Transmigration

by Nicholas Maes

“So what’s a woplh?” Simon asked, still not satisfied with Cletho’s explanation, “And why did that girl mention it today, and …”

  But Cletho wouldn’t cooperate further. He was no longer eyeing Simon but pounding the lid with his head and paws, like a convict trying to break out of jail.

  “I ain’t answerin’ no more questions! Not ’less you free me!”

  “If you’re a kaba, why not break out on your own?”

  “’Cause my kaba’s too big to squeeze t’rough de mesh! And when I’m out, whatta I do? I need a vadh to hide in. But open up if you want your questions answered! ’N believe me, brudder, dere’s stuff you gotta know!”

  This said, it buried its head in its paws. While the Mini Rex looked cute and endearing, it was clear Cletho was suffering badly. It was also clear he wouldn’t speak any further unless he was given his freedom. Truthfully, Simon didn’t like the idea. While the rabbit was harmless, the bolkh seemed far from stable.

  But he did have crucial information to share. His description of luras, bolkhs, and vrindhs was most intriguing, to say the least, and Simon wanted to hear a lot more. That meant taking a chance with Cletho.

  Without a word he unlatched four clips, lifted the lid, and put it aside. An instant later Cletho was out and running. For the next few minutes he hopped and jumped, full of joy to be stretching his muscles.

  “All right,” Simon said, when Cletho came to a stop, “let’s return to my questions.”

  “Look,” Cletho said, hopping close to Simon, “we could talk for hours but it wouldn’t get us nowhere. If you wanna know who you are, and what we bolkhs are ’bout, de best solution is to transmigrate.”

  “That’s crazy. I’m not able to.”

  “You can. Definitely. Like it or not, you’re some kinda bolkh and dat means you can project for sure. Open de window and give it a try.”

  “Open the window?”

  “There ain’t no projectin’ through solid objects. Go on. Open it. You’ll be thankin’ me soon.”

  Cletho was pushing Simon with his snout, to encourage him to give projection a try. Laughing nervously and shaking his head, Simon stood and opened the window. For good measure, he unlatched the snaps on the screen and shoved its meshing out of the way. His window faced the street and he studied the scene. His parents’ cars were in the driveway — he’d been so engrossed with Cletho that he hadn’t heard them come in. The Gleason kids were playing in the street, Jimmy Fields was lifting weights in his room, and Henry was sprawled out down below, “soused to the gills,” as his mother would say.

  “Empty your mind and think ’bout nothin’. Pretend you’re a wave on de sea.”

  “That’s thinking about something.”

  “Shh. Not a word. Just look outside at de fallin’ darkness and imagine you are part of de scene. Concentrate. Let your body melt away. First your fingers, den your toes, den your legs …”

  “This isn’t working.”

  “No talkin’! Your body ain’t yours. So find what’s yours. De shape inside dat never changes. Go on, search it out. Yeah, you’re relaxin’.”

  Simon was about to say this was crazy when, for the tiniest instant, something … slipped. His legs seemed to collapse beneath him, like a tree’s roots somehow coming undone. Then they were back in place and propping him up.

  “Good. You’re almost dere,” Cletho crooned. “Keep gazin’ at de sky. You belong dere as much as you belong in dis shell.”

  Simon squinted at the trees outside and, beyond their branches, at the pitch-black heavens. The clouds were heavy with impending rain and two birds were visible — they were flying west. He yearned to join them. His legs, his arms, they felt tingly and light, as if they were made of helium and could float right off.

  Wait, they weren’t floating! He was floating! He could see his hands below. They were resting on the windowsill, together with the rest of his frame. He was like a fly on the ceiling looking down at the room and …

  “You’re almost dere,” Cletho spoke from far away, from the far side of the earth, in fact. “Go for it. Leave everythin’ except de part dat’s you. Go, go, go!”

  These words ignited him. Without having time to think about his actions, Simon felt a final obstacle slip off, as if his core was breaking free of an anchor. There was a sound of something tearing, he thought, and a feeling of lightness and absolute freedom. His senses were melting and in place of them were electrical pulses, sharp and clean and beautifully precise. He could hear and see even better this way. In fact, he’d never felt so real before, so pure, so true, so … uncorrupted.

