Please have a read and let me know what you think; still in outline stage and needing some more story in the middle but comment away if you please!
2Embodied
A short story.3
Embodiment (Em-bod-dhi-mehnt)(adj); when an idea, thought or force takes form in manner
observible to all who witness it.4
Senses wild and disengaged, running blindly through the forest, leaf mould and detritus jumping in slow motion plumes around his feet. Flashes of images, strangely coloured and disjointed play before his eyes but nothing enters, nothing stays. He doesn’t feel the twigs and branches and snags as they catch on flesh of arms, legs or face. Hair becomes soiled and tangled, snarls tearing away to become part of the forest but he seems not to notice. The breathing is heavy and laboured, sweat running through dirt and tree debris creating tracks on skin. He staggers but to where he does not know; from where he has not a single notion. He staggers in complete disorientation, face twisted in effort or pain or fear or all three together, leaning weight on bough or fallen trunk, scrabbling at bushes and shrubs, feet trying to find their own path over roots and rocks and fallen assortment. What is before him and what is flashing before his eyes blends and contorts into twisted symphony of chaos; animals and beasts, real or imagined flash before his eyes, a bird wings toward his face in strobe-like stop motion and he raises his arms protectively to avoid the attack, it seeming intent on taking his eyes and leaving only the visions, the waking dreams. But it never reaches him, no part of him is rent or torn away, was it real or has he lost what is left of his mind? As humans are wont to, he tries to figure out where he is, where this place is but he stops part way through the usual mental inventory - Who? Where? What? Why? - and stumbles at the very first fence. Who? Who am I? Where am I? What am I? When am I? What is this thing I am trying to do? Coherent thought was impossible among the chaos of images, sights, sounds and other sensory information which is flooding him, his mind is not aware even of itself, simply working to keep him alive. A tree root catches his foot and he falls heavily with a crashing of body and snapping, tearing and lashing of vegetation and he lies there for a short moment looking dazed but behind the eyes there is no thought, no spark suggesting he check for injury. Moving into an animal crouch, he sniffs the air and casts an eye about before surging to his feet with a guttural roar and pushing forward once more. Ahead of him, golden shafts of light in which dust motes dance like fairy sprites danced lance through the trees as the sun rises. Birds begin to sing – layer upon layer of individual song - and a squirrel chatters and dog after dog begin to bark. Far off in the distance car horns begin their own discordant version of the dawn chorus.5
“So you’re telling me everything is part of some kind of….” hands grasp the air as if trying to pull something out of it. “big machine that’s so big that we can’t see it?” the voice, female by it’s sound, has a frustrated tone to it.
A tall and ascetic man, with grey hair and beard, dressed like some kind of aging hippy, bright ethnic waistcoat, broad brimmed hat, a braided bracelet or two, smiles pleasantly and gestures to the tree stump, just across from where he sits, clearly at his ease. “Sit” much more of a request than an order, he takes off his glasses and cleans them with a pale cloth he found in his waistcoat pocket and put it back, now extracting a packet of tobacco and a packet of cigarette papers. He busies himself with rolling while he thinks, eyes never lifting from his task, not checking if she’s taken his advice or not. “Have you ever heard of Gaia theory, Marta?”
The woman called Marta has indeed accepted the man’s offer to sit and she is currently smoothing her long skirt over her knees, she’s much younger than the man who has now lit his cigarette and taken a leisurely drag on it before lifting his eyes to consider her. A student or granddaughter perhaps for he has the look of groovy teacher and she of student. She doesn’t speak and simply waits until he catches her eye then shakes her head, dark waving hair following the motion of her head, dark eyes challenging slightly.
“Gaia was an ancient Greek Mother goddess,” a pause to draw on his cigarette again and flick ash from the end, which he catches in his cupped hand. “Called Dis by the Romans and various other names by other cultures across the world and ages.” He sniffs, pulls a piece of tobacco out of his mouth, considers it and drops it to the ground.
“Mother Earth and all that?” the woman called Marta sniffs and tosses her hair. “You’re not being serious about believing that are you Marcus?”
