Fairlane Road

by Cody Lakin

  Slowly, defeatedly, Andrew sat back down, rage mixed with sorrow pulsing through him, gradually becoming overwhelmed with pure awe at Knox’s ability to play his emotions like a master puppeteer, pulling all the right strings by saying all the exact right things.

  “Haven’t you often felt,” said Charlie, “as though there is a hole inside you? Answer honestly, Andrew Jean. Haven’t you felt empty, abandoned, and stagnant inside, for so much of your life?”

  Andrew nodded. “It’s the curse of seeing the world on a deeper level,” he said. “It can be harder to connect, to reach… to be fulfilled.”

  “Yes, I agree.” Charlie looked to the street, in the direction of Fairlane Road. “My goal is to do away with—to extricate, if you will—this world’s overwhelming superficialities. Humanity has created its own systems, its own civilizations, its own religions and morals, and has only suffered because of its own sets of rules, and will eventually collapse beneath them on its own. From the perspective of millenniums instead of years, it looks so stupid. Humanity came to exist, then created its own problems, and is collapsing beneath those problems, which are so thinly disguised as society’s foundations: its own money, its own debt, its own political systems. But imagine a world that functions according to entirely different sets of rules.”

  Charlie’s eyes were now alight with something resembling joy. In his eyes, Andrew saw such a genuine love for his own words, his own vision, and it was then that Andrew realized the full gravity of this situation. Charlie Knox meant what he was saying, and what he was saying was so far from evil, like Andrew had previously thought.

  Charlie continued. “Imagine a world where religion isn’t seen as necessary for people to have morality, where there is no money and no politics to manipulate and divide for the sake of upholding an empire of dirt and dust, because, just as it is in nature, humanity would exist in perfect harmony with each other and with nature. No pretenses, no petty division aside from subjective, non-lethal reasonings, no apathy.” Charlie motioned toward the street. “No hate-mongers harassing your daughter and flying emblems that represent hatred and racism. No validation or invalidation of identity. No more arguments about meaningless systems of government or politics. No more formalities or trivialities. No more waging wars with each other and denying compassion, or intelligence, or reason.”

  “You’re talking about utopia.”

  “That I am, Mr. Jean. Utopia is what follows a radical awakening of consciousness on the scale of which I speak.”

  “It’s impossible. Human nature forbids it. You’re talking about perfection.”

  “Yes, in a sense, but in the soul of every human is an aspect of the eternal. That is to say, we are all scattered pieces of a whole. You’ve read of this, I’m sure: the concept that God is within us, not separate from us. That we are capable of achieving Nirvana, as monks might call it. And think of it. The things forbidding utopia in this world can all be narrowed down to the simple idea of separation. The illusion of separation. If you believe you are separate from something, it is easy for you to ignore it, to discriminate, to hate, to blame. Imagine a world where there is no imbalance of power, no greed, no selfishness, because the very idea of the self, of the ego, is meaningless. All are equal from all standpoints, not divided by invented problems like money, or social standings, social identities, or physical appearance; trivial, useless things such as those. It is easy to judge someone if you believe you are separate from them. But if you are able to see that everything is connected, every living being, everything you see, touch, feel, then how could you judge someone, or something? It is part of you, and you a part of it.”

  There were a few moments of silence, and Andrew, whose hands were now shaking, looked Charlie in the eye. He couldn’t argue with these ideas, nor did he want to. It was terrible to see, but it was impossible not to: maybe he had been wrong all along. Maybe, when he had pursued the Knoxes back in the day, eventually causing their deaths, he, Andrew Jean, had been the bad guy.

  “How can it be that simple? That all of the world’s problems come down to the illusion of separation?”

  “Because that is merely the beginning. The people of this world exist on such a low level, so trapped in their limited existences and claustrophobic points of views. Shattering the ego and the illusion of separation would be the beginning, and people would begin to evolve to higher planes of existence from there. Higher states of Nirvana, if you will. It is a process, not something that simply happens.”

  Andrew ran a hand over his face and stared at the ground, his shoes on the old wood of his house’s front porch. “I have a question for you, Charlie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Maybe it’s a, I don’t know, a genetic fallacy, or ad hominem, but I don’t care. I need to know. You’ve killed people, Charlie. Like your parents, you’re a murderer of innocent people. So how am I supposed to accept that you are the… the carrier, or messenger, of these great, world-changing truths?”

  “You want to discuss personal morality.”

  “Yes,” Andrew said, glaring. He needed to know that he wasn’t the bad guy, the one who was wrong, after all. “Yes I do.”

  * * *

  Jezebel stepped onto the asphalt that marked the beginning of Fairlane Road and drew in a long breath. There were no signs of Edgar Forgael, and by now she was certain he was gone beyond her reach, but being so close to the higher world filled her with a deep, consuming longing. It began in her stomach and extended tendrils of sensual, tempting warmth through the rest of her body, begging her to walk into the forest and enter the higher world where that ever-present emptiness in her would be filled up, making her whole, even if only while she stayed in that world. And even though she knew she ought to return home to check on her father, the call of the higher world was so irresistible…

  She shut her eyes to try and fight it, despite knowing that its will was far greater than her own, because the heart—where it called her most—was stronger than the mind, and her mind knew she should return home.

