Glory Unbound
by J. Crispin-Ripley
copyright 2003
A horseshoe of blood red clouds surrounded the city. On the horizon, the Sleeping Giant floated on morning mist. The ice was gone but there were no ships on the lake, and none in the harbour. Once upon a time a major shipping centre, Thunder Bay now subsisted on tourism and its university. Some people claimed greedy unions had killed the city by making the port too expensive. Others, less judgmental, put it down to changing times. I had no opinion; both views had something to them. It all depended on how one looked at things.
The morning held a chill that made my breath faintly visible. I was accustomed to the big city, fouled with exhaust and industrial pollutants, so the air tasted fresh. Only one vehicle was in the parking lot of the lookout, a red van, bouncing on its springs. I headed for the other end of the lot, past a garbage can where a flock of screeching seagulls fought over the remnants of a fast food meal.
The park was an historic site; it had once hosted British soldiers. Nothing of note had happened there, however. I imagined the soldiers peering endlessly out over the lake, looking for foes sailing or steaming in to conquer the port and claim the wealth of the land behind it. Those foes never arrived or, probably, even existed.
I sat beside a black-painted cannon, on the stone wall at the edge of the natural embankment; glaciers had carved it, long before Great Britain was a nation, or even an island. Below, lights showed in scattered houses and a few cars poked along the narrow streets.
The scene was both familiar and alien. Twenty-four years earlier, I'd moved out of Thunder Bay. I'd lived in the city; I'd never called it home. Still, I'd returned for a visit, thinking that, perhaps, seeing where I'd been might help me make sense of where I was. But almost no one from my past remained; they'd died or moved away. Or moved on into realities where I was as much a ghost as the long-forgotten soldiers.
My pilgrimage had been spurred by a break-up, my third in two years. I hadn't loved her and she hadn't loved me. We'd been a casual item--at most, friends. At least that's how I'd seen it. She'd considered us committed until death did us part.
After three months? I'd never said I loved her, just that I enjoyed her company, in and out of bed. Still, like other women, she'd seemed to think I'd be a perfect husband and father. That I didn't want to be either, and frequently said as much, never impinged on fairytale dreams. Was it them or me? Them, I thought. They'd been brainwashed by the merchants of marriage. Still, I recognized I was too close to the situation to have an unprejudiced opinion. I'd come to Thunder Bay looking for insight, and looking for answers. I hadn't found either. At least I'd found a glorious sunrise.
"It's never the same twice, is it?"
I jumped. I hadn't heard anyone come up behind me.
"Never the same," I said.
"May I join you, or would you rather be alone?" His voice held a tremor of age.
"I don't have any strong feelings about it either way," I said. That sounded rude, so I continued. "I'd welcome your company if you can put up with mine."
"No apology necessary," he said. "I'm well acquainted with melancholy." He was beside me now, sitting on the next rock over. Again, I hadn't heard him move. "Weltschmerz?" he said.
I laughed with surprise at his use of that word. "Not really," I said. "More like self-pity."
"Things are that bad?"
"No, in general things are good," I said. "I suppose. Maybe I'm just greedy." I turned my head toward my unanticipated company. His hair would have been blond when he was younger and those twinkling eyes could have seen as many as ninety winters or as few as sixty. The tailored suit was a complete surprise. It didn't fit the time and place. He wore it like he hadn't expected to be in it either. His cologne held a hint of burnt toast.
"I'm going to a funeral," he said in reply to my unasked question. "You're invited."
A funeral? At dawn? "I'm not dressed for it," I said with a smile.
"Jeans are fine." He shrugged. "No one will notice."
"I wouldn't want to intrude."
"Trust me, no one will say a thing," he said.
It was my turn to shrug. "Sure, why not?" What else I could say? That I'd be pleased to accompany him? Hardly. Expressing delight at attending a funeral is seldom appropriate. At any rate, I didn't believe one was about to take place. He didn't seem dangerous, just a touch mad. I rather liked him. Besides, I didn't have anything better to do.
"Can I buy you breakfast after?" I said.
His answering laugh held a rumble too resonant for his thin frame. "Sometimes even an old soul can get lucky."
"I beg your pardon?"
"You already have my pardon, of course. For what it's worth. Breakfast is out of the question, but we'll see about lunch." He slipped off the wall and stood on the steep pitch of the hill down to the old city. His sense of balance was remarkable. "Take my hand and we'll be off."
Hold his hand? Oh, why not? In for a penny, in for a pound--and suchlike sayings. I stood beside him on the slope, trying to keep my balance. He had a powerful grip for his size. "You might want to close your eyes," he said. "I gather most people find this transition unsettling."
I took my chances and kept my eyes open. The panoramic view of the sun rising over the lake faded to grey. Then to black as we somersaulted through darkness. I began to lose my equilibrium and felt glad I hadn't eaten. Everything would have come back up. I took the old man's advice on a better-late-than-never basis and closed my eyes. It was an improvement, not being able to see. Not that I had been able see anything to start with.
***
"We've arrived." His voice sounded inside my head. Maybe he wasn't mad, but I suddenly wasn't so sure about me.
He still had a firm hold on my hand but we weren't moving, so I opened my eyes. We were at the bottom of a natural amphitheatre, filled with people. A coffin stood beside us on a waist-high table. Everything was black-and-white, and there wasn't a sound to be heard. Except for things moving at normal speed, it felt like I was in a silent movie.
I looked at my companion for an explanation. "Don't blame me," he said, or thought... whatever... "This is your vision, not mine. However," he continued, "if you'd like I can provide music." He waved his hand and an old-fashioned upright piano appeared beside him.