Marcus smiles again, it’s a nice, grandfatherly kind of smile, one which would have you joining in, even if you didn’t know why the old man was smiling. “Think about it Marta, as the student of philosophy and not as a niece humouring your old uncle.” He drops the now finished cigarette onto the ground and crunches it out with his heel, sending his little pile of ash after it. “Tell me that it’s impossible that everything, that ash on the ground, my cigarette butt and my own hand are not in some way connected.”
Marta laughs at Old Uncle Marcus’ aging hippy ways and beliefs, her head thrown back. Like her uncle’s smile, Marta’s laugh was infectious, rich and inflected. Maybe it was a family trait.6
Pain, pain, pain, that’s the only conscious feeling/sensation/whatever he can feel or have knowledge of. This is simply because of the fact that it dominates every aspect of his world. It flashes redly before his eyes, he can taste it, feel it, he breathes it and drinks it, it saturates him to the last pore, it drips off him and encrusts him in it’s tight casing. He can hear noises but they come in such a torrent that he cannot separate them. Some are familiar, part of his fevered mind is sure, but others he cannot identify. Occasionally, one sound lifts itself above the others, like a salmon lifting it’s head above the waterfall before it leaps against the raging water; fragments of sound and with these fragments came something akin to memory. Out of the hubbub comes a sound, light and creating a feeling inside which feels good, a light a musical sound; like sweet birdsong but seeming to communicate more. In his mind comes, for a snatched handful of seconds a face, the face of someone he knew but could not connect the thoughts yet. The feeling though, he feels, it has a safe feeling, so unlike all the other feelings that sweep through him now. He casts his face around toward the source of this sound and then, through the cacophony of scents comes a smell, one which reminds him of……..something, something once again familiar. Without truly knowing why or even consciously thinking about it, he turns towards both sound and smell and totters in the general direction of both.7
Marcus had opened the flask he’s brought along in his old raffia satchel and, filling the cap with strong, steaming coffee, he passes it to Marta who takes it in silent thanks. Mad as a stoat Uncle Marcus might be, but his coffee is the best in the world!
“You’re not listening are you?” the old man says as he pours coffee for himself into a metal mug and adds sugar, consternation and hurt exaggerating their way across his face. “You never bloody listen to me these days” he grumps.
Marta just smiles and shakes her head again, mad as a stoat with rabies on a sack load of E, she corrects her earlier thought. “It’s so quiet and calm out here” she chooses a neutral topic.
“Of course it is!” he keeps the grumpy old man act up for a while longer. “That’s what I’ve been trying to explain to you just now.” He inclines his head slightly to the left and cocks that cheeky half smile of his, eyes sparkling. “Don’t why I put up with such ungrateful company! People pay real money for my knowledge and you get it for free, but still you complain and pick holes in it!”
“And you love every bloody moment of it you cheeky old badger!”8
Pulsing and fracturing and making his head pulse with agony, flashes of multicoloured light exploded behind his eyes. Muscles ached and he staggered unevenly, trhowing an arm out to tree trunks and not seeing even the bushes and snags which caught his feet. Again came that sound, that noise, that beguiling and enthralling sound. That only sensory input which seemd to make any sense. Moving without knowing why or even being able to piece together what is known as a thought in order to create a thought, he headed towards it.9
Uncle Marcus laughed that raucous laugh of his and lit another cigar. “You'll never jump outsaide of your scientific frame of reference will you, Marta?” He wiped tears from his eyes.
“I'm unable to accept that every living thing is part of some order, some great plan.” she shook her head and drank some of the coffee. “Sound too like religion to me. You know how much I hate religions and all the mess they cause in this world.”
Marcus shook his head and smiled, sharing a moment of silence with his cigar. He leaned back, savoured the taste of it and – froze.
