Seven Sides of Self

by Nancy Joie Wilkie

  Finally, the Sentinel stopped, turned to his right, and opened a steel door leading into a small room. The room contained a single chair in its center. An unfamiliar device hung down from the ceiling directly above the chair. A technician stood at the far side of the room and seemed to be making adjustments to an instrument-laden panel mounted on the wall. The Sentinel motioned for Zarce to enter the room, then promptly pulled the door closed behind them and locked it.

  Once the technician seemed satisfied with the various settings, he glanced at the Sentinel as if to indicate the equipment was set.

  The punishment is to be carried out immediately!

  “Are you ready for the Offender?” asked the Sentinel.

  “Affirmative.” The technician nodded. “Bring him over to the chair.”

  Zarce wondered whether he should put up a fight, resist the Sentinel. But there were two of them, a locked door, and a maze of hallways outside with no clue as to how to exit the Ministry of Thought. Even if he could successfully navigate his way through the immense building, where would he go once he escaped? He certainly couldn’t go home—or anywhere else that might be familiar to him. Did he really want to be a fugitive? No, best to get this over with—whatever it was.

  Then he thought, What does this chair have to do with The Ledge, anyway? Zarce believed The Ledge to be somewhere outside—in the open air—not in some seemingly insignificant little room deep in the bowels of a huge building.

  Zarce lowered himself into the chair. The technician adjusted harnesses to hold Zarce’s arms in place, then reached for the inverted dome-like device overhead, tugged at it gently, guiding it down until it covered the top half of Zarce’s head.

  Whatever fear Zarce had experienced in the last year paled in comparison to what he felt now. He tried to prepare himself to meet his immediate future as best he could. His entire frame trembled. Sweat drenched his body. Out of the corner of his eyes, he noted the Sentinel backing away. He heard the technician flick several switches.

  Suddenly, an inner sensation of tingling spread throughout his body, like electricity vibrating every fiber of his being. His awareness spiraled inward. His mind darted from thought to desperate thought. As he felt his consciousness slip away, he became increasing upset his final thoughts would be so frenzied, so scattered, so helpless—not the peaceful end he always imaged, lying in some comfortable bed, surrounded by individuals important to him.

  “No!” A final, fatal mindscream faded within.

  Slowly, Zarce regained consciousness. His first thought—one of gratitude that he was still alive. The machine, whatever it was, whatever it did, had not killed him. He then became aware of intense cold and the sound of howling wind. He tried to swallow, but the dryness in his throat made that impossible. He fought to open his eyes, to learn something of his surroundings.

  He found he lay in the middle of a small bowl-like depression, approximately three meters in diameter. His hands sensed a cold stone floor. In the dim light, his eyes followed the contour of the rock walls as they arched up over his head to form an uneven ceiling. As he turned his head, he discovered the fourth side of the hollow open to the sky, allowing the bitter cold wind to enter.

  He lay perfectly still for several minutes, desperately trying to regain his senses and his strength. The machine had robbed him of both. He began to shiver. He needed to get up and move about, perhaps find something with which he could make a fire. Forcing himself up on one elbow, he stared out the opening of his new cell.

  Something was amiss, Zarce thought. Even the dim light should reveal some kind of landscape out beyond the confines of this cavern. But there was nothing. He pulled himself slowly to the opening, to the edge of the floor. Then he understood the place in which he awoke to be gouged into the side of an immense rock wall, and his little nest was high above anything else in his field of vision.

  He recoiled immediately, fearing he might fall.

  So this is The Ledge! There really is such a thing!

  Intense horror flushed through him as he grappled to accept the desolation. Deathly afraid to move, he remained motionless for several long minutes. Zarce knew the longer he allowed fear to control his actions, the quicker he would freeze to death, but no thoughts of how to warm himself came.

  He gathered his courage and again dragged himself to the opening of the cave. He turned his head from side to side. The Ledge trailed off in both directions, ending abruptly within twenty or thirty meters. When he looked out at the far horizon, Zarce did not see anything—no trace of distant mountains, no fields, no sea. Then he looked up and did not see anything in the ubiquitous ceiling of clouds above. And when he looked down, he did not detect any features in the gray mist below.

  He shouted out. He waited for several long moments. No echo—no answer. He shouted again. Nothing.

  An hour or two went by, and just like in his many cells at the Ministry of Thought, there was no way to gauge the passage of time. The light outside never changed. There was no day or night—no sun or moon or stars he could see. Just continual, unchanging grayness.

  New sets of questions tore through his mind. What should he do? What could he do? He did not have any food or water. There did not appear to be any way down off this rock wall. He did not have any rope or anything with which to make a parachute. The face of the wall was sheer—no obvious footholds or handholds, nothing to hold on to.

  Every time he raced through the same cascade of questions about his situation, he came to the same conclusion. There were only two choices: do nothing and die a slow death from the exposure and starvation and dehydration—or jump and die a quick death. He shuddered with the thought of actually allowing himself to fall. Because he could not see anything below but mist, he didn’t know how long the fall would be. He might not be able to see the bottom until he reached it. But then again, what if no bottom existed? What if he kept falling and falling? He would still die of exposure and starvation and dehydration.

