronger, so much more adept. He could still vanquish you. And I assure you that dying in the spiritual plane away from your body could cause your soul to wander alone, lost in infinity forever—a terrible, unending fate.”
“Do you think I would have a better chance if I went to his house with a gun and shot him?”
“I don’t think you would succeed.”
“I almost succeeded last night with a bureau.”
“A bureau?”
“Yes, I dropped it on him and he assumed a black silky form. I know. I touched it. I had him in my fist but he slipped right through it. If I’d been able to hold onto him I could have killed him.”
Nullatumbi frowned. “Black? Through your hand, you say? Was it cold to touch?”
“Like ice.”
Nullatumbi spoke in a foreign language to the young man, who then left the room.
Nullatumbi sat without talking. More time passed before he spoke again. It was a small sermon.
“Mr. Benson. You know that you cannot combat evil unless you believe that evil exists. Western science doesn’t believe that evil does exist. Even your Plato believed that evil was really a form of ignorance. But this is not so. You cannot rehabilitate many criminals, because they are inherently evil. Not all men are victims of sociological deprivation. Some men are corrupt, born with crippled souls as real as withered limbs or weak hearts. They are truly evil. “A loving spirit emanates warmth, an evil spirit emanates cold—bitter cold. I can see your aura quite clearly as you sit there. You are a man of many human faults but you can feel great love—that is God’s great gift to most humans. Kheim cannot feel love. Tell me. Do you believe in evil?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should. You touched it.” He sat back. “I do not see how this situation can turn out well. What you are asking me to do is help you fight an evil spirit in the astral plane. That is a terrible, terrifying task.”
Sanjay Nullatumbi considered Benson anew. He studied his eyes, staring frankly into them with his own frighteningly honest brown ones. Benson felt that he was being measured, counted and weighed, as though an inventory of spiritual parts were being taken.
Anxiously waiting, without any plan should Nullatumbi refuse him, Benson was still able to admire the picture before him: Nullatumbi in marvelous tones of brown and mahogany, a fascinating face in the morning light and set off by his cascading white garment. Nullatumbi’s peaceful, light-filled portrait was a stunning contrast to Kheim’s, done in darkness and shadow.
Abruptly, he stood up—a very short man with lively, warm eyes and, now, a grave expression on his face. “Please come with me. I wish to show you something.”
Benson followed him through a hallway to the rear of the building and down the porch steps to the old carriage house. They ascended a flight of wooden outside steps to the second floor and stepped into a corridor. Past a room with a bed and a bureau in it and on down the hallway to another room. It was small, with white walls and rush mats on the floor. One wall was covered by a thin white curtain through which daylight glowed faintly.
“Mr. Benson, sit here please on this mat.” Nullatumbi faced him toward a completely blank wall, leaving a space of a few inches. “I ask you, Mr. Benson, do you think you could sit, under my guidance, and stare at that wall with unremitting concentration for two weeks?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t think you can. But if you do, it will be the most terrible experience of your life. Once you start, there must be no turning back. You will either succeed or you will go mad. Many have gone permanently insane, Mr. Benson. Many.” He stepped back. “We will now see how much you love your daughter.”
When, a moment later, Benson glanced around, he was quite alone in the room. He turned back and gazed at the wall—utterly blank, featureless. He stood up.
An Indian man about thirty-five, with dark brown eyes, stood in the doorway. “Please sit down and face the wall, sir.”
He sat cross-legged and stared at the wall.
How suddenly it had all happened. He had arrived less than twenty minutes ago expecting—what? And now here he was, without preamble, preparation or baggage, sitting before a wall. In fact, sitting against a wall, there to remain for two weeks.
He regarded its smooth, seamless plane. It seemed simple enough, to sit and stare at a wall for two weeks. There had to be more to it than that. Staring at a wall drove many mad, Nullatumbi had said. Benson shrugged and composed himself.
Wondering if he ought to call some people, he prepared a list. Gradually, though, he removed every name; his prolonged trips were so frequent that few people—no people—would wonder at another two-week absence. He decided he would have to go back to his house and pack some things, including his razor.
He thought of Sue. He pictured her face anew with that same sharp sense of loss. He still felt surprise when he remembered how indifferent she’d been to his leaving. More than fifteen years of marriage and they’d parted with hardly a word.
