The Rapist (14 page)

There! I’m above the wall, a hundred, now two hundred feet in the air. I see a commotion by the administration building. Guards and inmates scurry around like frantic ants after a boot has trod on their hill. The alarm has been sounded! It must be, but still I hear no siren, no whistle. I take a chance and fly down lower to get a better look.

There is Lars! He’s coming around the corner of the administration building, and behind him are the two guards and the priest. They’re carrying something. The guards, that is. Lars leads them, and the priest takes up the rear. The priest is crossing himself and folding and unfolding his hands. They all appear agitated. Lars’ face is red, and he seems beside himself with rage.

The guards are carrying a body! It’s covered by a sheet, but there’s no mistake that is what it covers. The guards lower their burden onto the grass and step back. I swoop lower. No one notices me in the excitement. The priest reaches over and draws back the sheet, exposing the head and shoulders and chest of a man. Blood is everywhere. He looks familiar. I fly closer, just above the body, twenty feet above the ground, forgetting my danger as my heart beats fast and my head swims. There is something about the man.

Oh, God! No, no, no! It cannot be; it is impossible; I am here; I see my body; I feel it; there is blood coursing through my veins; my lungs expand, my hands perspire, my breath comes in gasps. I am alive! I see all the proof I need. Look, here is my hand! I go down, settle on the grass. No one sees me. I am standing over the man. His prison number is exposed on his shirt, blood darkening it but still legible. I read it, the numbers paralyzing me. Four. Nine. Oh. Two. Eight. In white stitching.

I cannot stand this. I just want to go fishing again along my river. My whole existence has been structured, orderly. I have experienced more emotional peaks and valleys in the past several hours than in the whole of my life. It is too much. Would that I had never seen Greta Carlisle. My life was perfect before that tramp. I forget that I don’t care what path my life takes, what road I’m forced down.

I can’t stay here. I’ll leave, fly away. At least I have that. I suppose I’m a ghost now, but it isn’t like in my dream. I have a body; I can feel it, touch it, see it. No one else seems able to, though. This must be another plane that somehow coexists with my former one. I can see them, but they can’t see me. But I have a solid body. I never expected that.

Wait. I just passed through a tree. I am solid, but all else is a mist, vaporous. This, then, is the true world. My other existence was the dream. My forty-four years fly out the window; they seem to have lasted but for a moment.

My discovery elates me. I fly over the ground, away from the prison. I go through trees, houses, hills. They are all ghost objects; I am the reality.

I come to a mountain and fly up. There are limits, it seems. It takes ten minutes to reach the top. I cannot just imagine I am at the top and appear there; I must physically fly there, and I have limits to my speed. I appear to also still be at the mercy of physical laws such as gravity, although not the same extent as before. So this plane involves space and time and dimensions. I wonder if there is a state absent of these constants. It seems there are constraints everywhere and, therefore, true freedom doesn’t exist.

It’s my meadow! There is no one here; the old man is gone. But there is his table and the two chairs. I dart over and sit in one. It is solid, real. I pinch my calf; it too is solid, real. I feel my weight on my buttocks, pressing me down to the chair. I have to think, figure out what all this means.

I examine my feelings, try to determine my state of mind. Everything is upside-down, not what I expected. I’ve found I couldn’t fly as I thought. Oh sure, I am flying, but not in the body I thought I’d be in or the state I’d be in. I resent most the fact I was unable to show Lars and the others that I really didn’t care that they were going to execute me. That grinds at me. That was the whole point of flying away: to come back once I’d achieved my freedom and give that freedom back. A life should stand for something, otherwise I would be one of those vegetables to whom life is merely a period of eating, drinking, sleeping, consuming, farting, fucking orgy of sensate pleasures, devoted to satisfying creature pleasures, and I am more than that. I am above that, always have been, and now, no one knows that. My life has been spent in vain.

I realize I have created a paradox. I claim on the one hand not to care what others think and on the other need their opinion to justify my existence. I’ve tried to escape this but I can’t. I need others to define me. Therefore, I must care about others to show that I don’t care. If I demonstrate my philosophy in a vacuum, I don’t have a philosophy. This means I am the basest of slaves. I have to become a slave to gain my freedom. Therefore, freedom is unattainable.