  He was floating upward. His house was growing smaller, the street as well — the Gleason kids were still running about. He was higher than the tallest tree and had a breathtaking view. Queen Elizabeth Park was below, then the Conservatory, the Botanical Gardens, and, over to the north, the buildings downtown. And still he kept rising. The harbour appeared, English Bay, Burrard Inlet, and, way in the distance, the Fraser River.

  He was amazed beyond words and tempted to climb higher. Maybe he could reach outer space and get a glimpse of North America. While the thought sent a spasm through him, a voice urged caution. The sky was empty and, as he considered its depths, he felt a pang of isolation. This beauty, this remoteness, was too inhuman. He had to get back, to his body, his family, his room’s four walls.

  No sooner did he think about home than his kaba started its descent to earth. As fast as an eagle, he plummeted downward. His neighbourhood drew closer, the park, the trees, his street …

  There. He was beside his house. Relief flooded him, pride as well. He’d done it. He’d done something amazing. Over a space of ten seconds he’d climbed a dazzling height. He couldn’t wait to tell his family. He would do so as soon as he’d “docked” with his body, which he could see five metres away in the distance. It was standing at the window, like a mannequin in a store, with its big bones, slick brown hair, and a blank, goofy kind of expression.

  But wait. His body… it was grinning, not a kind smile but a nasty, two-faced one. And… hey! His hands were gripping the rabbit which…. No! With a vicious twist, they snapped the animal’s neck. With lightning speed they tossed the carcass out and closed the window with a heart-stopping bang.

  Simon hit the pane. He screamed at Cletho to get out of his body, to abandon it at once or else!

  His voice was a squeak and Cletho paid no attention. He was busy admiring his shatl in a mirror, like someone studying a new set of clothes.

  As he floated about in the dark outside, Simon realized he had absolutely nowhere to go.

  Chapter Five

  For two long minutes Simon couldn’t move. Was it possible? Had he really been expelled from his body? His arms, legs, heart and lungs, these were no longer his to control? He pressed up against the window and stared into his room. Cletho was still in front of the mirror, primping and preening, and testing things out. Simon felt a pang of despair. He’d been robbed of his most personal belonging and there was nothing he could do about it.

  Adding insult to injury, thunder sounded in the distance.

  Cletho moved away from the mirror. Glancing at the window he waved to Simon, then exited the room and passed downstairs. His dinner was ready, Simon thought, and this thief was going to take his seat at the table. His mom would kiss him and his dad would muss his hair, little guessing they were dealing with a stranger.

  Simon started panicking. What were Cletho’s plans? Did he mean to harm his family? Was he intending to set the house on fire or poison their food or attack while they were sleeping? Hadn’t he threatened to cut Simon’s throat? And if he could steal a body, he was capable of murder.

  As Simon’s worries mounted, he started feeling — thin. Something inside him was coming undone, as if he was a coat or shirt and the threads were coming loose. He was losing focus and felt cold all over, as if some inner spark were dying. His house, the trees, the lawn, the street, everything was fading — no, he was fading. Wi
thin moments there’d be nothing left and the soul of Simon Carpenter would be no more.

  Dimly he recalled Cletho’s words, that he’d lost steam from floating outside too long. The same was happening to Simon now and the only way to keep himself from dying was to find a vadh and slip inside it. But where and who and how exactly?

  He glanced around frantically. On their eavestrough a sparrow was roosting. He zoomed toward it but the bird took wing. Darn! In a sweat he was thinking about that rogue raccoon, the one that was always rooting through their garbage. It had to be lurking somewhere. He floated to the oak on their lawn and scanned its trunk and branches. Nothing.

  The cold intensified. He was getting desperate. Looking round everywhere, he settled his gaze (whatever that meant) on a great big mound lying at the start of the alley. Henry. The bum was sprawled out in his makeshift shelter, drunk as always and snoring loudly. Simon swiftly drifted close, until he was positioned directly above him. For an instant he studied Henry’s beard, long greasy hair, and unwashed figure. His belly was visible and his mouth was open. Simon had never seen teeth so brown before.