  There must be a bottom! How could there not be?

  The growing numbness in his hands and feet forced him to consider a second set of questions that demanded his attention. If he decided to jump, when would he do it? How much of the cold could he endure while gathering his courage? How much longer could he tolerate the cries from his empty stomach and parched mouth? Indeed—when should he jump? Now? An hour from now? What preparations did he need to make? What could he possibly think about he had not already thought about dozens of times before? There was only one thing to focus on—the very act of jumping. Only in his wildest imaginings of what The Ledge might be had he conjured up this scenario. In the luxury of his thoughts, he recalled his solution was simply to pull his mind away from such a dilemma—to ignore the need to find an answer to the situation. But now, here he was—facing it. How does one prepare for such a thing?

  Zarce laid his head back down on the cold stone, closed his eyes, and cried. It was then he remembered seeing his former neighbor in the marketplace. He had survived this place. Yes, there must be a way out. But did he jump or did he stay on The Ledge? Zarce recalled his neighbor’s words—“narrow … so high … no bottom … falling … falling.” He must have jumped. But how did he survive? How did he find his way back after being here? Something did not seem right. None of this made any sense. Zarce saw only death at each option.

  Why prolong thought for the sake of being able to think for a few more minutes?

  Zarce searched desperately for the strength to make the ultimate decision. More importantly, he searched for the fortitude to allow himself to fall off of The Ledge.

  “Damn you!” Zarce screamed out. “Is this how the great-and-powerful Oversoul treats its worshippers? Its subjects? Do you so doubt your power to control us that you must torture us, treat us as if we’re a fragile puppet—your plaything to do with whatever it is you wish? And how is this supposed to cleanse my soul, pray tell?”

  Zarce paused to catch his breath. Not sure if it was because of the altit
ude or his fear, but he was ghastly tired. He realized he hadn’t slept since before his hearing in front of the Mothersoul. Soon, he thought, there would no longer be a need for sleep.

  “I will claim my power over you,” he continued. “I will deny you your pleasure. I will rid myself of you and my fear once and for all.”

  Zarce closed his eyes, leaned forward, and rolled over the edge.

  Immediately, he felt the rushing air against his face and hands. The air was bitter cold. He fell faster and faster. He opened his eyes one last time and looked up, but saw no trace of the dreaded Ledge. He managed to rotate himself in the intense wind rushing up to sap what little warmth remained in him. He tried to peer down into the mist. He saw nothing—just more mist.

  In his last instant, he finally realized the true nature of The Ledge—what it had been for the last year. It was fear. It was that simple. He now understood what one must do to control one’s fear—what one must do to eliminate it. He also understood he had made the right decision.

  Then it ended.

  Zarce awoke in his bedroom. And just as he did every morning, he reached over to his video station and pressed the button to begin the morning’s news visi-cast.

  “And today is the twenty-sixth day of Avrinne, the thirty-seventh cycle of the reign of Queen Addix. Here are today’s top stories.”

  The twenty-sixth day of Avrinne, thought Zarce. He felt as though something was out of sync, maybe even that memories of the previous day—or days—were clouded somehow. He tried to think about the last week—the last month—and remember what he did, but all that came to mind were dreams of falling. My mistake—it was just a dream, he thought. Everything is fine.

  “Say to those who are of a fearful heart, ‘Be strong, do not fear! Here is your GOD. He will come with vengeance, with terrible reward. He will come and save you.’”

  ISAIAH 35:4

  MICROWAVE MAN

  (The Survivor)

  IS THE SIGN STILL THERE? That is the question.

  Years ago I made scores of trips through the heartland of Virginia. I had grown up in Maryland and had opted to attend a small college in North Carolina. Rather than fight the maddening traffic and hours of featureless driving on the interstates, I chose to add on an extra hour to the trip and head straight through the Piedmont region of the state. I enjoyed immersing myself in the beauty offered by a two-lane road that rarely had much traffic on it and provided some truly awe-inspiring vistas of rolling hills and pine-filled woods. After these excursions up and down my route of choice, I came to know the names of all of the towns and had adopted various landmarks as a way to help pass the time during the six-hour drive.

  One such little town was Ordonsville—quite typical of the dozen or so rural towns along my favorite one-hundred-mile stretch of road. Old southern-style homes lined the sides of the highway as one neared the main intersection. The homes were interrupted by an occasional church. Closer to the center of town was the post office, a grocery store, a library, and a Civil War museum. Just before the solitary traffic light was a row of antique shops—all renovated to help attract the curious traveler wanting to take a break from driving and browse through what were, no doubt, contents from the homes of residents now citing the local cemetery as their current address.

  As I would leave these familiar places behind on my way south, there was always one metal sign piquing my curiosity. Perched on a narrow strip of grass between the road and a plain white two-story house, the sign simply read “Microwave Man” in neatly printed black letters.

  Now—mind you—I have always been a fan of superhero comic books and movies, so my imagination would go to work at this point, trying to determine just exactly what this mystery man might look like, what primary colors his costume might be, and whether he had any superpowers. As I passed by the sign, I would say to myself, someday, I am going to stop, go in, and see what this fellow is all about.

