neurons

Night Whispers

"By Crispian Michaels"

"Part 2"

WEEK 2, DAY 4, WEDNESDAY

In the morning, Grandfather's kitchen appeared more a disaster area than a dining room. The empty boxes were scattered in disarray, with stacks of pictures, newspaper clippings, old clothing, and saved treasures, crammed into every available space of the kitchen. I wanted everything to be organized, to make it easier to ship back to Detroit.
So I sat in the living room with my coffee and continued my exploration of Grandfather's treasures. The deeper I probed into his life, the more amazed I became. There were old ledgers kept on garden vegetables he had grown and sold. An item by item description of each vegetable, how many pounds were raised, and the exact money it brought at market.
A metal Band-Aid can with two rattlesnake tails inside that still rattled.
There were partial books of unused gas rationing coupons, and grocery tickets, from the depression era.
A clay rock with a hole in the middle and the words "Indian Money" written across it.
A black derby hat in mint condition, stored in a plastic bag.
A worn set of Domino's similar to the ones Grandfather and I played with.
Several license plates from Michigan, Wyoming, and Iowa, bound together by string. I wondered when Grandfather had lived in Wyoming? The date on the plate read 1948, ten years before I was born.
There was a hard bound family bible with a history of the kids, and their kids, handwritten inside the back cover. I was the last name entered.
There was a very old magazine titled "Sweethearts", with pages yellowed from time. About the size of a standard notebook, a twisted lace framed the perimeter. In black and white, the silhouette of a male and female laid below the title. Inside were personal ads from men and women advertising for mates. One folded page contained an ad circled in red. An advertisement my Grandmother had placed to find a husband. Imagine that, she had found Grandfather through a magazine published in May, 1929! A marriage certificate inside the back cover was dated June 14, 1929. Less than 30 days from the issue date. I was stunned! Shocked! The more things changed, the more they became the same. Just fancier presentations, and a personal computer instead of a magazine.

With a final box remaining, I was ready to be finished. Ready to clean up the mess and return Grandfather's place into an orderly house. And to have one more item from my list finished; and be one day closer to a return trip home. I had grown weary of the solitude and was ready for companionship.

The final box was light and filled with crumpled newspaper that protected a metal container in the center, shoebox style, only thinner. It was locked and welded shut, with the image of a bird or eagle seared into the upper left corner. The spread wings and talons were scorched into the metal with thick, charcoal colored strokes. I studied the lock in an attempt to open it, without destroying the container. I needed more sophisticated tools than were available.
It was also time for bed, and I hated to leave before discovering its contents, but I figured in the morning I would be fresh, and rested. It would also provide me a challenge for tomorrow. Something different to focus my attention on. Something I needed badly.

In bed, my thoughts returned to the "Sweethearts" magazine as I drifted into sleep.

WEEK 2, DAY 5, THURSDAY

On the porch with coffee, and the metal container in my lap I studied the weld and lock. There had to be a way to open it. To learn what Grandfather thought so precious to seal with a weld. There might be money, or jewels inside. He was not a wealthy man, but always seemed to have cash.
I searched my car trunk, and found a razor knife and a couple screwdrivers.
Back on the porch, I tried to slice through the welded seal and managed a small slit before I pressed to hard and the knife blade busted. The broken tip sliced my index finger as I jerked my hand away. Blood squirted everywhere and sprayed the top of the metal container before I squeezed my finger tight and slowed down the flow. It dripped a trail from my chair to the front door.
Inside the bathroom, I managed to stop the bleeding and wrapped my finger before returning to the porch.
Back outside, the blood trail that was there only minutes before had disappeared! The blood on the metal box had vanished. Removed as if the morning event never occurred! I was confused, at a loss to understand what had taken place.
Upon closer examination of the metal box, the weld had been broken and the lid, slightly ajar. More confused, I opened it carefully while my sliced finger throbbed harder, and harder. It seemed to announce an impending danger.

Inside the metal box, a wooden talisman, about 3 inches high, was hand carved into a figurine with two heads. Down the center of the amulet, was a seam that joined two distinct carvings. On the right, the figurine mirrored a man with no clothing except for a loin cloth, and a nose misshapen and grotesque! The wood was black as if burned by fire.
The left half displayed a human body with the head of a bird. An overpowering beak far out of proportion. It was made of oak, and had been sanded and stained red.

Beside the talisman laid two glass vials of blood! One labeled 'antecedent'; the other, 'attendant'. The 'antecedent' handwriting was neat, orderly and legible. The 'attendant' was shaky with trailing letters like those from an aged person, very aged!

Also in the container were two pouches labeled 'thither' and 'beneath'. The pouches were filled with dirt. The soil labeled 'thither' was black gumbo. The other was reddish like Southern clay.