My mind is swimming, and I must have a way out of this box. There is a way—I feel there is—I just can’t find it yet. But I have a brain and, it appears, all the time in the world to use it. I’ll find the solution to my dilemma, and when I do, I shall gain my freedom.

Just as this thought enters my head, I look up, and the old man is there sitting across from me. The table is bare; he has not brought his chessboard. He speaks first.

“Hello, Truman. Have we talked before?”

I stare at him, my mouth agape. Doesn’t he remember? It was only yesterday. He answers his own question.

“I see by your face we have talked before. Of course. We must have. It’s just that I have a problem. We are in the future here and things are not yet chronological here. There are no reference points for me. For you either, anymore. Let me explain,” he says. He sees the consternation in my eyes.

“My memory encompasses all things. A sparrow doesn’t fall to the earth that I do not note it. Even if it hasn’t happened yet.”

He must have noted my jaw muscle twitching.

“You see, Truman, your memory is like a piece of wire that goes in a straight line. It is circular, forming a loop, but you can’t know that yet. In fact, you will never know that. It seems a straight line to you; you were born, you ate such and such a meal on Tuesday, you raped a girl, and so on, one foot after the other, so to speak. My vision is different. I see the inside of the circle your loop makes—it makes up one tiny atom in my vision, along with an infinite number of other atoms. And, like all atoms, yours is moving at great speeds all of the time, although you aren’t aware of that—it seems slow and deliberate to you. At least it did. But now you are in the future, and you will begin to get a glimpse of what I am talking about.”

I haven’t the slightest idea of what he is talking about and say so. He sighs, sounding like my old mathematics professor trying to explain calculus to my freshman mind.

“I’m sorry, Truman. I’m not explaining this well at all, am I? Let me try again.

“We need a point of reference for you. What is the highest number you can comprehend? A million? A trillion? Let’s use a trillion. A truly insignificant number, by the way. Well, there are a trillion times a trillion and more loops like yours running around in my awareness.  Can you begin to see my problem?”

I don’t, but I nod. If nothing else, the old man is interesting. He goes on and I sit there, a rocky glaze in my stare, I’m sure.

“Now, the past and even the present aren’t much of a problem. Everything has happened or is happening and is connected. It’s
linear.
There are some enormous numbers involved, and they’re all interconnected, but basically it’s a bookkeeping function to keep it all straight. A computer function, if you will. Now, the future—ah, the future! That’s another ball of wax altogether. That’s my problem. Yours too, as you will see.”

He assuredly has my attention now.

“Understand, it’s all there. There’s nothing that hasn’t already happened or that is yet to happen that isn’t there. But the future, well, it’s all one big ball of yarn, and sometimes I don’t know where everything is until it unravels. There’s just too much of it to keep track of. Don’t get me wrong, I can tell you what’s going to happen to individuals, yourself even, but it wouldn’t be fair to tell you and not someone else who might want the same information. The rule is, no one may know the future.

“How I ever got into this mess I’ll never know. I’ve made some mistakes. Nostradamus was one, but I learned my lesson there.

“Anyway, it’s all set up. Each end of the ball of yarn will unfold the way I planned it, but I don’t even try to remember how it goes. It goes on forever. And it started in the future. Now do you understand?”

I confess to a vague grasp of the situation, but that is a half-lie. What he says next brings me to the edge of my seat.

“Which brings me to you and your problem. You see, you’re here because this is where you wanted to be.”

Seeing my confusion, or maybe reading my mind, he tries to elucidate.

“Let’s say you were a practicing Christian. By the way, that’s my least favorite religion. All those hypocrites. If you had been, that would make it simple. For me as well as for you. Upon death you would go to Heaven or Hell, whichever one you had your heart set on. Everyone is allowed to create his own reality. All that is required to make your reality a reality is that others create it also.

“I don’t tell people that, but I plant that knowledge in them. That’s why others of your species run to and fro trying to convince others of their belief. To make it real.”

It dawns on me. Somewhat.