  I never did.

  That was then. Many years have passed since those trips through Ordonsville. And—oh yes—I did manage to graduate from college and have been fortunate enough to eke out a living as a writer. Several months ago, though, I wrapped up my final big assignment for my employer and submitted my letter of resignation. I decided it was time to slow things down and focus on my two passions—traveling and writing short stories. My first thought, quite unexpectedly, was about my favorite drive—to North Carolina, through Ordonsville, and past that sign. I made arrangements to be gone for a few weeks and secured a reservation at one of the inns at the edge of town. What happened during my stay there is what this story is all about. Believe it if you wish—but even if you don’t, there is some truth in it.

  Thirty miles after leaving the interstate, I started seeing the old familiar landmarks dotting the landscape outside of Ordonsville. The Pizza Hut five miles north of town was now boarded up. Some of the old homes wore dark mold and coats of unkempt ivy. A retirement home now sat just on the outskirts of the corporate limits. My favorite restaurant and sandwich shop were gone. The sign in front of the Ordonsville Methodist Church announced a long past event. The more things I saw, the more I feared Ordonsville had succumbed to the same decline so many other towns had over the last fifty years. Most of all, I feared the Microwave Man and his sign would no longer be there.

  When planning my trip, I found there were three inns in Ordonsville from which to choose. I picked the one closest to the south side of town—closest to the Microwave Man’s location. I quickly found the establishment and turned into the driveway lined with a split rail fence on my left and beds of carefully landscaped flowers and bushes on my right. After checking in and hauling my few bags up to my room, I put on my hiking boots, slung my camera over my left shoulder, and retrieved my backpack and walking stick from the back of my van. I set off at a brisk pace, heading down a neighborhood street back out to the main road, just a block from my destination. As I marched along, I started thinking about how silly this journey of mine might seem to my friends. Funny thing about wishing for time to do all of the little things you can’t squeeze in during your busy working life—when you finally have the time, the little things seem almost trivial.

  I connected with the main road, turned to my left, and there it was—the sign.

  Praise Jesus!

  As I found my way up the broken sidewalk to the front of the Microwave Man’s address, I realized the majority of my thinking over the last hours, days, and weeks had been focused on simply whether the sign would still be claiming its territory alongside the road. I really hadn’t spent much time planning what I would do should the sign actually still be present.

  I made the one step up onto the porch and another three steps to the front door. I looked around the perimeter of the door for a doorbell button but didn’t find one. I bent backward for a moment to look in the windows to see if there might be a light on in the front room or if the drapes were open or closed. No lamp was on, but the drapes were open. I came to the conclusion that if this was indeed a business establishment, the proprietor would certainly expect folks to walk in—and that is exactly what I did.

  There was something a bit odd about the front room. While it seemed dim, the pale green walls were almost iridescent—a subtle glow hung on them. An old sofa—with antique lamps perched atop end tables at each end—filled the wall to my right. A simple desk and chair were situated on the wall to my left. A customer service counter ran the width of the room along the far wall. A solitary door—just slightly ajar—was behind the left end of the counter. A large picture surrounded by a simple wooden frame hung in the center of the back wall. I wasn’t certain if the image was a painting or a print, but whatever it was, it was captivating.

  A shoreline extended from the left foreground to the right background, receding on a diagonal path. The surf looked calm—a shallow wash of pale white foam was present. Overhead was a stretch of an early twilight sky with what appeared to be a smattering of stars, densely packed in places—perhap
s a section of the Milky Way—and evidence of a recent sunset present on the right side. But the thing holding my gaze was the water. The section of ocean filling the left side seemed a golden green, if that made any sense. And it, too, emanated a strange shimmer, giving one the sense the water was gently moving back and forth, ever so slowly.

  I stood transfixed, staring at this strange panorama. At that moment, the proprietor emerged from the back room and stepped up to the counter, placing his small hands on the polished wood.

  “May I assist you?” came the timid voice.

  I turned away from the painting—or the print or whatever it was—and looked at the man. He was short—no taller than five feet—bald and had simple features. I couldn’t guess his age, but I knew the sign out front had been there for at least forty years. His clothes were all the same color—almost the same hue as the water in the painting—and they, too, seemed to have a subtle glow about them.

  He then turned his head around to his left and looked up at the picture.

  “Captivating, isn’t it?” he said.

  “Um—yes,” I managed. “Are you the Microwave Man?” As I heard myself ask the question, I thought how socially awkward it sounded. “I’m sorry—let me tell you why it is I ask.” I leaned my walking stick against the counter and removed my glasses.

  “Many years ago I would drive by your place on my way to and from college. I always said I would stop in and see what was here. Your sign—it was … curious. I could never quite figure out what it meant, or what it was you sold, or what service it was you offered. I’m now retired with ample time to travel. I remembered my pledge and so I drove down for a stay in Ordonsville and, well, here I am.”

  I made a mental note that I didn’t see anything in the room even vaguely related to microwaves or even anything electronic—no ovens or communication devices.