by Kildare
***
When Cillian woke again he was being carried. He recognized none of the faces. Slipped back into the darkness. Sudden pierce of pain snapped him back into the light of life. A grizzled man leaned over him, a bloody hand holding the short, broken shaft of an arrow. The arrow from his shoulder was gone. He wasn’t wearing a shirt any more. Took a moment for him to connect the missing arrow with the one in the man’s hand. He had too little strength to clear his mind.
Two men stepped forward and restrained him as a piece of wood was shoved into his mouth. The grizzled man poured a warm, burning liquid onto his wounds. Whisky. The man tried to soothe him in Latin. The worst was over. Another fading out and then a searing metal was pressed against his shoulder. The men held him fast against his squirming. The wood muffled his screams. He was rolled over, the hot metal pressed into the exit wound, and then everything went black a final time.
IV
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10
Cillian stood in the center of a park. There was a clear lake nearby and weeping willows grew along the water and cast shadows on the still surface of the lake. A path followed the edge of the water and he stood on the path, and there were wooden benches along the path. The benches were empty. The whole park was empty. At least of people. There were ducks. He could see them near the shore, gliding along the surface, creating the only ripples on the smooth water. Rarely had he ever seen water so still, as smooth and clear as glass. If not for the ducks, he might have thought he was looking at glass.
Watching the ducks, he realized he had been wrong. A solitary figure sat on a bench on the far side of the lake. He thought the figure was a man, though at this distance he couldn’t tell for certain. He appeared to be staring out at the lake. This was also a guess. What might he be looking at? The ducks would have been mere specks. Perhaps he looked at nothing. That was a possibility. He might just be lost in contemplation.
Cillian noticed dried blood on his blue denim shirt. The duster was gone. He popped open the buttons, slipped the shirt off the left side of his body, and carefully unwrapped the bandages to look beneath. The wound lay beneath his field of vision, so he knelt at the lake’s edge to use the water as a mirror.
The wound looked to have been healing for a few days, the surrounding area bruised and discolored. He touched the cauterized skin and flinched. It stung something fierce. He found the second hole aligned with the first. He remembered the arrow, but had assumed the wound would disappear. That it endured was a shock. Despite the pleading of the archangels, he still questioned the reality of this situation. But if it wasn’t real, why did the wound remain?
He rotated his shoulder and grimaced as a spark of pain fired his nerves. Enough to stop his probing. No more torturing himself. He rewrapped the bandage, slipped his shirt back on, and buttoned it up. He wore the same cowboy hat, jeans, and boots. Four—or was it five—separate dreams were now linked together. What was happening to him? Could the archangels be right? Was this all somehow real?
He followed the path in its curving arc toward the man across the lake. The short grass along the path looked recently mowed. Though he saw no birds, their singing brightened the trees. He smiled, surprised at how cheerful he felt. Something in their songs lifted his spirits. The air was still and though a few wisps of clouds drifted through the bright blue sky, no gray shadows darkened the park. The man on the bench paid no attention to Cillian’s approach, or when he sat down. The bench was short, the space separating them no more than an arm’s length.
“It’s pleasant here,” Cillian observed.
“Yes, it is. That is why I chose it.” He looked at Cillian and smiled.
The man had bright blue eyes, black hair starting to gray, and a perfectly proportioned face. His olive skin was tanned, as if he spent a great deal of time in the sun, yet he showed no sign of wrinkles. He possessed the smooth, unblemished skin of a child, not someone with graying hair. He wore a blue dress shirt, covered in a gray vest, and matched with gray dress slacks and shoes. His attire was absolutely impeccable—a throwback to the early twentieth century’s dress code.
He had a faint recollection of meeting this man before, though he couldn’t remember where. Something in the man’s face set him at ease, as if he had not a care in the world. The whole park had that affect.
“Where are all the people?” Cillian asked.
The man looked around and smiled again. “There are no other people. Only the two of us.” He returned his gaze to the lake.
“What are you looking at?”
“Many things.”
“Many things? I’m not seeing much. There’s a lake, some trees, and a few ducks way out there. I wouldn’t call that many things.”
“There are more things to see than that.”
“Well, I’m not seeing them.”
“Because you cannot. They are beyond your vision.”
“Do you mean they are past the trees on the far side of the park?”
“No. I mean they are not in this park.”
“Oh. Well, I guess I’ll quit asking questions because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Something about this place seemed odd, but Cillian couldn’t figure out why he thought so. He knew he should remember this man, but had no recollection of any prior meeting. It bothered him. They had definitely met before. The man smiled again. Something about that smile he couldn’t explain, though it was reassuring.
“What is it that you wanted to talk me about, Cillian?”
“Should I know you?”
“No, though we have met many times.”
“If that’s true, I’m sorry, but I have no recollection of you.”
