There
were only two problems: I had no idea where I was, and could not
account for how I had gotten there.
I
thought I was alone in the room, but I was wrong. Sitting by the
window, on what looked like a hand-hewn log chair, was a man. I had
no clue who he was, but he seemed vaguely familiar – like a thought
you think you remember having just before you fall asleep.
I
considered for a moment that I should be afraid, or at least
startled, but rejected that strategy as something, well,
inappropriate. I felt too good and too safe, two things I had not
experienced together in a long, long time.
The
stranger smiled gently at me, saying nothing, clearly as comfortable
sitting there in silence as I was watching him sit there.
Now
that I was thinking about it, I vaguely remember feeling almost
exactly the same way once as a very young child. Safe at home, on a
perfect summer morning filled with country fresh air and lazy summer
sounds audible from just outside, with the distinctly irrational
assurance that all was well, and that a satisfying day lay ahead. No
worries. No obligations. Just a sweet and calm anticipation of what
the next unnumbered hours would bring my way.
But
that was very long ago, and while I recall the memory, I didn't
recall recalling that particular memory for a very long time
indeed. Where did it come from, and why now?
"Hello,"
I said, surprised at the clarity of my own voice. Why did that
surprise me? Ah hah! No customary “morning throat gravel”.
The
stranger's smile widened. Perfect teeth, like polished ivory. Not
fake looking like implants or dentures; just natural, like teeth were
always meant to be.
"Hello
yourself," he replied amiably. The voice, like the face, oddly
familiar. I focused on his appearance more closely, wondering why I
didn't feel the need to grope for my eyeglasses on the night stand. I
shifted my gaze for a split second. Hmmm. No night stand. No glass
case.
Problem?
Apparently not.
"Questions?"
he asked.
"Well…
yeah," I said. "Now that you mention it. Where am I, and
who are you?"
"What
is the last thing you remember?"
His
just voicing the inquiry invoked some kind of 3-D cinematic,
surround-sound virtual reality in my head. Sight, noise, smells, and
tactile sensations streamed into my consciousness like some kind of
super wireless, so that I was both perfectly aware of myself lying in
bed, and simultaneously off somewhere into a distinctly different
reality.
I
liked it, at least for an endless second or two. The unsettling part
was an image of a man (somehow more than an image, really), collapsed
on the ground, unmoving. I didn't recognize him from the back, but
the coat and build were familiar. Then my perspective changed and I
saw his face as if floating next to him. The vivid scene vanished
instantly as my heart leapt into my throat.
It
was me!
My
eyes snapped open (I didn't realize I had closed them), and standing
next to the bed was the stranger, a look of compassion and
understanding on his face. And there was something else, like a
gentle and loving sense of humor percolating warmly just underneath
the surface. Who was he?
"Are
you OK?" he asked.
I
really noticed his eyes then. They were a piercing grayish-green.
Comforting. Knowledgable. I studied his face more closely. He looked
both ancient and young simultaneously; child-like and full-grown.
If
I stared for any length of time at all, he seemed to shift in
appearance; the emphasis changing. For one nanosecond, I saw him as
he must have looked as an infant, innocently self-absorbed. In the
next, a series of flowing pictures (somehow more than pictures) of
him as a toddler, adolescent, young adult, middle-aged, and finally
an elderly and wisdom-filled old man, ramrod straight and full of
vigor.
All
these perceptions hitting me at faster than the speed of light it
seemed, a universe of impressions in the blink of an eye.
"I
think so," I managed to reply.
"Good,"
he said, and smiled wider still. "You are taking it well."
"Thanks,"
I responded automatically. Then, "What am I taking well,
exactly?"
"Your
death," he said.
© Bill Lilley 2011, 2013