Recalling Nullatumbi’s warning about madness, he considered telephoning her. He hesitated. He wasn’t sure how she would react to his call. His pride, he knew, was in the way. T
hen, involuntarily, he felt himself embracing her, putting his arms around her small shoulders, feeling the texture of her hair on his face, inhaling greedily the clean, sunburnt odor of her hair, feeling the surge of love and passion that could still, after fifteen years, make him weak. Her face, her presence, her gentle love—these were a magnet that could draw him to her from around the earth.
If he called her now, if he shared his plan with her, she would be just a helpless observer. He would be condemning her to two long weeks of nightmarish waiting. He was also afraid that she might drain away his resolve.
He looked at the wall. He decided to let Sue believe that he was shooting film in Africa.
Money next occupied his thoughts. Nullatumbi had not told him how much the training would cost. He considered going back to the house and inquiring. Before he could guess what the fee might be, his mind wandered to another subject.
The wall was apparently plaster and, in the subdued light, without grain or texture. The color was eggshell white. He would come to know this wall as he had never known any wall before.
“Hi, wall,” he said, feeling ridiculous but saying it aloud anyway. His nose itched; he scratched it. His knees complained and he shifted his weight. His suit jacket felt tight. He removed it.
He next considered the Africa trip, thinking how badly he’d wanted it, how much he might have done with it, how much it would have done for his career. He dwelt awhile on the office and the personnel and the footage he’d shot recently in Europe. Someone else would put those commercials together now. Someone else would put his own imprimatur on them.
He decided he was hungry. It must be mealtime. He wondered what they ate and when. He felt hungry. He wished someone would come. He’d been sitting there for at least two hours already, and nothing of note had occurred.
He glanced at his watch and was shocked: only ten minutes had elapsed. Ten minutes. He looked at the wall and for the first time realized how long two weeks were going to be. Staring at the sweep hand of his watch, he felt panic. Two weeks.
A faint shadow fell from the doorway, and he looked behind him. The Indian had returned, bearing a white robe over his arm. He stepped into the room.
“I’ll take your watch please.”
Benson gave it to him.
“We shall eat shortly. Perhaps you would be more comfortable in these trousers and robe.”
Benson stood up. “What’s your name?”
“Rama. You will sleep in this room down the hall.” Benson followed him to it. “This is the bath.” He opened the door. “All the toilet articles you need are in that cabinet. And you can put your clothes in the closet.” It was bare save for four wire hangers. “You will be served some of your meals at this table and some in the dining room. This is your bed. You will sleep here every night from nine until five. And you will take three naps a day, one after each meal. You may talk only to me or to Sanjay Nullatumbi.”
“That’s all? Just you two?”
“Yes. Each evening you will be permitted to take a walk around the grounds with me. Please avoid all contact with the people you see. And now, while you change your clothing, I will get your midday meal.”
Somehow the loose white clothing reminded him of a wrestler’s uniform; as he put it on he felt as though he were preparing for a major bout. He noticed that his calves and ankles bore the impress of the rush mats. Sitting down on the bed, he bounced on it lightly. Next he examined the bathroom cabinet, where he found razor, soap, toothbrush and paste, shampoo and a comb. The essentials.
Rama returned with a tray of hot food. “When you finish, please rest. I will wake you.”
Alone again, he sat down and examined his tray. It contained a pot of tea, curried lamb with rice, a small bowl of peas. He ate the meal hungrily and drank all the tea. Then he lay on the small bed and looked at the doorknob, trying to decide if his role was that of prisoner, invalid or contender.
Rama woke him with a word. “Now.”
Just “now,” and Benson sat up. He sat up and knew immediately he didn’t want to face that wall. He rubbed his eyes and told himself to get dressed and leave this place. Then he stood up, adjusted his robe and followed Rama back into the room. The wall, in sallow light, waited.
Obediently he seated himself on the rush mats and looked at the wall and recognized it for what it was: his adversary.
Rama knelt beside him. “You will not try to think of anything. Merely concentrate on the sound I give you. AEL. Ael.”
“Ael.”
“Yes. Concentrate on that word.”
He sensed that Rama had left. He was alone with the ineluctable wall. And Ael.
He concentrated on “Ael.” A.E.L. He pictured it in script, then in sans-serif block letters, then in italic block letters. It hung in the air before his eyes.