  Someday I’m going to walk down this road, and I’m never gonna come back. I won’t be able to.

  With her eyes still shut, she was prepared to walk down the road and into the forest, where her higher world and its seductive mysteries waited. But the wind began to blow, coming as a low howl from the direction of the forest, and she heard something else on that wind.

  There was a voice, whispering in the wind.

  Jezebel opened her eyes, and her breath froze in her chest when she saw there was a woman standing in the shade where the tree-line began.

  The woman was naked, had long black hair, and even from this distance Jezebel had the sense that her eyes were beautiful, her gaze piercing and strong. And although the woman’s mouth did not appear to be moving, it was undeniably her voice floating on the wind, whispering in a language Jezebel didn’t understand.

  The voice grew louder, and although she couldn’t understand the language, Jezebel found that the woman’s voice was serene and calming. It put a light tingling in her stomach and chest, and tears filled her eyes. God, it was so beautiful.

  Jezebel realized then that she knew who—or what—this woman was. The hypnotic quality of that voice was unmistakable. It reminded her of the voices she heard sometimes in her dreams. It was the same as the songs that the fairies sang to the sky and the air in the higher world.

  The naked woman under the shade of the tree-line was a fairy—a fairy in corporeal form. Edgar Forgael had once explained to her that fairies were nearly invisible to people because they existed in multiple realities, multiple planes and dimensions simultaneously, and could hardly be seen by any being that was stuck in a single dimension. But they could choose to be seen at their will, and Jezebel was certain that the naked
woman standing before her was a fairy choosing to be seen.

  The woman lifted one of her arms, and Jezebel saw that the woman’s skin was smooth, almost shiny. There appeared to be no marks or features or blemishes, just that milky smoothness. And as she raised an arm up, she pointed past Jezebel, down Forest Street. When her voice came through the wind again, she spoke perfectly clear English in that same sublime voice.

  “The prophet is there,” said the fairy. A shadow had fallen across her transcendent voice. “You must go.”

  Jezebel understood. Charlie Knox was at her house, talking—debating—with her father, as she had feared.

  “What can I do?” Jezebel asked, hoping desperately that the woman would answer her. “How can I face him? Please tell me. I don’t know how… or what…”

  The woman stood silent, staring at her, for what felt like several minutes, maybe pondering what to say or whether to say anything at all. Then that voice came on the wind again.

  * * *

  “If it’s personal, subjective morality you wish to discuss,” said Charlie Knox, flustered, “I already know what you’re going to say.”

  “Then there’s no avoiding it, so I’ll say it. If you really do have some unnatural capacity to simply bring truth and enlightenment into this world from the world you claim to be from, then how do you expect anyone, especially someone like me, to believe that it’s not all some trick, or cleverly devised lie? You’ve killed people, Charlie. No one would ever believe Charles Manson or Ted Bundy if they claimed to be messiahs.”

  For the first time in the conversation, Charlie Knox lowered his gaze with a gentle nod and his face adopted a somber, defeated expression. He remained that way for several seconds, and when he raised his head and looked off into the distance, his eyes were shimmering with tears.

  “You are not misguided, Andrew Jean, in saying this of me. It is something I have long contemplated. But you are wrong in believing that I am, as you say, a psychopath. I’ll admit that I harbor a seething hatred for the ignorant and proud, and that nothing irritates me or maddens me more than the superficial and pointless, which your culture is founded on, so in that sense I have enjoyed taking the lives of those who deserved it. But, unlike any psychopaths you may speak of, I have felt remorse.” Charlie reached up and wiped the tears from his eyes. “In my years spent in the libraries of the higher world, there are certain objective truths which can never be disputed, and one of them is that every life is sacred. It’s like I said: one of the most objective truths is that separation is an illusion. All is connected. All life. And to kill, as I have done, means to me that every life has a cost. I may have taken pleasure in the idea of the killings, and that is a fault of my own—a fault deep within me—but I have felt the weight of them ever since, and I am certain that I will continue to feel their weight for as long as I live. Maybe I will pay for them when my soul returns to the Ocean.

  “But I had to kill. I can acknowledge, even in my pride, that it is difficult for me to fully grasp the importance of life. I have learned so much, seen so much in my lifetime spent in the higher world. Much of it has made it difficult for me to accept that the lives of the people in this world, who can be so small and pathetic, are sacred or important. It is my nature. It is the part I play, even if it is a dark one. Killing is the only way I can imagine weakening this small town’s pitiful resolve enough that when I bring the truths of the higher world into this one, the people of this town will be susceptible, vulnerable, and accept those truths more easily, just as anyone who has enough fear instilled into them will accept even the most radical ideas. And in time, those truths will become contagious, and spread across the Earth.”