There were two locks of hair, tightly intertwined into a spiral of black and sandy blond.
Even stranger was a glass cube about the size of a dice, filled with a liquid, smoky substance that clung towards the bottom like a thick jell. In the sunlight it reflected a rainbow of deep maroon-- florescent blue-- and vibrant green. Yet there was no apparent opening or markings on the cube, except at the bottom, a tiny imprint that read U.S. Government.

The final contents of the container was a photographic history of Grandfather from a heel imprint off his birth certificate, to chronologically displayed pictures of his life from birth through death. The top picture was identical to the one found earlier in the kitchen with the person alongside neatly cut, and removed from the image. And directly below that picture was one of myself, taken just prior to my departure for Grandfather's house. There was no way he could of obtained that picture, not yet anyway!

I became more perplexed. Why would Grandfather have kept and protected these items like he had?
A foreboding encircled my head and neck like a hangman's noose. An unnerving perception consumed me with the thought something was about to occur. Something I wanted no part of, or had no choice in! My emotions swung from confusion to FEAR! My brow began to sweat. My palms began to itch.

Without understanding, suddenly, I laid the open container alongside my chair, and moved to Grandfather's rocker. It was comfortable, very comfortable. I rocked until after two p.m....

The following days were cloaked in trance with me placing Grandfathers momentos everywhere inside the house. Each room was transformed into distinct segments of his life.

The living room became a monument to Grandfather's retirement with his recent pictures pasted on every wall, alongside the unknown ones taken from the kitchen table.

The kitchen prepared a tribute to his teenage years.

The spare bedroom bore testimony to his birth and infant era.

And the main bedroom glorified his military years with discharge papers, medals, and uniforms draped across the four walls like insidious wallpaper.
The contents were removed from the metal container and stationed side by side on a shelf taken from the bathroom and nailed opposite the bed. Lined with the pouch of black dirt to the far left, the clay was placed to the opposite right. Next to them the two vials of blood, 'antecedent' alongside the gumbo, and 'attendant' beside the clay. The lock of hair followed 'antecedent', and the talisman followed 'attendant'. The glass cube garnished the centerpiece. Each piece placed with preconceived intent. An intent that was instinctive as well as specific. The complete exhibit was displayed by exact perimeters like those of a historical museum.

Precisely centered below the shelf, the newspaper article from the 48 MIA days was glued to the wall and appeared to fuse with the wallpaper to become a testimonial for the centerpiece mounted above.

Each morning I occupied Grandfather's rocker until after twelve, then worked the afternoon through bedtime stocking and displaying each room individually, and collectively, with everything previously sorted, arranged and displayed in its appropriate setting. A remodeled interior reminiscent of a night gallery created in honor of Grandfather. No item was left undisplayed, and no item was left overlooked.
The empty boxes were taken outside and burned, their ashes tossed into the food cellar.

I no longer was afraid or confused. I no longer counted the days until my departure. I no longer drank my morning coffee and entertained thoughts of Detroit. In fact, I no longer did anything I previously had. There was just a massive compulsion to display Grandfathers place as a mausoleum, so I could return to the rocker and feast myself on natures beauty. Etch its wonderment into my mind. Completely aware of my actions, I could not refuse my addiction or deny the strength that controlled my movement. I was on a mission. An unknown mission I sensed was near conclusion, very near!

WEEK 3

The third week became a melting pot of blurred days, and stormy nights beheld by startling revelations.

The days were redundant, as I sat in Grandfather's rocker and observed nature, looking everywhere, and looking nowhere. I sat perched like a sparrow on a tightwire, half comatose, partially asleep, partially awake. I had stopped eating and drinking, as if to cleanse my body in preparation for a forthcoming ritual. A ritual to be revered with the same propensity as my birth.

The nights however became filled with manifestations. Each evening a storm front approached from the East with tumultuous claps of thunder that shook the house and rattled the windows. Streaks of lightning slashed across a blackened sky and illuminated dark, ominous clouds that hung like an apocalyptic warning. Black clouds laced with gray swirls, that billowed downward towards the Earth, coming closer with each lightning burst.
Pinned on my back in bed, my arms and legs felt restrained, tightly strapped to the four corners of the bed. I couldn't move, couldn't get up, couldn't roll over.

There were soft incantations spoken, church like; led by a single voice, then followed by many in response. Yet muffled beyond recognition. The voices then faded into a deafening silence that engulfed the bedroom with pulsating lights emanating from gigantic billowed clouds. Clouds that lowered themselves towards Earth--towards Grandfather's house--towards his bedroom window. Until they entered without invitation and reformed into a storm inside the house, that hung like a premonition of death against the ceiling. They began to swirl and create their own lightning, which in turn, created pictures, visions of places never visited. Yet I accepted those visions as memories from the past. As an historical glimpse in retrospect. Memories disclosed through pieces of a jigsaw puzzle being assembled inside my head.

