Seven Sides of Self

by Nancy Joie Wilkie

  “Do I want to write to be famous?” he wondered one day. Fame would be a convenient shortcut to self-approval. “Or is it that I want to write to tell some great story for the purpose of entertainment? Perhaps it is to make lots of money. Or it might be that I want to use writing as a means to teach readers some valuable lesson.” None of these reasons seemed to satisfy the man, and he went on about his daily business without coming to any conclusion.

  He mentioned this to his wife. She listened with great attention—as she always did—but she could not offer an explanation.

  Then one day, his wife made an observation. “Maybe you need to find the joy in the creative process itself. Maybe the end result of creating something isn’t as important as you think. Maybe it’s the adventure needing to be savored, not the destination.”

  Once he accepted the wisdom offered by his wife, the man discovered—quite to his surprise—he now experienced delight in a well-constructed paragraph. This simple peace coming out of nowhere slowly replaced the longing to write. He felt rather silly something so basic did what years of his fruitless efforts had not.

  The man’s life fell into a routine that did not involve grand dreams about writing, or more accurately, the desire to write. The man and his wife filled their lives with work and travel, family and friends, and time to devote to each other and their other interests. Pleasant though the routine was, the man sometimes wondered whether he had lost his battle with his internal critic. No—he had nothing to regret. He had not been lazy and had not procrastinated. Goodness knows he had been diligent at his desired occupation through the years, almost to the point of being obsessive. He knew his original thought of having to produce something great the first time he sat down had caused him a good deal of angst. But he had realized the power of taking baby steps and he had done that successfully. He had learned to nurture himself. He had found a loving and devoted wife.

  No, there was plenty to feel good about—he had not lost any battle. Perhaps he hadn’t published any stories, but he saw all of the benefits that had come from his long struggle with wanting to write. He knew for the first time that he was truly happy. He laughed at himself.

  “All of these years I thought that if I became a writer I would be happy. What if—just what if—I somehow feared the writing because I feared happiness?” He grinned silently.

  Then the man had an idea for a story. It wasn’t like the ideas he had before. This one was towering; it burned with an intensity he had not felt before, and it caught him quite by surprise. He suddenly felt much like the child who, after persistent pleading, is allowed by the parent to engage in some long sought-after activity. The years of struggling seemed to slip away. He knew immediately what he had to do. He got up and ran into his studio, sat down, and began to write—

  “There once was a man who wanted to write …”

  “According to thy faith, be it unto you.”

  MATTHEW 9:29

  THE LEDGE

  (The Skeptic)

  THE ECHOES FROM BOOT heels striking the well-polished floors preceded the now familiar voice.

  “Lights out!”

  Zarce Sun De’oggo lay on his metal bunk, hands clasped firmly behind his head, anticipating the passing of the Sentinel by his cell—an obscure cell, likely one of the hundreds, even thousands, deep within the Ministry of Thought.

  The guard abruptly stopped in front of the cell and glared through the shadows at its only occupant. “Offender De’oggo!” A rush of fear shot through Zarce’s body.

  “You best get some rest. You’re scheduled to meet a Mothersoul tomorrow. She will decide your fate.” With that, the figure spun on his heel and continued his metered cadence down the corridor.

  “Lights out!” continued the Sentinel.

  Light slowly seeped out of the aseptic hallways. Zarce hated the darkness that followed the fading footsteps. He hated the thoughts that came with the darkness even more. How many nights had it been? Zarce had lost count. He wasn’t even certain it was, in fact, night. There was no way to know—there were no windows, no clocks, no means to keep track of the hour or the day in this forsaken place.

  Zarce fell into his now regular pattern of questions. Why was he here? What had he done? He had not hurt anyone. He did not owe anyone any credits—he paid his bills on time. He did not imbibe in strong drink or illegal substances. Whom had he offended?

  He could feel his sense of helplessness grow. He made the obligatory attempt to quell the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Even if he knew why he was here, he could do nothing to change his incarceration. He was utterly powerless. Of this, he was certain.

  But tonight a new thought found its way into his head. He might even be grateful for the deviation from his nightly ritual, but the thought could not overpower the sense of dread this latest matter brought. What of the Mothersoul of whom the Sentinel spoke and his meeting tomorrow? Zarce thought Mothersouls served only in the Great Temples or as Head Mistresses of the Mindschools—like the one he had attended in his earlier years. He had never heard of such a Revered One sitting in judgment at some meeting. He didn’t even know the purpose of this meeting—except it would, according to the Sentinel, decide his fate. In all of his time at the Ministry of Thought, no one had spoken with him or explained to him the reason for his presence or what would happen to him.

  Zarce tried to think back to his days at the Mindschool, tried to recall any fragment of his memories of the Mothersouls. He remembered catching a glimpse of one once as she hurried across a courtyard, her black robes flying as she headed into the stiff morning breeze—probably late for some assembly or convocation—her thin pale face surrounded by a narrow white cowl, her hands nowhere to be seen, no doubt buried deep within the confines of her cloak.

  Even with such a rare sighting of a Mothersoul, no one spoke of such things. Not out of fear, but rather out of reverence for the Oversoul. Zarce knew precious little about Mothersouls—except, of course, what he learned at the Mindschool. He could still recall what his teachers recited from the Great Book.