  As Andrew listened, a boiling discomfort arose within him, and he realized this was because Charlie Knox was telling the truth. Or, if not, he at least fully believed his own words.

  Charlie Knox wasn’t the madman he was supposed to be. No, Andrew was realizing. Charlie Knox was as calculated and methodical, rational and open-minded, as any human functioning genius. And worst of all, he was empathic. He had purpose. Andrew Jean trembled, both on the outside and in his heart, as he realized that he had underestimated Knox. He wasn’t confident anymore that he could win this intellectual and philosophical battle.

  Charlie continued. “What I am doing here by engaging you, and by being among the people of this town, is the final step before the awakening can begin. A test run, if you will.” He paused, his expression becoming more thoughtful. Maybe even sad. “And in answer to your question, I do not expect that anyone will ever see me as a messiah, a savior, or even a prophet. I suspect I shall always be viewed as a killer, or a cultist, by the people of this world. So as for personal morality, I can’t win against your point, Andrew Jean. I am a murderer, by your laws. But that does not change the truths I will introduce into this world. Objectively, and when seen separate from me, you might understand: they are higher, deeper truths than this world knows. They are the kinds of truths that can topple empires, bring kings and gods to their knees and profess they have been wrong all their lives and in their labors, in favor of these higher truths.”

  Andrew Jean shut his eyes and focused on containing the rippling discomfort he felt. Hadn’t he dreamed, for so long, of the very things Charlie Knox spoke of? Hadn’t he longed for a world where truth actually meant something, and wasn’t twisted or ignored by religion, or politics, or society’s expectations and rules and institutions? Like Jezebel, he had spent so much of his life longing for something more than this shallow world had to offer, and Charlie Knox was here before him, offering more—offering, it seemed, a version of what Andrew deeply yearned for.

  When he opened his eyes again, he saw that Charlie was staring at him, almost smiling, but his smile was void of humor. Andrew, whose discomfort had become the cold hands of fear, had the overwhelming sensation rolling over him of having stepped over an abyss, of having gone past a terrifying point of no return. There was a dropping in his stomach and a sudden catch in his breath. It was now he realized that he shouldn’t have done this, should never have trusted in his own overconfidence in engaging Charlie Knox. And, adding onto the distress, he had left Detective Goode’s pager in the house. He had no escape.

  “So you’re beginning to see things my way,” said Knox. “I see that in your eyes, Mr. Jean. The weight of this world is a burden almost too great to bear sometimes. The overwhelming ignorance, the capacity for separation, hatred, cruelty, the close-mindedness, the passion for superficial and pointless things.”

  “You’re saying that your… that whatever it is you want to do, can change all of that?”

  “Yes. Once a person experiences the kind of awakening in themselves that the realities of the higher world could bring about, the trivial and superficial values disappear. Imagine a world where identity is no longer a means of closing oneself off; where people think and form who they are not through systems of belief like religion or politics, but instead by actual experience, by living, by being present in every aspect of their lives. By thinking for themselves. More importantly, by their entire identities from a mental to a spiritual level, being radically reformed and reshaped according to deeper truths, where the line that separates one being from another, the physical from the non-physical, is blurred and then merged.”

  “I don’t understand how any of that is possible.”

  “That is because you have not seen it. This level of existence, this simple fleeting one we exist in now, it may have its beauty, but there is only so much capacity for depth. In some religions and philosophies, there are teachings of a connection with every living thing. This concept exists in science as it does in some belief systems: that all things are connected. In Christianity, it goes under the guise that God is everywhere. In Pantheism, God is nature, and nature is the entire universe. It all comes do
wn to everything being connected. But imagine if you could feel that connection not through some sort of spiritual experience, not faked through some drug-induced haze, but feeling it because that is the nature of your existence. Ideas would have so much more power that way. Connections between two souls would have a meaning that transcends the physical. The invisible forces that control our lives, such as fear, hate, ego, would fade away under the beautiful, even frightening experience that is existence without the separating lines of those things. It sounds impossible, even fantastical,” said Knox, “but that is because it is a means of existence that is nearly impossible to conceive of for beings of the lower world. It’s like a two-dimensional being trying to understand the third dimension.”

  Again Andrew Jean felt the allure of Knox’s words, and the trembling in his hands grew worse. He was reminded of a college astronomy class he had once taken as a young man, seemingly in a different life. Learning things that took his breath away, being introduced to concepts like the differences between the third dimension and the fourth in relation to perceiving time. He could practically hear his professor’s voice, explaining that in the third dimension, humans perceived time linearly, forward and backward. But in the fourth dimension, time could be perceived without linearity, and instead as circular, without beginning or end. That was, if we could perceive it at all. Andrew remembered that it had been fun but difficult to wrap the mind around. And this was what Charlie Knox spoke of. Existence on a higher level, one he didn’t understand but could marvel at nonetheless, like a stick-figure drawing trying to comprehend the third dimension beyond the flat surface of the paper.