In the
darkness, an indeterminate time later: a distant, familiar, high-pitched
screech, ever louder. I struggled to activate other senses, but had only the
dimmest impression of being warm and comfortable.
Then, over
the screech, a voice: “Are you going to turn that off or not?”
A female
voice… Yvette’s voice.
My eyes
opened. I was lying in our bed, my arm around her, snuggled close, she facing
away from me, her face burrowed into a pillow. Impeded by curtains, daylight
clamoured for entry.
The
high-pitched screech was my bedside alarm’s. Abruptly, I sat up and turned it
off.
The welcome
familiar sight of our bedroom evoked a loud sigh of relief. It had been a
dream.
“Judging by
that noise,” came Yvette’s voice, partly muffled by her pillow, “you slept
well.”
I looked
down on her still form, then leant over to kiss the nape of her neck, elated.
“Not exactly,” I said.
“O,” she
said, stretching. “Bad dreams?” She turned to face me.
On the
verge of responding, I froze: now facing me fully for the first time, Yvette’s
face was not her own but that of a scaly horned demon.
I lurched
out of bed away from her—or it.
The next
instant, I was back in bed, sitting bolt upright, the demon nowhere in sight.
Frantic scanning
of the room confirmed the creature was not there, but also made me realise I
wasn’t in my bedroom—I was alone in another, one I’d never seen before, dimly
lit, compact, sparsely furnished.
Disorientation…
belated realisation…
How much of
what preceded the episode with Yvette was also a dream, I was not willing to
guess, yet I could not shake the feeling that another demon was lurking—nearby.
A mild dull
throbbing on one side of my head eked into awareness. Probing behind my right
ear, my fingertips found a small but sensitive lump. Out of the frying pan, I thought. Had I been clubbed the moment my
chest pain immobilised me? What was I doing here? Where, for that matter, was
here?
Cautiously,
I left the bed, moved toward the door. Almost at once, a figure in the gloom
approached.
In shock, I
halted. As did the figure.
We gazed
fixedly at each other.
Sudden
embarrassed relief flooded me when I realised the dim shape was none other than
my own reflection staring back at me from a floor-length mirror in the central
panel of an old-fashioned dark-grained wardrobe occupying almost the full
length of one of the room’s mud-brick walls.
Wanting
more light, I moved to the window and peered between the dark curtains. I
squinted as bright daylight flooded my eyes.
Outside: a
dense garden with native shrubs and small trees a short distance from the room,
vegetable plots beyond them stretching to a distant row of screening bushes.
Beyond that: the tops of tall native eucalypts. The sky: a rich blue devoid of
clouds, with no sign of recent storms.
How long
had I been unconscious?
Long enough
for my bladder to be close to bursting.
I
approached the door again, and discovered beside it neatly laid out clothes
atop a plain wooden chair. Still naked, I could not help but wonder if they
were intended for me to wear. I inspected them—they were about my size, but
odd. None had any brand insignia except on washing instruction labels, all of
them unfamiliar. The maroon shirt had a soft collar, wider than any I’d seen,
and buttons made of an eye-catching material which reminded me of quartz. The
dark green trousers seemed to be made of coarse wool. The shoes were clearly
leather, but slip-ons, and with pointier toes than anything I’d seen since my
earliest memories of my father’s collection. And the well-worn and heavily
patched woollen jumper looked like a refugee from a child’s kaleidoscope, with
more colours than could be counted and no discernible pattern. I’d never had
much dress sense but this combination struck me as deranged.
With the
alternative being naked, I chose deranged. The clothes were a neat fit, but
looked every bit as ridiculous on me as I expected. The person who had selected
them, I decided—gazing dubiously at my reflection—could not be a woman. Perhaps
a vision-impaired clown… who’d skipped his medication… while on a bender.
My bladder
compelled me to abandon these thoughts. I grasped the door handle—an unusual,
almost square, wooden type—and turned it.
Then I
hesitated. Is this such a wise move? What if I’m in the hands of the demon? Or
someone else with nefarious purposes? Should I simply walk into their arms in
meek surrender?
I left the
door closed and moved to the window. After easily and silently removing its
fly-screen, I opened the window and started clambering over its metal frame.
But one leg out, the other in, my trousers hooked onto something.
I tried to
free them, only to hear footsteps approaching from the other side of the door.
More feverish attempts failed to explicate my trousers, as a gentle knock at
the door sounded, and was soon repeated. Straddled across the window frame,
fidgeting frantically, I watched helplessly as the door opened.
A man—not
some denizen of hell—took one step into the room, saw me, and stopped. No more
than thirty years old, he was tall and muscular, with piercing grey eyes.
Brutally short eyebrows and lashes matched the conciseness of his haircut. His
clothes were more conventional than those I wore, and far more subdued in colour.
“Are you so
desperate for fresh air?” he asked, softly, his accent similar to the demon’s
though his voice was not as deep. He strolled into the room, smiling, casual.
If he intended it to be reassuring, it wasn’t working. “I thought I heard you
rustling about. How are you feeling?”
I didn’t
know what to say. Physically, I felt fine, apart from the throbbing behind my
ear. I was no longer tired. But I was disoriented and confused, and not sure if
this person could be trusted; or if I wasn’t again in some dream, with him
about to turn into another demon. I groped for words, but only odd noises came
out.
Was it
concern I saw in the man’s expression? Or its masque? “Are you all right,
Ernest?” he said.
I performed
a classic double take. Initially thinking to answer the question, I was suddenly
hit by the significance of his last word, and blurted it out myself: “Ernest?!”
It was his
turn to struggle for a reply.
Hesitancy
vanished as I forcefully defended my identity. “Steven,” I said, redundantly
pointing to myself. “My name is Steven.”