Then the clouds would rapidly dissipate inside the room as if their message had been delivered, their purpose accomplished. And I would dream of places and events never witnessed. Of Countries whose people wore strange garments, robes, and spoke in foreign languages not remotely understandable.
Yet the dreams were not nightmares. They did not frighten me, or make me tremble in fear. They were more like educational lessons presented in the manner an attorney would build his case before a Grand Jury. Step by step, bit by bit, each dream included another piece of the puzzle. Another step towards a destination I felt compelled to understand....

In the first dream, a white man was bound naked to a pole inside a grass hut. His feet flush against the dirt floor. His flesh covered with dust. His arms stretched tightly above his head with his wrists securely tied. His face blurred beyond recognition.
The sounds of animal cries wailed through the jungle night until they gave way to pounding drums with bizarre beats from an African tribe.

Five, dark-skinned women entered the hut, their faces painted by bright finger lines of red, green, and blue. The bound man struggled against the ropes, as his eyes pleaded for mercy. His words screamed for forgiveness. But his pleas were ignored by the native women.
Their necks were elongated with tight fitting rings that laid atop each other and had stretched their necks into a gross distortion. Their rings displayed with pride, in a manner that signified stature. As if neck length embellished age, or wisdom.
Their breasts were bared, while a thin cloth twisted around their lower torso to their ankles before exposing bare feet.
They formed a circle around the naked man and started to chant.

In a ritual more sexual than aggressive, they painted the man's body with animal pictures, and images of weapons, and tribal symbols that purified his presence.
Then a sixth woman entered the hut carrying a wooden bowl filled with fresh, animal blood. The others quickly tightened their circle around the man, then stopped, as she walked forward and poured the hot blood across his groin and buttocks. Then lowering the empty bowl to the ground, she danced herself into a sexual frenzy, before milking the naked man until his seed spewed forth into a small basket held by another native. As if to store his semen for a greater purpose. To preserve it for contribution to a greater intent. An intent I could not imagine, or understand!

Then the dreams faded as fast as they arrived only to be replaced the following night with another....Each night, a repetition of the previous with the introduction of another.

In the second one, I was back in the hut with the naked man. Outside the hut, I could hear voices, English speaking. They made a presentation to the tribal leader of grain, or oats. I could hear the commands to unload the food sacks. Then through a slit in the hut, I saw them briefly. They were military men, dressed in uniform, marching in unison as they left the village. They had made their delivery and was returning to base. Then the dream would abruptly end to leave more questions than answers....

In the third dream, the man was still bound inside the hut, but a native woman lifted a bowl of water for him to drink. A reflection of his face began to appear in the bowl, but the water was rippled and I could not make out the image. Then as the water stilled, the image began to sharpen. Started to become clearer. Started to become recognizable. An image I tried to twist away from. An image that shook me with violent tremors. An image that was undeniably my GRANDFATHER!

I bolted from my dream, shaken, as I leapt from the bed only to lose my balance. My restraints had disappeared. I fell to my knees, as tears rolled from my cheeks while Grandfather's image reverberated through my mind like a rifleshot inside an echo chamber. His image was clear and vivid, until suddenly, I entered another trance and instantly settled to a relaxed state....

In the fourth dream, Grandfather was still naked inside the hut, but no longer bound. He was escorted outside, to natives gathered around a huge, open fire. There was a ceremony in progress with grain from the soldiers being mixed with Grandfather's semen, and a dusty powder from the Witch Doctor. The mixture was held above the flames while the natives chanted in prayer, until it liquefied. Then poured into a small cube and sealed by the fire. I recognized the cube. The same one that now rested on the shelf opposite my bed. And the ceremonial words from the Witch Doctor were similar to the ones I heard each night before I dreamed. I never understood the words, or what they meant, but they were always the same. As if that ceremony was being repeated nightly in my bedroom. Performed for a specific reason; for some specific purpose!...

In my final dream I was inside a military base. Inside a laboratory with officials in full military uniform meeting with scientists. They were discussing an untested compound developed to heighten the human senses. A compound created to elevate a soldier into an increased level of sensitivity. A drug that would intensify a humans hearing, their sense of smell, and their reactions to a hostile environment. And combined with wartime and already elevated levels of survival coursing through a soldier's veins, the drug was intended to provide a killing edge. Allow them to anticipate an enemies movement then immediately terminate that enemy with extreme prejudice!

The noncommissioned experimentation needed to be tested. Needed subjects for intense study, for the drugs effect to be measured. A nearby tribe was targeted for testing during that meeting. The drug was mixed with grain and delivered the following day. The same grain that had been fed to Grandfather during his incarceration. The same grain that was mixed with his seed. The same grain the Witch Doctor had added his own local potion to....

The nightly dreams stopped after that, but I remained in my trance during the day, relishing every moment I could spend in MY rocking chair....

WEEK 4

to be continued

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