  “Mothersouls are the keepers of the Oversoul. They see to its every need. They are charged with keeping the purity of the flock, their minds clean, and their hearts true.”

  How they accomplished their awesome responsibilities, no one knew or questioned. It was part of the Great Mystery of the Oversoul. People only prayed for a roof over their heads, a good meal at the end of a day’s work, and a peaceful world in which to raise their children. This was the way things had always been and would likely always be—the Oversoul permitting.

  So why am I here? thought Zarce, coming back full circle. Had he done something to threaten the Order of Things, the Great Peace? How could he, one lowly worker, one loyal follower, be of any interest to the Mothersouls?

  Surely the Omnipotent Oversoul and its dutiful servants, the Mothersouls, must know he had committed no offense. Zarce tried to draw some small degree of confidence from this thought as he slowly drifted off into a restless sleep.

  Zarce assumed it must be morning. The Sentinel arrived at his cell with a tray containing several small cubes of bread, a bowl of cold porridge, and a metal mug of water.

  “You have ten minutes to eat. Then I will be back for you,” said the Sentinel.

  Zarce gave thanks for the meager food and drink. He made certain none of it went to waste, so he consumed every morsel of food and drained the last sip of stale water just as the Sentinel returned.

  “Say your good-byes to your cell,” chided the guard. “You shan’t be seeing it again.”

  The thought didn’t bother Zarce. This cell was the tenth or twelfth one he had spent time in since his arrival. He had no possessions with him, so there was nothing to leave, nothing to carry with him.

  He quickly left the cell so as not to give the Sentinel any excuse to push or shove him. During his stay, he discovered obedience to be the best approach when dealing with the guards. They only needed the slightest excuse to abuse a
n Offender. Zarce did not want to serve as someone’s entertainment.

  The Sentinel led him down a long corridor, down several flights of stairs, and finally through a series of scanners and metal detectors. They traversed two more hallways until the Sentinel directed him to enter the Inquisition Chamber. The Sentinel pointed to an old wooden chair in the first row behind a table piled high with old books and important-looking papers. As Zarce walked toward the seat indicated by the guard, he noticed two other individuals who appeared to be waiting for hearings of their own. They both sat at the back of the room. Zarce guessed his meeting with the Mothersoul would be first on the day’s docket.

  As soon as Zarce sat down, three stoic Clerics entered the room from a side door and stood in front of Zarce with their backs toward him, ignoring him. All wore drab green uniforms, but none of them wore the uniform particularly well. The tallest Cleric’s trousers exposed hairy legs. Another stood burly and menacing with his uniform stretched tightly around his midsection. Two large wet circles radiated out from the armpits of the third Cleric, staining his shirt, signaling an obvious problem with perspiration.

  “All rise,” barked one of the uniformed Clerics. “The Reverend Mothersoul Minter will preside over this session and determine the fate of all Offenders.”

  The Mothersoul hurried into the Inquisition Chamber from a door on the opposite side. Red robes covered every part of the revered figure’s body except her eyes, nose, and mouth. The robes hung loosely, not revealing any clues about the physique of this holder of obvious power. But Zarce noted her dense black eyes and the deep shadows surrounding them. Angular cheeks and mouth seemed chiseled out of cold stone. Everything in her face declared her obsession with the matters at hand with no notion of compassion or softness whatsoever.

  She took several minutes to settle herself at the long wooden table situated at the front of the dimly lit room, organize her papers, and adjust the think-machine screen. Finally, she turned her head and gave a subtle nod to the overweight Cleric.

  “State your case, Examiner Saathoff.”

  “Yes, Your Reverence,” began the Cleric without pausing.

  The Cleric turned around and scowled at Zarce. “Offender.”

  A shot of adrenaline fell to the end of his fingers. Zarce steadied himself. He didn’t know the proper etiquette for this situation—he had never addressed, let alone met, a Cleric or a Mothersoul—so he said nothing. The other Clerics and Offenders took their seats.

  The Cleric faced forward once again. “The Offender is charged with harboring the emotion commonly known as fear. He has willingly and knowingly allowed this emotion to dominate every facet of his life. Furthermore, because he has made decisions in response to this fear and because these decisions have adversely affected others around him, his fear has contaminated the Oversoul.”

  So that’s it! Zarce began to understand.

  The Mothersoul directed her disinterested gaze from the Examiner to Zarce. “What say you, Zarce Sun De’oggo?”

  Indeed! What would he say? What should he say?

  All of those days and nights in his cells—if he only knew! He could have mulled over the charges, contemplated their origin, and weighed various strategies—evaluated the pros and the cons of admitting his experience with fear. But there was no time now. There was no one with whom he could consult. He must reply to this accusation.

  His mind raced. Should he admit to having felt fear? Should he deny it? How could the Examiner know what thoughts resided in the private recesses of his mind or what feelings hid in the deep places of his heart? How could a Mothersoul probe beneath his outward actions and know the extent to which his life and actions touched other people—for good or for ill? And how could an unseen Oversoul communicate whatever it knew or suspected to corporeal beings—if the Oversoul even existed? The skepticism surprised Zarce.