The man smiled again. If light had a physical manifestation, it would be that smile. “It does not matter. You will not remember this conversation, either. But that is not what troubles you, is it?”
“No.” Something about the man made it difficult, if not impossible, to lie to him.
“Feel free to speak your thoughts. It is only the two of us.”
“I’m dying.”
“I know,” the man stated as matter-of-factly as if Cillian had just pointed out that the sun was shining. “But then you have been dying for a long time. Since the beginning. Death is the immutable equation. Does this frighten you?”
“No, though I don’t want to die. Or maybe I do. I don’t know. I miss Evelyn a great deal. I wish I could see her again. I feel incomplete without her. Like I’m not whole. Not even real. More like a piece of who I once was.” Cillian shook his head. “I know that makes no sense.”
He didn’t know why he told the man these things. He probably sounded a bit daft. Why would this man care about his troubles?
“It makes perfect sense. You were united with her once. Two become one, and then half of that one is gone. A piece of you is now missing. It will be that way until the end of your days. But for now, let the dead take care of their own. You are still among the living.”
“Barely. Do you know how old I am?"
“You are eighty-six years old.”
“Of what use to the world is an eighty-six-year-old man with dementia? I doubt I even know my own name any more. In my real body I have no recollections of anything since Evelyn’s death.”
“Have you seen yourself lately? You do not possess the body of an eighty-six-year-old man.”
Cillian felt foolish for not having had this thought before. He was so used to everyone being either ignorant of his condition, or giving him the run around, that he hadn’t even thought of asking this man.
“Do you know why this is happening to me?”
“You have been given a second chance.”
“By whom?” A hope rose that he might finally be getting some answers
The man shrugged ignorance, and Cillian’s hopes were dashed. The man knew no more than anyone else. Once again, he was on his own to figure out what was happening.
“You can’t help me, either. No one can help
me.”
“A rather pessimistic outlook,” the man noted.
“It’s an earned pessimism.”
“Pessimism, like optimism, is a state of mind. A state of mind is an internal reflection of reality projected toward the outside world. We choose then, the lens by which we view the world. It is a choice that we make. A choice shaping how we experience the world. We are projecting an image of the world we believe to be true that we then allow to be reflected back inward. We are creating our own reality. In other words, you choose the world within which you dwell.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that the world possesses an ugly nature.”
“And you find this to be some exception to the general rules of life? It is not. All life entails suffering. All life is burdened by tragedy, by sorrow, by misery. This is the natural state of things. Never forget that. You cannot change the world’s inherent nature. More important even than learning to cope with this brutal truth, is to accept this harsh reality. Accept, then cope. Most never do, and so they never truly live. How can one who does not know what life is, expect to truly experience life. They cannot.”
“What does any of this have to do with me?” Cillian asked.
“You wanted to know why you are here. It is the question that all ask. Why am I here?”
“A question you have no answer for.”
“Do you believe in fate? Do you believe that you have a purpose?”
“Yes, though I suppose I still don’t know what that purpose is. Seems rather sad that an old man doesn’t know what his purpose in life was.”
“Your frame of reference is all wrong. An individual’s purpose cannot be narrowed down to one thing. No one has only one purpose. All have multitudes. Your children and spouse are your purpose. The impact you had on a thousand different people are your purpose. The toil of your labor is your purpose. Too many are in search of a purpose they believe will fill their life with meaning. But they have already found their purpose. Sadly, they do not understand this, and so they struggle to find meaning in their lives. They search all around for something they already carry within. Once again, you choose what purpose and meaning to find in your life. It is all around you all the time. You have only to stop and become aware of it.
“Consider your life as a circle. The outer frame of that circle was set before you were brought into this world. It is those aspects of your life you cannot change. Your birth, family, genetics, death. Within that circle is an empty space you will fill with your life experiences. Nothing has yet been set. What you do with your life is up to you, to cherish or squander, nurture or ruin. Each individual’s life is a tapestry woven of fate and free will. It is this combination that is so unique to humans. You have so much potential, so much possibility. A blank canvas has been given to you that you may color however you see fit.
“Unfortunately, so many fail to realize their potential because they try to force their life to follow a certain path, instead of allowing it to unfold. They shackle curiosity and adventure to an ordered plan, which no longer allows for any deviation. But life cannot be planned any more than the elements can be controlled. The soul was never meant to be bound by structure, by rules. It must be free. Only then can you discover who you truly are. The soul has not one, but many facets. As your life progresses, different facets of your soul will become known to you, allowing a greater understanding of your true, inner self.
“Each person has a soul far more unique than their fingerprint. That soul desires to express itself, but can do so only if it is allowed. Should you choose to restrain it, you will succeed only in withering its potential. Withering your own potential. How can anyone be happy in such a state? Find peace and meaning? You are lucky, Cillian. You have been given a second chance. Do not squander this opportunity. You will not get another.”
