Metamorphosis

by Sesh Heri

  The blank-faced man took the journal in his hand. It was a thick, hard-backed book, bound in dark red leather with brass corners and lock.

  “Go ahead and open it and read it. You won’t believe it. Nobody would ever believe it. I don’t believe it myself, but I know it’s true. I lived part of it. Go ahead and open it. I broke the lock long ago— couldn’t pick it.”

  The blank-faced man opened the book. The first page was covered with Houdini’s handwriting in flowing ink. At the top of the page were the words The Key to All Locks underlined three times. The blank-faced man closed the book.

  “I’ll need to take this with me,” the blank-faced man said.

  “I know,” Hardeen said.

  They all started up the steps again. When they reached the foyer, Hardeen opened the front door and said, “If you come up with anything…anything that…ties in…I’d like to know about it— if you can tell me.”

  The blank-faced man gave a nod and he and his partner went through the open door and out and down the front steps.

  Hardeen stood looking at them from the open door.

  January 19th, 1943

  Somewhere in the Sky over the Western United States

  The Douglas C-47 Skytrain cruised at 20,000 feet over the Rocky Mountains, its olive green fuselage glinting in the rays of the setting sun. Inside the plane, the blank-faced man and his partner dozed in their seats. It had been a long, rough flight from New Jersey, and both men were tired. When they had boarded at the secret airfield, there had been only the pilot, co-pilot, and navigator to greet them. Soon another MJ-7 agent arrived, a tall blonde man with clear blue eyes, a man of Swedish extraction. He had arrived accompanied by a man driving a forklift. On the forks sat a large wooden crate with wheels and with nothing on it but a stencil of an arrow and the words “RIGHT SIDE UP.” The blonde MJ-7 agent signed a clip board given to him by the pilot, and then the crate was loaded on to the plane, barely clearing the doorway. The forklift driver and another man rolled the crate to the back of the plane, tied it to the floor with strong cords, and then went out. The blonde MJ-7 agent took a seat up front with the blank-faced man and his partner. For general security reasons these three men said nothing to each other during the course of the flight. The plane took off without incident, and the long flight to Nevada commenced.

  Now somewhere over a rugged range of mountains, the blank-faced man stirred uneasily in his seat. A bad feeling, part air sickness, part anxiety, ran through his torso and up to his neck. He half-opened his eyes. The blonde MJ-7 agent was standing over him, staring at him.

  The blonde asked, “Has it ever occurred to you that we are grossly underpaid?”

  The blank-faced man kept his eyes half-opened.

  The blonde’s faint smile faded. He waited for the blank-faced man to say something, but the blank-faced man would say nothing.

  “Where is it?” the blonde finally snapped.

  “Where’s what?” the blank-faced man asked still pretending to be half-asleep.

  “You know,” the blonde said. “The Houdini journal. Is it in that case?”

  “Naw,” the blank-faced man said. “That’s just my dirty laundry.”

  The blonde brought his right hand up. The muzzle of a 38 automatic glittered.

  The blank-faced man’s partner made a lunge from his seat. The blonde fired the 38 twice, hitting the blank-faced man’s partner in his face and throat. He was instantly dead.

  But the sudden lunge had saved the blank-faced man’s life. In that instant he was able to kick out with his left foot and knock the 38 out of the blonde’s hand. In the next instant the blank-faced man was on his feet, delivering two lightning-fast hammer-blows to the blonde’s face. In the instant following, a fist struck the blank-faced man from behind. He staggered forward and reeled around to see a large swarthy man in a black pull-over sweater. Behind this large man, another man was climbing out of the already-opened crate. This second man, also dressed in a black sweater, was tall and lean with a receding hairline and widow’s peak.

  The blonde had crawled along the cabin floor and had retrieved his 38. The navigator had come into the main cabin, with his pistol drawn. The blonde fired upon the navigator, striking him in the chest. The navigator dropped to the floor.

  The blank-faced man drew his Colt 45 automatic from the holster inside his coat and shot the blonde dead. The swarthy man leaped on to the blank-faced man and knocked him to the floor.

