It’s not too late.
The night sky glimmered through White Raven’s translucent wings. Was she an optical delusion? You outshine the moon,he said. She didn’t respond… Or rather, her only response was the whisper of her flight beside his gliding kayak.
Jen’s kayak, Buddy remembered
Half way across the lake, he noticed a faint incandescence a few points north. He inflected his paddle just enough to correct course, heading straight for this mysterious, submerged florescence. He couldn’t tell how far off it might be. Was its welling due to an increasing intensity, or was he getting too close?
We think of light as something visible, Barnstrum observed, materializing, seated cross-legged like a swami on the foredeck. But actually, all sensation is a variation of touch. Frequencies of light touch our eyes, et voila! we see; the thrum of sound waves vibrate our eardrums—we hear; the chemistry of scent and taste tickles our nasal passages and activates our taste buds, and...
What are you talking about?
Everything! Barnstrum affected amazement. Everything you thought you’ve ever known. Every sensation you’ve ever taken to be real.
“Oh for god’s sake!” Buddy lamented.
Just thought you might be interested.
He is right, of course, Steam Donkey John intervened from behind, seated on the aft deck, Buddy supposed. Inappropriately so, as is his way.
Barnstrum pouted.
What is this? A convocation of ghosts?
Spirits, White Raven chided. And Steam Donkey is right about Barnstrum being right. Unless you see through it, everything you’ve ever experienced and every conclusion you’ve come to based on what you’ve experienced remains an illusion.
I wish you would refrain from calling me ‘Steam Donkey’ without my given name appended, Steam Donkey John complained.
Thanks for that, White Raven, Buddy sighed, paddling on, stroke by stroke through the thickening resistance of the night.
The others floated along with him, tracking toward the iridescent beacon by its shimmering pathway on the water.
Music! Faint at first, but unmistakably Chinese, the twanging vibrations of a pipa darting over the lake, each note a distinct, intriguing call, like the fleeting cries of an exotic bird.
“So that’s just meaningless vibrations I’m hearing?” Buddy challenged.
Ah! Barnstrum countered excitedly. You’ve made my point by missing it.
You… he paused for effect… are thinking flesh, here to discover meaning in the cacophony of raw experience!
Thinking flesh? Raw experience?
Your spirit, man! Your spirit! Barnstrum pleaded. Our search for meaning IS THE MEANING of life. And surely, for you, that quest isn’t over! Without consciousness, nothing exists. The universe vanishes.
We defy entropy!
Annoyed, Buddy zeroed in on the throbbing light. It had resolved into the form of a floating coffin, drifting serenely on the lake. Well, he corrected, it would be serene except for the fireworks and music spilling out of it.
As they approached, its effulgence became harsher—a tumult instead of a symphony, high beams instead of an enticing glow. Buddy stopped paddling, the kayak’s momentum carrying it toward the blaring casket.
You like, said the incandescent figure inside.
Hong Hing?
The spectre didn’t respond, but, squinting, Buddy could just identify the ancient merchant’s features, laid out—white on white—in the pleated interior.
You bring offering? the apparition demanded, not bothering to look Buddy’s way.
Offering?
For me to share in house of my ancestors?
Got money? Hong Hing prodded, sensing Buddy’s confusion.
Buddy reached into the kayak’s cockpit, retrieving the neoprene, watertight bag where he stowed his personal effects and rummaging inside it for his wallet.
Five dolla, Hong Hing encouraged.
Okay, Buddy laughed.
Retrieving his mobile from the bag, he flicked on its light and found a five-dollar bill in his wallet. Now what?
Throw into casket. Phone too! Hong Hing instructed. You no need.
“But all my photos,” Buddy bridled. “My messages and emails.”
Who care? Hong Hing snapped.
Buddy stared at his mobile, puzzled, almost as if he expected a message to pop onto its screen, explaining his situation… or a metallic, algorithmic voice to pipe up. That he didn’t need the phone was true, of course. He was out of range and would never receive a signal via its mysterious circuitry again. Why shouldn’t he part with it?
I keep in touch. Hong Hing coaxed. Send texts and greetings from house of my ancestors.
Buddy couldn’t tell if the spectre was joking. “I won’t be here to receive them,” he argued. “Besides, you’ll have my phone.”
No matter. Throw in casket.
“Thank you for being my friend, Hong Hing,” Buddy said. “Thank you for the lesson you taught Harry and the lessons Harry has taught me. And thank you, White Raven, and you, Steam Donkey John, and you—pain in the ass that you are—Frederick Barnstrum.”
Before Hong Hing could command him again, Buddy crumpled the fiver and tossed it, followed by his mobile.
The bill ignited mid-air, plummeting like a fiery comet through the space where Hong Hing’s now deteriorating vision had been, burning up before it hit the water. Then the phone plopped into the liquid darkness too, fluttering down, down, its light swivelling desperately, looking for something to give shape and meaning to the remorseless deep.
Buddy watched, aghast.
Then, slowly at first, like the air at the periphery of a hurricane, the lake stirred. The spot where Hong Hing’s casket had been became the pyrotechnic axle round which this ponderous momentum built, spinning at an exponentially quickening rate, faster, faster, until it became a blur, its extravagant light a swirling rainbow, its tendrils of memory spiralling down like the whorls of a galaxy into the inexorable, annihilating gullet of gravity.
White Raven, Steam Donkey John, Barnstrum, too, disappeared into its voracious maw, their last glimmerings extinguished, along with Buddy’s anguished cry…
Then Buddy came-to. Alone, drifting listlessly on the lake, its ponderous current carrying him further and further into his new unknown.
Next: Running on empty