  Fear could not be a crime, reasoned Zarce. Fear is a distraction, to be sure. Yes, but it was more than that—it was an intrusion, a liability, and a handicap. He had tried and tried repeatedly to rid himself of its unwelcome presence since he first sensed it in his heart and mind over a year ago. He didn’t know how to stop it or eliminate it. He recalled his decision to minimize the possibility of contaminating others with his fear by living alone—shunning friendships and companionship. But that, of course, did nothing to address the source of the fear.

  Why couldn’t the fear be silent?

  Zarce realized he had never fully explored the bounds of this fear, its ramifications, and what sort of trouble it might cause. But how could he have? How can one examine something one does not understand? And people do not speak of such things—there is no place safe to unwrap this emotional intruder.

  But he was Of The Light! People Of The Light did not experience fear!

  And now that the taste of fear was familiar to Zarce—now that he knew something of its power over one’s thoughts—he could not imagine fear not being a part of everyone’s daily life on this miserable little planet. Certainly, others must live in fear of something or someone, Zarce thought—especially those not Of The Light. And there must be people who create fear in those they wish to control. How can there be control without fear? And how can there be fear without anger? Is not anger an offense just as serious as fear? Zarce could not believe all of society to be simply a collection of docile individuals, existing without negative emotions. Assuming that others truly did experience fear, how did others prevent the Mothersouls from examining their minds and their thoughts? Or did they? What offenses against the Oversoul had they committed?

  But fairness was not the issue at this moment. Zarce adjusted his stance and gathered his courage. He looked directly at the Mothersoul and prayed she would find the explanation of his actions—or more appropriately, his thoughts and emotions—acceptable.

  “Your Reverence,” he began. “I admit to having felt fear in my heart and my mind for much of the last Cycle. I did not ask for it and I tried everything I could think of to rid myself of it. I find its presence”—he paused while searching for a word—“distasteful.”

  The Mothersoul appeared unsympathetic. “And how did this fear find its way into your being?”

  “It came because I inadvertently learned about something known as The Ledge.”

  Zarce noted a visible change in both the Mothersoul and the Examiner. Their spines straightened as they exchanged knowing glances with one another.

  So it was right to fear this Ledge!

  “What do you know of The Ledge?” exploded the Mothersoul.

  A Mothersoul expressing anger? Isn’t anger just as bad as fear?

  “Only what I saw and what I heard one year ago,” Zarce replied cautiously. “I was about to leave my apartment one evening when the young man who lived across the hall was being arrested by a pair of Sentinels. My door was open a crack, and as the confrontation started, I froze. One of the Sentinels said to my neighbor, ‘We’ll see how tough you are when you face The Ledge.’ They led my neighbor away and I did not see him again in our building. I didn’t know what The Ledge was—I had never heard of it before. Over the next few weeks and months, I kept asking myself, what was this Ledge? Then, I began seeing this man in the market near my apartment building from time to time. Initially, I resisted the urge to ask what had happened to him—where he had gone and what he knew about The Ledge. Then one day, I could resist no more.

  “I waited for him to leave the market and then approached him. I said, ‘Excuse, me. Do you remember me? I used to live across the hall from you some number of months ago.’ He just stared at me blankly. His face contorted and he uttered only a few words—‘narrow … so high … no bottom … falling … falling.’ Then he turned and ran into the crowd. I have not seen him since.”

  “Silence!” the Mothersoul commanded. “Enough of this talk! Further reference to The Ledge will only serve to make matters worse for you.”

  Zarce noticed the outburst exhausted the Mothersoul—she appeared to be
catching her breath. Maybe the expression of anger weakened her somehow. Her breathing finally slowed and she steadied herself, using the table for support.

  She turned her now drained gaze away from Zarce, away from the Examiner, and focused on the think-machine’s screen. After a moment, a bony finger appeared from somewhere inside the robes and touched the screen.

  The Mothersoul waited for several minutes. What little of her face Zarce could see suddenly filled with relief. Her head nodded ever so slightly, as if in agreement with whatever she read on the screen.

  “This Tribunal has no choice but to find the Offender guilty of the charges. To answer for these charges, the Offender will be transported to The Ledge, where he is to remain until his soul has been cleansed. The punishment is to be carried out immediately.”

  The words of the Mothersoul struck Zarce with astonishing force. An immediate sense of desperation and disbelief shot through him. He tried to control it—push it down—but it was no use. Blackness welled up from deep down inside him. Perhaps if he retracted his words, changed his confession. Surely there must be some way to overturn this terrible fate—something—anything.

  A Sentinel nudged Zarce toward the door. He gave a meaningless glance over his shoulder as he left the Inquisition Chamber.

  Another Sentinel led Zarce out into the hallway and down several long corridors. He quickly lost track of his location relative to the Inquisition Chamber. His head spun with the weight of his sentence.

  The Offender will be transported to The Ledge—

  He battled to keep walking, forcing himself to place one foot in front of the other. The pit of his stomach sickened beyond anything he had ever experienced in his life.

  —where he is to remain until his soul has been cleansed!