  Now what?

  How did it work? How did a spirit enter a body? Was he supposed to go in through the mouth or nostrils, like a spelunker jumping into a cave? And where was he supposed to settle? In the brain, kidney, lungs, liver? And if he did wind up in the right location, what would he do next? How did a kaba assume control? It wasn’t as if Henry came with pedals and a steering wheel. He shivered as another wave of cold coursed through him. Desperate to do something, he leapt forward.

  How weird. It was like diving into a sponge of energy and Jell-O. A stickiness encompassed him and he felt a thousand shocks at once. He was also being stretched and stretched, while an impossible weight bore down on him, as if a dozen grand pianos were being stacked on his shoulders. And his manner of sensing things was altered. The impressions were richer but not as sharply defined.

  Then everything gelled and he felt human again: he was seeing through a pair of eyes, sensing sour tastes, and feeling cold on his belly. He moved to tuck his shirt in and push some hair from his eyes.

  Wait a moment — Simon almost screamed. Whom did the belly and hair belong to? With a thrill of shock he felt himself over. Geez! He’d done it! He’d actually done it! He’d burrowed inside Henry and taken him over.

  He stood, very shakily. While Henry’s limbs responded to his thoughts, they didn’t feel like they were a hundred percent his. Each seemed heavy, wooden, and unpredictable, as if his arms and legs were prosthetics maybe. That explained why he was wobbling and trying desperately to balance. It didn’t help either that his veins were full of booze.

  No. That wasn’t true. It was a blessing the body was all boozed up. Lurking in its depths was someone else. This presence was dormant, unconscious even, but Simon could sense it still — like when you walk into a darkened room and know that someone, or something, is hiding in the shadows. This kaba belonged to Henry, of course. In the outside world the bum was often irritable, so what would his reaction be when he discovered Simon in his pilot’s seat?

  As Simon mulled this question over, there was a crack of thunder. He directed his gaze toward the Carpenter house. His family. Cletho. How could he forget? That thief was at the dinner table and poised to strike at any moment. Maybe he was stabbing them as Simon stood there gawking. He had to act. Focusing his thoughts, he piloted Henry across the lawn.

  It must have looked hilarious. He was moving like a baby learning to walk. Three times he stumbled and struck the ground. His clumsiness would have made a zombie look like Fred Astaire. Still, the stakes were high and he persevered. After a few minutes, and a few more falls, he was poised outside the window that looked into their dining room.

  He’d been expecting something awful — Cletho with a knife in hand and blood streaming everywhere. In some ways it was worse. Everyone was eating and having a great time. Cletho was sitting in Simon’s chair, devouring his food, and talking up a storm. His dad and Ian were laughing at his joke, while his mom was smiling and sipping wine, a sign she was in excellent spirits. Emma was relaxed and chuckling too.

  Simon felt sick. Instead of fearing Cletho, his family adored him. In fact, they were acting as if they preferred his company to Simon’s. Cletho, too, seemed happy. Far from threatening the Carpenter family, he was doing his best to make a good impression, as if he were glad to be part of a family now. Simon should have been hugely relieved — after all, his loved ones weren’t in any danger. But it ate at him that Cletho felt so much at home, and that his parents couldn’t tell this creep was an imposter.

  There was another clap of thunder and his mom suddenly spied him. Her smile died. She spilled her wine and pointed nervously toward the window. Everyone looked in Simon’s direction, fearfully and mouths half-open in shock. Cletho alone was amused. He knew that Simon was taking shelter in Henry. Itching to confront the thief, Simon left the window and lumbered toward the front door.

  He was approaching it when his dad stepped out. Ian and Cletho were right behind, followed by Emma, and then his mom. Emma was carrying a plate with food.

  “Good evening Henry,” his father said. “You seem a little bothered this evening.”

  Simon tried to speak but nothing would come. While he could move Henry’s tongue a little, it had the flexibility of a two-by-four.

  “In case you’re hungry,” his dad went on, “we’ve brought you out some dinner. Emma’s chili is out of this world and her cornbread’s the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  Emma offered him a plate of chili with bread on the side. Simon didn’t take the food but struggled to speak. A clap of thunder accompanied his gurgles.