"No thanks," I said. I stopped and looked around. All eyes were either turned in our direction or downcast. None were directed on us; the coffin was the focal point. "Although music might brighten the mood," I added. "My vision? If so, I'm ashamed. It's quite the cliche."
"What's a cliche other than an archetype gone bad?" he said with a chuckle "Now, if you don't mind... it's time." He released my hand and nodded toward the coffin. "You might want to get comfortable." I glanced inside it and immediately felt anything but comfortable. I was already in there, in black and white.
Something bothered me, other than the obvious. "My vision?" I said again. "If so, how is it that before we left, you said we were going to a funeral?"
"This is just details," he said with a shrug. "Mortals are distressingly predictable." His eyes met mine straight on. "They die."
I had to laugh at his dry delivery. And I'd thought I was jaded! "We do at that," I said. I looked at the coffin, at the crowd and then back at him. "I suppose, if you're a god, I can't expect to understand what's happening."
"I would think it obvious," he said. "However, I'd gather you're not going to join yourself in the casket?"
"I'd rather not," I said. "I want to see the people." Were those my parents in back? Couldn't be. Dad had been gone for twenty years and Mom for better than five.
"As you will," the old man said. "As they say, it's your funeral." He sat at the piano and started playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The piano sounded like a concert grand.
People filed by. Some placed flowers, but most merely paused, gave a perfunctory bow and went on their way. The man I thought to be my father stopped and sobbed silently until my mother--my mother?--joined him and, with an arm wrapped around his waist, moved him on. I knew it couldn't be them. My father wouldn't ever have allowed himself to show such emotion and, seen close up, both were far too young to be my parents at any age I'd known them.
The other mourners were from a wide mix of nations, their clothing from a variety of eras--ranging from nothing but paint, through medieval regalia, to twenty-first century finery. There were Mongols in fur and horned helmets, Vikings, men in gas-masks, an assortment of camp-followers and hookers, clumps of peasants in rags and lines of chained slaves. I didn't recognize any of them as people I'd known and thought that encouraging, until I glanced into the coffin again. I was still there. Besides, to be realistic, would many I'd known mourn me? Not likely. A number might come to dance, but that was it.
While the amphitheatre had seemed huge and filled to overflowing, the end of the line was in sight by the time the old man reached the lively third movement of the sonata. "I know you have a short attention span," his voice said in answer to that thought. "Wouldn't want to put you to sleep."
The woman at the end of the line arrived. Her, I recognized. Who wouldn't? She was the epitome of beauty, Norma Jean, legendary lodestone of desire. I'd never known her, of course; she'd passed on before I was born. Still, in my mind, she was one of the most beautiful woman ever and her story one of the world's most haunting tales of needless ruin.
"This is interesting," the old man said. "She's not a phantasmagoria from your mind, at least not directly. And she's nothing to do with me. In the circumstances, I'd suggest you give the lady the attention she deserves."
The Beethoven ended mid-phrase, and segued into something lively, which I assumed to be Chopin.
Norma Jean smiled, at me and at all that surrounded us--at the world we shared, if a world it was. I smiled back at her. "I don't know why, but I had expected you to offer some Elton John in her honour," I said to the old man.
Norma Jean gave a delightful, trilling laugh. Other than for voices in my head and the music it was the first real sound I'd heard since I'd arrived in the amphitheatre.
The old man laughed too, in my head. "Please! Give me some credit for good taste."
"I wish I'd known her," I said.
"Don't dwell on what never was. Concentrate on now. It's all a mortal, or former mortal, has."
A shy half-smile on her face, Norma Jean stepped forward. She reached out and took my hands in hers. Her grasp was gentle, yet firm. While I longed to feel that lush body against mine and felt certain she wouldn't resist, the pain I sensed hidden behind her saucer-wide eyes stopped me. I squeezed her hands, let go and leaned forward to kiss her forehead, brushing aside a blonde curl that jumped back to where it had been the instant my fingers left. Her smile widened as I stepped back from her. Then she wasn't there. It wasn't as if she'd vanished; it was more as if she'd never been.
I looked up. The amphitheatre was empty.
"That was interesting." The Chopin was still playing but the old man was in front of me, a puzzled expression on his face. "I wonder who, or what, she was?"
"I thought it obvious," I said.
"Not at all," he said. "The original Norma Jean's shards have long since moved on. She wasn't a true immortal, poor thing. Oh well, we'll either find out what that was about, or not. Either way, it's time for us to move on." He chuckled as if he'd said something funny. I didn't get it. "You and I have a deal to make," he added with a grin.
"A deal?" I asked. "Then you must be the Devil."
He laughed. "Hardly. If I were, wouldn't I know what just happened?"
"If you were, would you tell me?" I asked.
"Perhaps not," he said with a shrug. He grabbed my hands. I shook him off and he glowered. "Now, since you seem resolved we're not going to do anything the easy way, at least be a good lad and stare at yourself in the coffin."
I did and noted my black-and-white simulacrum had changed. For one thing, I was younger. For another, I was in better shape than I'd ever been in life. In life? Yes, I'd accepted I was dead, sort of accepted it at any rate, at least until I woke from my dream. That had to be it--I was still sitting in the park and had dozed off, or gotten lost in reverie. All the same, I moved closer to get a better look at myself. As I did, the coffin shimmered and took on a ruddy sheen that became a white-hot glow. I started to sweat. Should I step back?
"No, move closer yet."
As I did the coffin exploded in a blaze of light, the scene went black and again I was spinning through an amorphous void.
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