“Marcus, what...” then she saw it too.10
Braches and trailers whipped his face, the sound and the smell became all consuming, drowning out everything else. He'd have appreciated the peace in his mind were he capable. Closer, closer, something drwew him onward and became more insistant, the same images kept flashing before his eyes and drew his body onward.11
The sound! What in the name of god was that sound? Marta dropped her coffee to the ground as she slapped her hands over her ears. Many times she'd read in books the comaparison that something sounded like the screaming of a million tortured souls and she'd always thought it a pathetic simile, now she heard it and she knew. The screeching sound reminiscent of pure, unadulterated agony tore through the air and then came the smell, smoke; thick and acrid. The they came, the birds, what seemed like thousands and thousands of them, a cloud of screaming, wheeling chaos on wings. They were running (well flying) from something, from whatever made that smoke. It could only mean one thing. She looked at Marcus and saw on his face what could only be a reflection or her own emotions; incomprehension, fear, almost total terror. His mouth was moving as if he wanted to speakl but, it seemed, that just like her own, his tongue was cleaved to the roof of his mouth and no sound would come out. He took hold of the upper part of the arm with a grip, the intensity of which almost hurt her, though the pain was distant, feint, like it was someone else's. Because it was then that she saw the sight which she would remember for the rest of her life. It ran towards them, eyes rolled back in it's head in madness and terror, face twisted in tortured agony, jaws wide to the point of snapping and screaming, screaming, screaming! The noise sit made was one Marta thought could come from no living creature's throat! The sound of a tortured soul. It pawed and twisted at the loose ground, body twisting and jerking as it continued to run toward the frozen humans. A beautiful white horse with it's mane and back ablaze, flames and smoke curling in the the now superheated wind as the conflaguration in the forest suddenly became visible. They should run, right now, get back to the car but they were rooted to the spot in pure horror. Screaming and screaming and screaming, a wall of heartwrenching sound which seemed to strike like a physical blow, the most unearthly sound. Then it saw them, eyes foccussing breifly enough to light upon them and that look made Marta's heart break, almost explode with the sympathetic empathy she felt communicated in that animals eyes; the pleading, the pain, the knowledge that death was coming. The fact that it was still alive was as shocking as the sight of it. It stopped, met her eyes one final time before it's legs buckled and it fell to the earth, dropped and twitched, hooves tearing gouges in the ground. The flames still burned for moments before it's final trashes extinguished them and Marta smelt the smell of burning flesh, hair and horsey pain and was ashamed when she realised the cooking odour was making her mouth water. It lay still and died and the horrible spell was immediately broken. Marcus grabbed her arm, more insistantly this time and tried to drag her away. “The car!” his voice torn in a dry throat. “Marta we have to run now!”
“But the horse, our things.”
“Will you forget the fucking horse girl and just get yourself out of here.!” the obsensity sounded alien in his mouth, she'd never heard him swear before. “It's dead, let's move.” more gently this time, though he still dragged at her arm. They ran.12
Light noise immersed him now, he could feel...something...tugging at his skin, it felt...unpleasant. At once his memory threw up images and...thoughts! He felt something which was fear and knew (how did he know, what did it mean?) to run, to move his feet faster because this light and smell meant...danger..he was in danger! But the....flames...were burning all around him and all he felt was warm....he wasn't being burnt.....he was.....not in danger........13
Marta can't remember when Marcus fell with a cry and stopped her dead, she turned and saw it then; the wall of flames which seemed to be comsuming everything, drowning out all other things. The fire was the world and it was approaching them much faster than was comfortable, she could feel the hairs on the backs of her arms and hands crisping now. Marcus showed no signs of getting up, his right leg seemed to be bent in a way that legs don't usually bend and his face was a flushed white, drawn in pain. “Oh god..” she put her hand to her mouth and reached towards him.
