#002: Ashes

Let me assure you very quickly that I am not into spiritism, black magic, nor the occult arts. It offends my sense of universal order to even admit the possibility that some sort of dark forces could be consciously manipulating this reality of ours. Ghosts, banshees, and demonic spirits simply do not represent my concept of an orderly universe.

So I have an automatic resistance any time I am confronted with phenomena of this nature. I have been confronted, yes, time and again. But I have always sought a nonphenomenal explanation to account for them. Sometimes I have succeeded in that, sometimes not. But I do not let the failures deter me.

I am very much aware, you see, that we inhabit a phenomenal universe—phenomenal, that is, from the ordinary viewpoint allowed by the usual human sense perception. Atomic theory itself is an occult, highly mysterious, and largely incomprehensible concept even to those who are schooled in it. To say to me that the table in front of me is a solid object capable of supporting my weight with ease, but then to go on to explain that, of course, it is more of an empty space than anything else—other than that, an electromagnetic field more than anything else—that it is the relativity of my state of being in relation to the table's state of being that allows me to perceive the table (and myself) as a solid object, well, say, what could be more phenomenal than that?

Is the table a solid object or is it not? The answer is yes and no. Remove all the space that separates the quarks and widgets and other esoteric elementary particles that go to make an atom, then remove the spaces that separate the atoms—shred the molecules, in other words, and throw out all the space—and what is left is enough matter to maybe fit the hollow of your palm, except you could not hold it there because it still weighs the same as it did when you saw it as a table—besides which you'd better look damn quick because matter explodes at infinite density. I'd call that phenomenal.

If I tell a physicist that I have 20/20 vision and he says to me, great, that's wonderful, 20/20 lets you see point something percent of the total electromagnetic spectrum now bombarding this room, that makes my 20/20 seem like a paltry effort at apprehending reality.

Can you see, the same guy asks me, the X rays, cosmic rays, gamma rays, microwaves, radio and television broadcasts that are dancing all about us? No—but if you'll let me switch on the television, maybe I can .... Not good enough, he says; that is still just a fraction of the total spectrum. It's all here, right now, passing over, under, around, and even right through us—can't you see it? Well, no, not really but ... There!—did you see that free electron that was just knocked out of its orbit around a helium nucleus by that neutrino from Upsa Vagabondi (umpty-million light-years away)—and did you see the helium atom then decay into hydrogen?

Of course not. I see the wall, the table, your face— that's 20/20 to me and to all of us who share this particular parcel of reality. The point is, there is always much more there than most of us ordinarily perceive. So don't get bent out of shape with me when I say to you that I saw something that appears to exist in a different parcel. My physicist sees that sort of thing all the time—using, of course, special tools that enable him to get a better glimpse of total reality than you and I.

Okay. Apparently I, too, have some sort of special tool buried somewhere in my skull. I do not know how it got there and I really do not know how to operate the darned thing. It comes on all by itself, gives me a glimpse that I could not get otherwise, then shuts down. I have nothing to do with it, no control whatever, and I have not the faintest idea what it is, how it works, or why it works. I have spent the better part of life wondering about it and ...

But enough of that for now. I am just trying to give you an understanding of what phenomenon means to me, personally. It means, simply, anything not ordinarily perceived via the human sensory apparatus.

I saw an apparition, an "appearance," some energy form that did not have atomic structures packed into it as densely as mine are packed into me. If you prefer to call it a ghost, go ahead. For myself, I am much more comfortable trying to relate that particular type of phenomenon to some sort of psychic energy. That keeps my feet planted on solid(!) earth while I try to understand what is happening in my little parcel of reality.

At the moment in question I had enough solid-earth problems on hand without looking for more in rarer atmospheres. Karen Highland absolutely fell apart when Bruno died. She apparently had no family, no close friends, absolutely no one to turn to—and the same for Bruno. I could not just send the lady toddling along Pacific Coast Highway, all starey-eyed and terrified and totally alone in the world. She seemed convinced that "something evil" had done in Bruno and I had the impression that she was a bit worried for herself too.