  The man with the widow’s peak ran forward with a drawn German luger and charged toward the cockpit. The co-pilot came out into the cabin and fired at the man with the widow’s peak, hitting his shoulder. The man with the widow’s peak fired back, hitting the co-pilot in the chest. The co-pilot dropped in a heap next to the navigator.

  On the floor, the blank-faced man struggled to bring the muzzle of his 45 into alignment with the head of the swarthy man, while the swarthy man gripped the blank-faced man’s wrists.

  The man with the widow’s peak charged on forward into the cockpit, spurting blood from his shoulder. Two shots rang out in the cockpit and the plane went into a dive.

  The swarthy man had the blank-faced man down on the floor. As the two men struggled, the blank-faced man fired off a round from his 45, and the swarthy man slumped over, dead.

  The man with the widow’s peak came back into the main cabin, pointing his luger. The blank-faced man fired his pistol. A bullet hole pierced the other man’s forehead, directly below his widow’s peak, and he fell back and down.

  The blank-faced man staggered to his feet and made it to the cockpit. The pilot was slumped forward over the controls, shot in the temple, his pistol still dangling from his hand.

  The blank-faced man tried to move the pilot’s controls, but they were jammed. He looked out the window. A mountain loomed directly ahead. The plane was going down toward a promontory at its center.

  The blank-faced man clawed his way back into the main cabin, stepped over the bloody dead bodies, opened a bin, pulled out a parachute, and threw it on his back. He cinched the belt tight around his chest and waist. Then he grabbed the steel suitcase and locked its handle to his left wrist with a pair of handcuffs. He went to the door of the plane, turned the handle with all his strength, and pushed the door open.

  The suction of air tore the blank-faced man out of the plane before he could jump. In the sudden plunge, the air in his lungs was drawn out. He gasped as he plummeted downward through blue sky. The white and gray ground below spun about. The cold air lashed the skin of his face. His right hand groped wildly for the zip cord, found the cord, and pulled hard.

  The chute exploded open, but it had been wrapped in haste, and it tangled above him, half-opened.

  The blank-faced man instantly knew there was no hope.

  The ground below spun faster now. Gray became forest green; white became drifts of snow. Flatness twisted, bent, and became shape. Forest green became spinning pine-topped lancets. Then, as the blank-faced man shot past the uppermost branches of the pines, his spinning slowed to a turn, and his turn, ever slower, became a stop, and the ground below, in an eternal stillness, transformed into a dull gray that, in an infinite interval, faded to an all-engulfing blackness.

  January 20th, 1943

  Somewhere on the Slopes of a Mountain near Pike’s Peak

  The blank-faced man opened his eyes. He had been sleeping for a long time, and he felt great. The sky above him was dark and filled with brilliant stars. He could see nothing but stars. This is wonderful, the blank-faced man thought. Then he tried to move, but he couldn’t. He tried again, but still nothing. Where am I, the blank-faced man asked himself. How did I get here?

  There was no reason to panic, everything was so beautiful. He would call for someone, that is what he would do, he thought. He tried to call, but nothing would come out. How did I get here, he pondered again.

  The blank-faced man tried to move again. It was as if he had no body. It seemed to him that he could breathe, but
not deeply. It seemed that his lungs were breathing without any conscious control.

  Then the blank-faced man had a flash of memory. He remembered he had been on a plane. He was on an assignment, a trip to a secret laboratory in Nevada. He was to deliver the watch fob for further tests at—

  The blank-faced man suddenly remembered everything— the gun shots— his desperate fight in the cabin— the pilot dead at the controls— his fall from the plane— the half opened chute— the ground coming up fast in a spin….

  I’m dying, the blank-faced man thought, it will all be over soon. It ends like this. Sky and stars. Maybe I’ll be up there soon…or down in the other direction…or nowhere at all…just nowhere at all….

  The blank-faced man heard the sound of feet trudging on hard-pack snow, and, along with the trudging, a sliding sound, and a low grunt, and then, coming even closer, heavy breathing.