“If this is a second chance, what is it for?”
“You will have to discover that on your own. Consider it a challenge.”
“That’s your answer?” Cillian sighed. “Not surprising, I guess. That’s everyone’s answer. I’m supposed to figure it out on my own.”
“There is a serious defect in your thinking. You worry about the destination. There is no destination. No end point. No finish line. There is only the path. Quit worrying about where the path leads. It only leads where you take it. The path isn’t leading you somewhere. You are leading the path somewhere. Where it goes even you will not know until your arrival.”
Cillian shifted his gaze to the lake. He no longer had any interest in speaking to this man. He obviously couldn’t understand Cillian’s condition. On the far side, the ducks slid across the glassy water. As he watched the little ducklings follow their mother, his mind turned toward thoughts of his own children. He and Evelyn had four—Thor, Sam, Dalton, and Karen. They were all themselves old now. Even the youngest, Karen, was in her late fifties. In those waking thoughts he still had about them, they were forever frozen as children. The disease creeping through his memory had destroyed every file relating to them after their teenage years. But here, in this place—the other side as Loki called it—he could recall each of them coming to visit him in the nursing home. How long ago, he didn’t know. Weeks, months, years? Though his mind worked fine here, the mind of his physical body was so riddled by the disease’s progression he couldn’t piece together a coherent narrative. A web of strands loose and dangling.
How did his memory work here? Shouldn’t he only be able to access those memories his physical mind still held? These were questions he wished he had asked the angels, even if they wouldn’t tell him. At least he could have tried. Cillian regretted he hadn’t thought to ask them more questions, but the whole situation was so overwhelming he had had a hard time thinking of anything.
The still waters of the lake registered in his mind again. His children would have loved such a place. Grandchildren, too. How many were there? Twelve? No, thirteen. Three more great-grandchildren. He had been blessed in that. Truly blessed. Were there more now? A shame not to know. So much about his own family he didn’t know, or couldn’t remember. Curse this damned disease.
“I miss my children,” Cillian said aloud. As soon as the words were in the air, he wondered why he had said them. He kept going. “I don’t even remember the last time I saw any of them. I wish I knew how they were doing. Now that Evelyn is gone, I feel guilty I’m not there for them. I miss them a great deal.”
“Your children are all doing fine. As are their children. You raised them well.”
“How do you know that? Have you seen them?”
“I see them every day.”
Cillian took a longer look at the man. His fantastic smile remained.
“Who are you?” Cillian asked. “How could you know such things?”
“I am a friend.”
“What’s your name?”
“My name is of no importance.”
“Are you one of the angels?”
The man smirked. “Do I look like an angel?”
“Maybe. I don’t know. They say they can change their form. Are you God?”
“What is God? A being, a place, a state of mind, all of these things?” Now the man turned his attention toward the lake. For several minutes neither spoke.
“There is a storm coming,” the man said.
Not so much as a single wisp of white painted the blue above. “The sky looks clear to me,” Cillian replied.
“It is not a storm you can see.” The man frowned and for a moment Cillian thought he caught a hint of sadness in the depths of his eyes.
“You seem sad about this.”
“I am concerned.”
“Why’s that?”
“For a long time a great evil has been held at bay. I fear it will soon be released. When that happens, much that now is will be destroyed.”
“Can it be stopped?”
“Perhaps. Someone will have to rise up to counter this evil. A hero is needed. Do you think you could be a hero, Cillian?”
“You were never only a professor. Or have you forgotten that?”
Both turned their gazes back to the lake and for a while neither spoke.
“Indiana Jones.”
“What?” Cillian asked.
“Indiana Jones. Was he not a professor?”
“He was.”
“Was he not also a hero?”
“Yes, but he was a fictional character.”
“True. Still, I think you have more potential than you realize. It is only in our darkest hour, when all hope seems lost, that we learn the fortitude of our spirit. It is the great trials of our lives that shape us, and show us who we truly are. Tragedy and misery often act like a mirror through which we can gaze at our inner selves. Suffering can be quite clarifying. When you kindle that last ember of resolve until it becomes an all-consuming will to persevere, that is when you discover who you truly are. When you learn the strength of your mettle. It is fire that strengthens the blade.”
“It often doesn’t feel that way,” Cillian said.
“The meaning of many things is missed at the time. Only later do we realize what we missed. Have you ever looked back on your life and realized a point when you were truly happy, but did not realize it at the time?”
“I have, and I wish I could go back to those days.”
“There is no future in the past. It is only an anchor to remind you of who you are. Life resides in the present. So many lives are wasted because people focus on all the wrong things. Nor does your future await you. It already surrounds you.”
“I don’t know that I want a future. I’m prepared for this life to be over. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I don’t think I’m up to the task. There must be someone else better suited for this. Whatever all this is. I don’t even know.”