I gave her a sedative and put her to bed at my place. Then I went looking for Bruno.

I found him in a refrigerated room at County. I did not even know the guy's family name, but they had all that from personal papers found in his wallet. The name, by the way, was Valensa. The "person to notify in case of an emergency" was Karen Highland, ditto for "name of employer." The home address and telephone number were the same as I had in my book for Karen.

Well, she had said that Bruno was "like an uncle."

The tag on the remains simply read "DOA"—without further comment.

I called an acquaintance at the coroner's office and told her what little I knew about Bruno Valensa and the circumstances of his death. I also said that I was acting on behalf of Karen Highland and requesting an autopsy at the earliest possible time. The coroner's assistant promised to pierce the bureaucratic veil and get something happening immediately; I, in turn, promised to call her soon for dinner.

She also suggested that I touch base with the cops. I did not feel like doing that at the moment. I had already been away for a couple of hours, and I was a bit uneasy about my new housemate. It was now about five o'clock and the traffic situation was frantic. I stopped at a little market for a few groceries, got home about six.

Uneasy, yeah, with good reason. Her car was still there. The clothing she had worn was there, folded neatly at the foot of the bed. Water was running in the shower, but the bathroom door stood wide open and no one was there—damp spot on the carpet—one large bath towel missing.

My place is not that large; took me all of thirty seconds to shake it down and to realize that I was the only one at home. I found her about a mile down the beach, wrapped in the towel, sarong fashion, walking aimlessly through ankle-deep surf. Her eyes were sort of blank. I was not positive that she knew where she was or that she even recognized me. But she took my hand like a trusting child and allowed me to lead her back to my place. We had no conversation. I put her to bed again and called my doctor. We are drinking buddies. He came out, took her temperature, and did the vital signs bit, asked her a few routine questions to which she responded in a monotone—name, rank, serial number, that sort of stuff.

Outside, he told me that she seemed healthy and rather archly inquired if we'd been "doing any stuff." He meant drugs, and he knew better. I told him about the sedative. Said I should just keep an eye on her, let her sleep it off.

By now it is nine o'clock or so. I go back inside to check her out, hoping she's asleep. She is not. She has the bedcovers kicked back and she is naked. I stand in the doorway and the dialogue is at that distance. She speaks first.

"Are you going to do it?"

"Am I going to do what, Karen?"

"You know. Give me an orgasm."

"If I could, sure. I'd do that. But that is not something someone else can give you, babe. You have to go get it for yourself. Maybe I could help you with that. Let's talk about it tomorrow."

Which shows you what a nice girl I really am. I was looking at heaven. But the moment was all wrong, the rationale was wrong—and I was not all that sure that it was the real Karen Highland in my bed. The eyes were still sort of blank, as though no one was home there.

"Tomorrow? Promise?"

"Promise, yeah, we'll talk about it."

"Is Bruno really dead?"

"Yes."

"What can I do?"

"About Bruno? Not a thing, love. Unless there's someone I should notify."

"No. Bruno is the last—there's no one. He had a brother. Like him."

"Like him?"

"You know. Mute. He died too. Year ago, 'bout. Same way."

"Same way?"

"Yes. Here one moment, gone the next."

"We'll talk about that tomorrow."

"Kiss me good night?"

"God, no."

Something moved within those blank eyes and she giggled. "See you tomorrow, then."

I was closing the door when she very sleepily informed me, "She came for him too."

"What?"

"Tony, Bruno's brother. She came for him last year."

I went straight to the bar and made a drink, took it outside to watch a great orange moon rise into the sky—seeking, I guess, confirmation of an ordered reality.

So there I stood, whiskey and soda in hand, feet planted trustingly upon a whirling cinder that moved in endless circles around a nuclear fire in the sky, watching another cinder or ash or whatever whirling around my cinder, seeking reason and logic in an incomprehensible universe.

What fools we mortals be.