  The sounds stopped, making the silence even heavier than it had been before. Then the sounds started again: trudging, sliding, grunting, breathing— followed by another silence.

  Someone is coming this way, the blank-faced man thought.

  The sounds had started again, and they were continuing very steadily, as if the one making them had reached a decision to push on without stop, to will his self to continue no matter what pain he was feeling.

  The sounds were very close; the breathing was shaky with exhaustion. The trudging stopped. A thud followed— then a beam of light flashed into view— then the voice, high-pitched, old, and played out:

  “So awake you are now! That’s good. Can you feel anything? Do you hurt anywhere? Look at me.”

  The blank-faced man could not turn his head, but with great effort he turned his eyes to the right. By the dim illumination of a flashlight beam he saw a bearded old man wearing spectacles and a black knit cap staring down at him.

  “You can’t move,” the old man observed. “Don’t worry. I’ve brought a big sled up the mountain. I’m going to strap you to it. First I’m going to slide this board under you. Got to get you tied to it to stabilize your neck.”

  The blank-faced man heard more heavy breathing, and then, dully beneath his head, he felt a board being gently shoved between him and the bed of snow and slush upon which he lay.

  The old man spoke as he lashed the broken and bloody body of the blank-faced man to the board; straps tightened across forehead, shoulders, torso, and legs.

  “Saw you come down from the plane. The tangled chute. The plane crashed into the mountain. It’ll take ‘em days to find the wreck. They wouldn’t have found you. I was in the right place. Have a cabin down the slope of this mountain. Glad it’s down the slope from here. I’ll get you tied up good and we’ll be on our way.”

  The old man pulled the board under the blank faced man with powerful tugs, giving a grunt each time. He got the blank-faced man up on the sled and began tying him on.

  “Used to use this sled to go for groceries in town. Then my dog died. Didn’t use it anymore after that. It’s coming in handy now.”

  In the tying, the old man’s fingers worked rapidly with the sureness and deftness of an artist. They were slender fingers, but attached to rather beefy hands and wrists. The old man himself was broad of frame, short, and bow-legged. He had wavy white hair, which he wore long, down to his shoulders, and a long, wavy white beard and mustache. His spectacles were wired-rimmed bifocals. He wore a heavy red plaid woolen coat, a wool sweater underneath, and underneath those garments a pair of blue denim overalls. The bottoms of the overalls were tucked into thick leather boots. The cap and beard gave the old man an elfin appearance, but the way he worked suggested that he may have been a miner, or, perhaps at one time, a construction worker.

  “Seen some awful air crashes in my day. Really awful ones, back in Chicago. But I say: man’s gotta fly, man’s gotta fly. There’s risk in everything. Everything we do. I’ve found that if the goal is worthwhile, the risk is not a risk. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about. What’s this?”

  The old man had picked up the steel suitcase which was still handcuffed to the blank-faced man’s left wrist.

  “Something very important,” the old man said. “I’ll just put it here on the side of the sled for now, and we’ll figure out what to do with it down at the cabin.”

  The old man finished tying the blank-faced man to the sled.

  “All right,” the old man said. “Here we go.”

  They started to move forward down the side of the mountain. The blank-faced man saw pine trees drift by overhead in the field of his vision. The trees kept moving by as a buzzing sound filled his head. He was blacking out again. Everything dimmed.

  January 21st 1943

  A Cabin Somewhere near Pike’s Peak

  The blank-faced man opened his eyes. He could see the ceiling of a log cabin lit by the flicker of flames. The old man was seated somewhere nearby, and he began to speak:

  “Well, you’ve finally awakened. I gave you an injection the night I found you. Thought it would be better if you slept. You’re either very lucky or it’s fate. I think it’s fate. I didn’t believe in fate when I was younger, but then there was a lot I didn’t understand back then. Like the man said, ‘You’ve come to the right place.’ I think I can help you, and I mean help you in a lot of ways. For one thing, I think I can get your body mended. You’ve broken your neck. And you’ve also sustained some serious injuries to your spine and legs. You’re broken up very badly. If you were in the best hospital in this country, I doubt that they could save you. But I think I can get your body mended. I have a construction here on this mountain that I’ve built of stone— it’s a pyramid. It’s actually a model of the Pyramid of Giza. I’ve been doing experiments with it for the last several years— experiments with electricity and ether. I’m going to put you in that pyramid and get your spine and legs healed. It’ll take a while, perhaps a few weeks, but I think I can get your body mended.”