“No....I...” he started to protest and she dragged him up by the armpits, almost screaming with the effort of lifting what turned out to be quite a heavy deadweight and started to drag him. The carpark was so close now, she could see Marcus's battered old Land Rover. They could make it. The she saw it, she saw him. It was the second thing she saw today which would stay with her for the rest of her life. This time though it wasn't an image of horror...it was an image of...wrongness. Clothes torn and ripped, smeared in dirt and what looked like blood! The expression on his face was so close to that expression of beautific blankness she'd seem on the painted visages of saints she had seen in old churches in her youth but the eyes....the eyes were the eyes of a madman! He strolled, almost ambled out of the flames and stopped mere paces away from them. His ambivalence more frightening than anything else could have been. He lowered his head slightly, for he was very tall, and seemed to see her for the first time. Another expression fleeted across his face momentarilyand she saw a human, a man, in there but then he was gone. He took what seemed like long moments studying her, seeming to absorb everything about her. She felt her skin grow cold, despite the approaching wall of flame and resisted the urge to shiver. She felt he was apparaising her almost, weighing her in some balance and finding her....finding her....finding her...what? He looked down at Marcus, who was trying to prop himself up on his elbows (when had she let go of him? Why was he now a few feet away, equally distant to the man and Marta?) and look at the man. She heard the voice then but could never be sure, even years later, who had actually spoken. The man's lips moved, she was certain, but the voice sounded so distant, so soft, almost carried on the wind and not like the voice she imagined this man would have- a soft contralto – if words were indeed spoken, words she was sure she didn't catch, words she was certain she could not even understand if she had. Then Marcus, throat hoarse and ragged spoke but she could not hear those words either over the pounding of her thundering heart and head. The wall of flame drew closer, she felt her head spin and eyes burn, legs grow boneless. The horizon tilted and the ground seemed to move. As the sky caught fire the blackness closed in like deepest night.14
Detective Martin Campbell was having a bad night. His stomach was sour and this made him irratable to say the least, it made his head hurt and this, combined this his uncooperative digestive processes, made his patience short. He'd snapped at more than one of the officers working graveyard shift with him tonight and made the coffee he knew he needed to kill the headache and tiredness off either an excercise in masochism or an impossibility. Muttering to himself he popped the drawer to his desk open and rooted around for some antacids he was sure he had in there but was also sure would take a while to work! So immersed was he in this search, he did not even notice the young sargeant in uniform until she cleared her throat less than subtly. Feeling irrascible, he popped a couple of the pills into his mouth and drank them down with the last dregs of cold coffee in his mug before looking up.
“Lieutenant Davies is asking for you, sir.” The sargeant, a young pretty redhead he'd maybe seen before said, and Cambell realised that his evening was probably going to get even worse.15
Lieutenant Evan Davies stood beside Detective Cambell, hands clasped behind his back, in silence. Both men were watching what was going on in the room beyond the two-way glass in front of them, or rather not going on. The man inside of the interview room sat calmly at the institutional grey table, hands folded. He appeared to be looking straight at the two police officers, although both of them knew this was impossible, it was unsettling all the same. There was a distance in the man's eyes, something sailors and fishermen called the 'thousand yard stare', there was something else two, though neither could put their finger on what it was.
“Came in last night, early this morning as you see him.” Davies said quietly. “Hasn't said a word since. I can't even coax an expression out of the guy!”
“The arsonist?” Campbell asked.
“Well, a trooper picked him up less than a mile from the forest fire, covered in soot and a little singed around the edges but otherwise unburnt.” Davies cleared his throat and sighed. “Didn't even try to run but we're sure he was either there or did it. Hasn't said a word though.”
“Want me to try then, I guess?” Campbell's lack of enthusiam was obvious enough to cause Davies to smirk. “Work the old magic as it were?”
“If you can't make him talk, nobody could, Martin.” the men had been colleagues and friend too long long for rank to be anything other than decoration. 16
Campbell sat down at the table and set his ill-advised cup of coffee down with intentional deliberateness. He shuffled his papers and put his spectacles so that he could read them, took a sip of coffee and muttered something to himself. The man across from him didn't even move or make a sound, strange, he could discomfit almost any suspect by ignoring them for long enough. The file was interesting in one way more than any other, it's sparsity. Fingerprints had been taken and passed through the computer by Davies or one of the uniforms, they'd come back with nothing. Nothing strange there, if he had no record, there was no reason for his prints to be on file. The man carried no ID, had no identifying marks and had not even resisted arrest when the trooper had picked him up. The report said he'd appeared to not even have seen or heard the arresting officer but had, however, gotten into the car of his own accord and sat down, even closing the door behind him. Not usual behaviour for anyone picked up near a potential crime scene, innocent of any crime or not. Campbell continued to read and was surprised to hear a sound from where the man sat. It was a deliberate sound, a distracting and considered one, the sound of a piece of paper tearing. Campbell looked up and saw the man, the John Doe, roll up a piece of paper he'd torn from one of the stack Campbell now read and proceed to clean under his fingernails with it. He seemed utterly absorbed in this task but it was a start, so Campbell decided to keep quiet.