  “He’s drunk,” Cletho jeered. How strange. Instead of his usual tough-sounding accent, he sounded exactly like Simon now.

  “What else is new?” Ian said. “Have you ever seen him sober?”

  “They ought to lock him up,” Cletho snarled, “and toss away the key.”

  “Simon!” his mother barked. “What a rude thing to say!”

  “You shouldn’t insult someone when he’s down,” Emma spoke. “Henry!” she cried, grasping Simon’s hand. “Take this food. If you’re still feeling poorly, let us know and we’ll fetch help.”

  “What he needs is a bath,” Cletho jeered. “He smells like a sewer.”

  “Simon!” Mrs. Carpenter snapped. “What’s got into you? Enough of that!”

  “Shh!” his dad cried. “He’s trying to speak.”

  Sure enough, by concentrating hard, Simon was flexing his tongue more freely. The problem was he couldn’t bend it enough and the words that emerged were barely coherent. When he said, “I’m your real son,” it came out mangled.

  “He says he has a gun!” Cletho warned.

  “I think he mentioned rum,” Ian said.

  “In that case,” his father said, “you should eat before you start drinking rum.”

  Simon tried again. This time he attempted to say, “I am Simon.”

  “He told us to die,” Cletho cried. “Talk about nerve!”

  “No, he said he’s dying,” Ian said. “What’s the matter? You’re not feeling well?”

  Shaking with frustration, Simon decided his best bet was to write something down. That’s why he reached toward his father. Like every engineer, his dad had several pens in his breast pocket. Simon intended to take one of these and scrawl a message on his palm. Unfortunately he gauged the distance wrong: instead of taking a pen, he grabbed his dad’s shirt. A clap of thunder intensified his gesture.

  “Go easy!” Mr. Carpenter warned.

  “Henry!” Ian yelled. “Let go of my dad!”

  “He’s going for your throat!” Cletho screamed. “He means to hurt you!”

  Emma sprang forward. Never one to shrink in the face of a threat, she flew at Simon and chopped his arm. Instantly he released his dad and staggered back a couple of paces. Yelling at everyone to run inside, she stood between Simon and
the rest of the gang, prepared to hit him if he made a move. Moments later his dad called to her, urging her to run inside too. Edging back, she retreated to the porch, climbed the steps, and ducked inside. Simon managed to yell “Emma!” clearly, but the door closed noisily and drowned him out.

  He saw them through a window. His dad was shaking his head in relief, convinced they’d had a narrow escape. Ian was jumping up and down, Cletho was mouthing a string of insults, while Emma was brandishing a candlestick, just in case “Henry” tried to force his way in. And his mom? She was calling the police.

  Simon stayed on the porch. He had no choice. If he was going to get his shatl back, he couldn’t walk away. He called out Emma’s name again and added he was Simon, the real Simon Carpenter. A clap of thunder drowned him out, while Cletho was making a commotion inside to prevent the family from hearing him, the jerk. “I’ll just keep at it,” Simon was thinking, except that another sound intruded.

  Sirens. The cops were coming. They were two blocks off but closing in quickly.

  Simon cursed. If the cops got hold of him, they would haul him off and his parents wouldn’t learn how matters really stood. He couldn’t be arrested. To the accompaniment of yet more thunder, he fled the porch and dragged Henry across the lawn, like a porter handling a weight of heavy baggage. The sirens were close. To make matters worse the rain was starting.

  What should he do? If he stayed on the street, the cops would nab him. The only other choice was the neighbourhood alley, never mind it was overgrown and muddy and full of bugs and spiders. Gathering his rags, he plunged straight in.

  The weeds and ferns and undergrowth received him. A patch of mud swiftly brought him to his knees. As he swore, the police pulled up: the flashers from their cars drowned the alley in blood. Doors flew open and beams of light probed everywhere. Cletho was yelling that the bum was heading west.

  Simon crawled frantically. Rain was streaming down his face, his shoes were sodden and his pants were caked with mud. His heart was hammering and, ouch, a shard of glass dug into his palm. And he didn’t even know where he was headed, did he?