  He’s mad, the blank-faced man thought, the old man is insane. I will die here in this cabin in the clutches of this mad man.

  The old man bent over and looked down. The blank-faced man could see the old man’s eyes through the lenses of his bifocals. His eyes were pale blue with flecks of hazel. The old man did not look insane, only very determined.

  “Don’t worry. Nothing is at it seems,” the old man said, and then he sat back down.

  The old man continued, “I managed to get that suitcase unlocked from your wrist. Guess it was damaged in the fall, for it sprung open while I was fiddlin’ with it. Had some interesting contents. Hope you don’t mind that I looked. My curiosity has always gotten me into trouble. Curiosity killed the cat, but the cat has nine lives. This is a very nice watch fob. And this, a book manuscript, is very interesting. And this, somebody’s diary— people shouldn’t read other people’s diaries, but this one has really got my curiosity up. I suppose you know good and well who this diary belonged to, don’t you? I wonder if you’ve read it. I bet you haven’t read it yet. Something tells me…. Would you like me to read some of it to you now? I think you would. I’ll read a little of it to you, and then I’ll take you down to the pyramid for a treatment. I think we’d both like to hear what’s written down here by— Houdini. What kind of guy do you think he was? Do you think he really did all those things they say he did? Do you think he really pulled off all that stuff? Was he a good guy? Did he make the world any better…all that stuff he did? I wonder. I shouldn’t read this, but I’m going to read it; I’m not ashamed. Listen to this, would you? Then I’ll take you down to the pyramid for a treatment.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Orpheum Time

  “I want to be first. I vehemently want to be first. First in my profession… For that I give all the thought, all the power that is in me. To stand at the head of my rank: it is all I ask. When I can no longer, good-bye the joy of life for me!”

  Houdini

  I, Houdini, tell this tale.

  It is a tale of secrets c
loaked in darkness, like the flickering shadows cast in succession between the bright pictures of the cinema screen; we do not see the shadows, but only feel their presence. So have many felt the presence of the shadows that surround my secrets and have said of me: “He is supernatural.” How far from the truth they are— and how close! For what is natural? And what is supernatural? And what is reality? And what is illusion? Could reality itself be nothing but a flashing picture show?

  But I dare not pose such questions to my public; for the fake Spiritualists draw a line between the natural and the supernatural, construct there a wall with a tissue of lies, and then charge the gullible admission to their false mystery show. All of creation is a mystery, and at every turn we find a Locked Door barring the way to the Infinite. Has anyone ever found the key to such a Door and used it? What would you do if you held the key in your hand? Unlock the Door and walk through it to the other side? Or keep it closed and walk away?

  This is the tale of how I was given the Key, and held it in my hand as I stood before the Door, a secret tale I can tell no man or woman while I live, a tale which I unfold to you now, you who live in a future time when I have long since departed this mortal sphere, long since passed through the Door and on to the infinite worlds that lay beyond.

  This is the tale of how I learned the mystery of Time, which is the ultimate mystery. The veil that separates the living from the dead and yesterday from tomorrow is one and the same; it is Time and nothing but Time. It is Time that we see when we look out with our eyes, smell when we breathe with our noses, taste when we lick with our tongues, hear when we prick up our ears, and touch when we reach out to grasp with our fingertips. It is Time that we know when we think, when we count, when we remember, and when we realize in the abstract. All we know is Time, and, therefore, in Time being All and Everything, it seems to us a ‘nothing.’ But despite this, Time persists; it is eternal and indestructible. Yet we, flying souls, move through this indestructibility, thinking we see change and make change. But it is Time that changes us. Or, to frame a paradox, it is we who are Time.