“I have nothing to tell either you or your officers, Detective.” The man's voice was strange, his accent unidentifiable. He spoke softly and almost musically though.
“Anything you could tell me is better than nothing.” Campbell replied evenly.
“My, you are a cynic to say such things, Detective, has policework really left your expectations so low?”
Campbell let this one slide and changed gear. “Seeing as you're talking at least, can I get you anything? Tea.
, coffee, a soft drink? Food?”
“No thank you, I have no need for such things, I think” he trailed off and appeared to withdraw into himself again, obviously confused. “I...I....do not know but...I..yes I think not, thank you.”
Campbell filed this away for later and changed gear again. “Ok, but we do need to talk - “ he paused for a moment and pretended to look at the papers in front of him. “May I ask your name?”
“You may, Detective, but needlessly, I assure you.” a slight, almost evanescent, smile.
“I'm sorry but I'm not sure that I follow you?” Campbell tried hard to keep his patience, that smile irritated him somehow. “Are you telling me that you don't remember your name, or that you'd prefer not to tell me?”
“Neither, Detective.” another of those smiles. “If I ever had a name I do not remember it now, so you are half right. But I do not think I ever had a name for me to forget.”
Campbell thought this one over, trying to translate it inside his head. He looked the man in the eyes and tried to hold his gaze but found that he could not, he felt the oddest sensation when he did it, like he was being sucked into unknown depths. Something was dreadfully wrong with this man, this seemingly nondesript man of indeterminable age and who had, if the arresting officer's report, tied together with forensicanalysis, had not only started the largest fire in the history of this state, one which had swallowed both a zoo and numerous homes in a matter of hours; without so much as a scratch. As he'd previously noticed, Campbell saw slight scorch marks on the man's clothes – jeans and pale t-shirt – but considering he'd supposedly come out from the fire itself, if the witness report in this file was to be believed, he should be carrying some form of injury or burn. Aside from soot on his face and arms, he seemed untouched by the flames! “Explain.” Campbell said simply.
“I don't think that I really need one. My purpose does not require it.” that same, faraway and singsong cadence.
“Your purpose?” this could be the way in, so many criminals attribute their crimes to instructions from God or the ghost of some dead relative. “What purpose is this exactly? Someone, or something told you to start the fire?”
The man stayed silent for a moment, seeming to absorb Campbell's words and give them due consideration. Something resembling comprehension crossed his face and then something stranger happened. He laughed, not a short laugh of derision, not the nervous laugh of someone caught out, not the confused laugh of someone mistakening accused of a crime. Not that kind of laugh at all, this laugh was the laugh of someone who had just heard the funniest joke ever told, the kind of unselfconcious laugh of a child having more fun than an adult can ever understand. Tears were streaming down the man's face and he started to cough hoarsely, before producing a packet of tissues from somewhere to wipe his eyes and blow his nose, again unselfconciously.
“Something strike you as funny, mister?” Campbell said, once the man had regained his composure. “From where I'm sitting, you are in a whole world full of trouble if you did start that fire, millions of dollars of damage was done and dozens or homes lost! What is so funny about that?”
“Nothing is funny about that, Detective, believe me, I know the damage caused there.” the man was utterly serious once more. “No, sir, it is not the damage which amused me so, but you.”
“I amuse you? I amuse you?! My friend messing with police officers, especially considering your situation, is never wise, so I would advise you to explain to me precisely what I have done to amuse you, quickly and concisely before I walk right out of this room and get them to book you for this fire. Before I somehow amuse you again!”
The man held up his hands in conciliation, though seemed curiously unconcerned by Campbell's outburst. “Detective, detective, please do not be offended by my percieved insult, I am not entirely familiar with the conventions of your people. I meant no offense, I swear.”
Campbell, his interest unavoidably picqued took a swallow of coffee and wished he had not quit smoking last month suddenly. At least the night could not get any worse than this! “If you say so, my nameless friend.” He allowed. “Then please explain.”
The man smiled beautifically and cleared his throat softly. “Well, Detective, it was not you who amused me directly but your innocence, an innocence which is so very, very human.”
Now Campbell was deeply intrigued, of all the wackballs, in all the precincts, in all the world.....this one he had to hear....then he stopped that thought, there was something.......