“But you, you have created a problem. No one believes like you. Not enough, that is. Oh, there’ve been a few, but they’re here, there, scattered, and they’re all in the future. You’re the first. Now you know why there are no ghosts in your afterlife. I recall you had that question in your dream.

“There are at present some four million possibilities in afterlife. Granted, the great majority are in one of seven or eight places or situations, but there are many more creations than these. Some of the worlds have only one or two inhabitants; indeed, most of the minor ones do. I’ll tell you this: in the particular afterlife you’ve created, there will ultimately be eleven of you.”

He says this as an aside, as if he is imparting a state secret, leaning forward like a coconspirator. He leans back in his chair and resumes his monologue.

“On to brass tacks. You see, you are in the future. The problem is your uniqueness. If, as I said before, you had been a Christian or a Muslim, or a Druid, there would be an established place to put you. These afterlives were so popular in their time they have attained an order and structure and pretty well run themselves. I could have put you into one of those, and things would have been fine. But you, you have to have the odd vision, in point of fact have invented a peculiar fate, and I do not have the inclination to map out your route. And there will be more and more of you. It will get to be a big logistics problem.”

He sighs. For the first time he looks older than old.

“What I’ve been doing, in cases like yours, is throwing you, wily-nily, into that big ball of yarn. Oh,” he hastens to amplify, “there is a plan for you, but it’s random and fairly much up to you. I know what it is, or at least I would if I choose to take the time to remember it, but I don’t. What I’m going to tell you next may be difficult to fathom, so pay close attention.”

It is my turn to lean forward.

“When I said I threw you, wily-nily into your afterlife, I meant precisely that. For you, there is no more chronological order. Your piece of wire has not become a loop, and time has ceased to have any meaning. Not that it ever did.

“For instance, while we have been talking, it has been 2001 A.D., 45 B.C., 6 million B.C., and June 4, 1952, A.D. As well as four other dates. I have come and gone from you eight times you are unaware of. You think this to be one continuous time frame, but it hasn’t been. I have spliced eight different pieces of your wire together for this indoctrination period. You will forgive this, but I am as busy as can be.

“Your problem, at least in your eyes, is one of ‘non-resolvement.’ You are unable to establish that it mattered not to you that they took your life. You thought to fly away, escape, and then come back and allow them to carry out your execution, thereby proving your point. Since you were unable to achieve this, you feel your life useless and pointless. Well, I am renowned for my forgiving nature, and therefore you will be allowed another chance. But, I warn you, it won’t be easy.”

I don’t care for the tone of his voice or his last words. Foreboding is the adjective that springs to mind.

“The only way to achieve your goal is to live your life over and make a better decision when the time comes. For instance, before they come to question you, you could have a different escape route planned that you know works, a tunnel perhaps; you confess, and then, before they can grab you, you escape, only to return to turn yourself in and accept your punishment. That way, there’d be no mistake in anyone’s mind that their actions don’t matter.

“It’s only a possible solution,” he adds, quickly. “Doubtless, you’ll be able to arrive at an even better one.

“However.” He stops and my pulse rate rises. The bad news is coming, I know it.

“I cannot let you have your former life over. That piece of wire is used up. We’ll have to find you a new one, similar in all respects. The one I have in mind occurs in five thousand years. Or is it six?” He scratches a small bald spot on top of his head. He must have seen the perplexity on my face, for he adds, “It’s not as bad as you think. The period that has to pass will give you the time to make occur the afterlife you created—be a grain of sand, an asteroid, a cell in a grasshopper’s wing, et cetera. It’s all in the plan. You designed it, remember?”

He stops talking. At last. He stares at me as I contemplate what he’s said. My head is abuzz, whirling.

Then, the crux of what he’s said strikes me. I had spent my whole life under the belief that I didn’t care what happened, but it had been a lie. I said I didn’t care, but in reality I’d always thought that my philosophy gave me control over everything and everyone and, therefore, complete freedom. But it hadn’t. I was more a slave than anyone. I was more at the mercy of others than anyone else in my universe. Because I didn’t care. Those who cared did something about a situation they disliked. I had simply let things happen and taken the consequences, good or bad. Therefore, I had relinquished control and, in doing so, gave up any claim to freedom. I sit there in stunned silence wondering why I have never seen this before.