When his legs began to complain, he shifted his weight and straightened his back and sighed. He remembered when he’d faced a wall before—in childhood for punishment, sitting in a chair staring at a wall corner. Memories came thickly.
“Now,” said Rama.
He’d drifted into a light doze. He sat up. Both legs were numb.
“I have brought you a chair. You may alternate between the floor and the chair.”
“What time is it?”
“There is no time. Sit.”
Benson stood up. Both legs were stiff, barely supporting him. Rama watched him.
“With a little practice, ground-sitting is more comfortable. Are you concentrating on Ael?”
“Yes.”
“You drifted.”
“Yes.”
“I want you to concentrate on Ael and clear your mind. Do not allow other matters to intrude. You must be deliberate and determined. If you drift, your concentration has broken.”
“All right.”
How silently Rama left! Yet Benson could sense his absence again. He readdressed himself to the wall.
Ael.
Ael. It made a lingering sound in his mind. Thoughts of the office moved into his consciousness and, remembering Rama’s instructions, he excluded them.
Ael.
Other thoughts surfaced at random—of home, of the dog he’d buried, of bookcases he’d planned to build. He excluded them. Ael. Ael. He held to it, saw it clearly, heard its sound ring in his memory. Ael. He sensed a vibrant thrill and realized he sat clenched and in concentration. Relax, he told himself. Ael. He soon discovered that if he concentrated on Ael his body bunched; if he relaxed, his mind drifted. Memories, multitudes of them, waited in the wings, ready to step out on the stage of his mind.
A sudden appearance, like a film, of the high corniche above the Riviera and he clearly saw, clearly remembered the twisting roadway dashing in and out of tunnels. Far below was the coastline, the glittering Mediterranean stretching from it to a horizon that blended into an azure sky. In his memory the car handled easily on the curves.
He drew his mind up again. Ael. Now he understood. Rama was causing Benson to teach himself to concentrate. With this realization came the painful one that he possessed no mental discipline at all. He had the attention span of a child. Ael. He thought it, saw it, heard it. And he held it, felt himself drawn to it. Felt it grow larger in block letters. Ael.
Susan’s face was suddenly before him, gazing at him—with what? Scorn? Dismay? Coldness? He couldn’t tell. He felt sadness as he drew his mind back to Ael.
He concentrated on Ael. Ail. Ale. Ell. Oil. Al. Ill. The letters hung again before him. AEL. And shifted as he willed them to italic lettering, tilting to the right. He ordered them to tilt to the left. Obediently they hung on a left bias.
Then abruptly, unbidden, the letters sprang forward, loomed larger in vivid red and, as he watched, changed to Old English letters embellished and ornate. Tendrils unexpectedly thrust out and coiled around the letters, grew tighter and squeezed them. He watched in horror as the letters burst like pulp and ran with blood that dripped off the lower serifs.
He drew up an
d shook his head. Something else, he sensed, could manipulate his mind. Something else vied for control of his mind.
“Please stand and stretch,” said Rama, entering with a cup of tea.
At five, it all stopped: the first session was over. He’d sat and, concentrating on Ael, contemplated his own mind.
It was a recalcitrant, undisciplined child, his mind, a puny, undeveloped organ barely capable of concentrating on anything specific at all.
“How long were you able to concentrate at one time?” asked Rama.
“Minutes. Two, three.”
“That’s very poor.”
“Yes.”
“But it is much better than most people.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Tomorrow will be longer.”
Rama took him for a walk through the grounds. A chill rose from the earth as the sun set, casting long shadows across the grounds.
Everything seemed brighter, the edges of things sharper.
“What will I do tomorrow?”
“Fight with yourself.”
“Fight?”
“As you did today. You must establish discipline. Your mind has never been told what to do before.”
“My mind has made me very successful.”
“It has done that with little effort. For the first time it is really going to labor.”
“Is that what I’m going to do for two weeks? Stare at a wall and think of Ael?”
“No. What you are doing is exerting pressure on the wall. Your mind must break through to the world beyond.” He looked speculatively at Benson. “You are going to enter a universe far more frightening than anything you’ve ever dreamed of. I hope your strength is great.”
Rama ate with him in the old mansion.
“Do you like curry, Mr. Benson?”
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