“Dear Detective, I did not start that fire, I was that fire!” 17
Across the world it began; internet rumour sites, blogs and sensationalist news stories began sprouting up like mushrooms in a damp log. Conspiracy theories began emerging, at first tentatively, then at full throttle. Details were leaked to the press, witnesses spoke out, police officers allegedly shared their thoughts and fears in blogs anonymously. Across the entire world it began. Disaster; floods, fires, mudslides, avalanches. All such disasters could occur naturally, obviously but, so the rumours imparted, near each disaster site, a man or woman was arrested, questioned, often accused of the crime only to disappear from all record . Interviewing officers could not answer the questions asked to them by reporters. Yes, they had spoken to a suspect. No, that suspect had been neither charged nor indicted of causing the disaster. Amsterdam; Holland, 15th April. A dyke divering the River Dam away from the city is breached by a possible explosion. Three hundred people die in the resulting flood. Aswan, Egypt, 24th June. The great Aswan Dam is breached in a seemingly similar fashion, three thousand souls are lost in the flood waters. Zurich, Switzerland; 18th July. The largest avalanche in known history thundered down upon three skiing resorts, killing at least a thousand. Investigators do not rule out the chance that the avanlanche may have been started artificially. The list got larger and larger with each passing day. Same thing each time; lives lost, someone arrested, same person vanishes. Terrorists were considered, governments lobbied, people were afraid, terror was spreading fast. Years previously the United States and Britain had been atacked by Islamic terrorists and suddenly, the world was convinced they were striking again, on an unprecedented scale, and the governments of the world were somehow covering it all up. More than two hundred thousand people, from one corner of the world to the other, almost one quarter of a million lives, had been lost in less than 6 months. Something terrible was taking place and terrorists seemed like the obvious choice except that no terrorist group claimed responsibility or took credit; conversely, they were curiously silent, even contrite; as confused – even as fearful – as everyone else. The rumour mills were right, something terrible was happening but they were also wrong, it was not terrorists. There was one more thing they did not know; it was about to get a whole lot worse. 18
Embodiment. Incarnation. Avatarism. Humans have spoken about it since they discovered complex ways in which to communcate. Their religions are full of it; anthropomorphic personification they were particularly good at, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse – War, Pestilence, Death and Famine – were very popular in their myths right up until the very end. They had gods, saints, demiurges, angels; more symbols than perhaps there are stars in the universe yet they still did not truly see it when it finally came to them. Belief, we suppose is curious like that; it is easy to believe when there is little or no chance of it ever happening. God is fine as long as He never visits one's home and eats all the homemade brownies. Good is a great concept. Evil is a far more intriguing concept but still as much a concept, an empty idea, as good is. An empty idea, an umbrella term used to describe actions which were simply incomprehensible to all who observed them from afar. In India, a simple nun devoted her life to the conforting of the sick, the dying, the victims of leprosy; the forgotten and highly infectious plague; she died an old woman and was canonised as a saint upon her death. No-one understood why she did such good and, so we believe nor did she. An Austrian lunatic seized power in a recession plagued Germany and led the country to an empire-building war which ended up involving all developed nations of the world. He then decided to murder millions of people simply because of their religion. No-one understood the evil, it was beyond our ability to comprehend. So, instead of trying to understand the evil and eliminate it; instead of trying to understand the good and emulate it; labels were applied and no lessons were learned. News reports abounded night by night; people watched young children in Africa staggering around on television; their shrunken bellies swollen, their faces covered in flies they lacked the energy to swat away. Wars in which millions of women and children were brutally slaughtered were primetime viewing; people shook their heads, muttered prayers or mantras but did nothing. They were shocked, they were dismayed, but, once the reports stopped, they forgot and did nothing. The next story broke and they acted in the same way, each and every time. Humans, it appeared, were incapable of learning. So, when the disasters started occurring and the avatars began emerging, allowing themselves to be caught and questioned by those in aurthority; when they tried to warn the human race of the price they must pay should they continue to treat the Earth, to treat Gaia as they did, they did not listen. They were told, they were warned, we tried to help them see but they did not listen. Huamns never listened. Not even to their own stories.19
In the end, it all comes down to stories doesn't it? One must simply decide which stories are really worth listening to and which are just stories.
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