“You don’t
say,” he said, lightly but with a distinctly disbelieving tone. “How come
you’ve always let me call you ‘Ernest’?”
“But we’ve
never met before,” I objected, my disorientation and confusion steadily
increasing. My need to urinate also prompted much fidgeting atop the window
frame.
“Who are
you kidding?” he retorted, a fresh smile bursting across his face. “How could
you forget me?”
Mutually
stupefied moments later, he must have decided I had forgotten him. His smile vanished, and he pointed at himself.
“Wilbur. Remember?”
I shook my
head in disbelief. “I’ve never met you. How can you say you know me?” I felt on
a knife edge, ready to panic and crumble.
Perhaps
recognising my parlous state, he became cautious and conciliatory. “Why don’t
you come down from the window? We can move to the living room and have a cup of
tea. Clear your head. After all, you’ve been through quite a bit.”
That set me
going. “You know? How? What has been
happening to me? Tell me.”
“All in
good time,” he said, soothingly. “First let’s move to the living room and get
more comfortable, eh?” Smiling cautiously, he moved sideways and beckoned to
the door with an outspread arm. Despite my state, I was momentarily distracted
by an unusual, ornate, golden bracelet dangling from his wrist.
The
possibility of an explanation of recent events whetted my curiosity, yet still
I felt wary of this ‘Wilbur’—if that
was his real name. For all I knew, he could have been part of a larger
masquerade meant to confuse me further. If so, it was succeeding admirably.
Still,
there was no better option presenting itself. And the need to relieve myself
was pressing. So I decided to accept his offer.
I swung my
leg back from outside the window, and stepped away from it—only to belatedly
realise that the motion must have somehow achieved effortlessly what my
struggles had been unable to accomplish: the trousers were no longer attached
to the frame.
Wilbur led
me through a short hallway towards a large room. His gaze never left me, but he
said nothing.
I noticed
several other doors in the hallway, one of them to a room obviously small
enough that it had to be a toilet—I pushed it open hurriedly and rushed in,
muttering, “Be with you in a minute.” (Depictions and descriptions of sex
abound in the media, often justified because it’s a natural part of life, yet
other equally natural bodily functions receive no such attention. Greater
consistency would lead to the event which followed being described in a similar
style, perhaps something like: Frantically, I unzipped and extracted my
feverish organ. I didn’t think twice about it, I just pointed it at the bowl
and let nature take over. Almost at once, a rush of golden liquid erupted,
crashing onto the porcelain with animal violence. The sensation of my
fingertips gently grasping and directing my manhood was electric. A soft moan
left my lips, unbidden, as relief surged through me…)
Even with
everything else crowding my mind, including that unique sense of liberation
that comes with the emptying of a bursting bladder, peculiarities of the toilet
took my attention: there was no water in the bowl which had a tilting lid at
its bottom, the cistern was no more than a tenth normal size, and the flush
lasted only a second or two—it reminded me of some outdoor toilets I had used,
only more sanitary. But I did not dwell on it.
Wilbur was
on the kitchen side of a wide bench when I found him, setting up cups. I kept
my distance, in the adjoining lounge.
“Why don’t
you sit down while I prepare your tea?” he said, beckoning to a large sofa.
“Could you
make mine a coffee,” I said, making no move to sit. “I don’t drink tea.”
A lingering
surprised look gave way to a nod. “Of course. How do you like it?”
“I thought
you said you knew me,” I probed.
“I do.”
“But not so
well that you’ve ever made me coffee before?”
“You’ve
never wanted one before, Ernest. You’ve always drunk tea.”
“Steven.
Remember? No, apparently you don’t or else you’d know I don’t like tea. Are you
going to tell me what’s going on?”
“When we’re
seated and comfortable. Please be patient.” A short pause and an ostensibly
benevolent gaze later, “Now, how do you prefer your coffee?”
I told him.
He prepared our drinks, while I roamed the room: a large bright central space
dominated by wide floor-length windows on two sides. One set of windows
overlooked the back garden and adjoined a narrow verandah with timber decking,
three cane chairs, a small low wooden table, and a pergola covered by a
concise, very abundant grapevine. Beyond the other set of windows, which let in
most of the room’s light, was a line of dense screening shrubs about three
metres high. Of the adjoining rooms, the door of only one was open. Through it
I could see a neat desk, filing cabinet, and a narrow high bench covered in
white cloth. Feigning nonchalance, I wandered closer and looked in. Near the
desk was a stethoscope, a blood pressure meter, and other medical equipment,
including several unfamiliar electronic gadgets. A diploma hung on the wall,
the recipient’s name emblazoned boldly: Wilbur Edmonds.
That explains it, I thought. He was a doctor. No wonder my
sense of conspiracy.
But if this
was a private practice in his own home, how strange the room was not more
isolated. Patients would need to move through the living room to reach his
office. And where was reception? Or the receptionist for that matter? My mind
abuzz with questions, I distractedly put my hand to the lump behind my ear and
rubbed it.
“Is that
lump bothering you, Ernest?” said Wilbur, filling a bright silver kettle with
water.
“Steven,” I
shot back with irritation.
He looked
at me, blank-faced, before turning off the tap. He put the cord-free kettle on
the bench, and pressed a button near its base. A tiny light lit up on its side.
“Is it
bothering you?” said Wilbur in the same calm voice as before.
“It hurts,”
I said. “A little. If that’s what you mean.”
“There’s no
fracture of the skull, but you’ll probably be a little sore for a day or two
until the swelling reduces. Best if you take it easy for a while, to minimise
the effects of any concussion.”
That took
me by surprise. “Do I have concussion?”
“It’d be
consistent with your injury. Although amnesia wasn’t expected.”
“Amnesia!?”
He gave me
another of his lingering looks. “You don’t know your name. And you’ve forgotten
me. Sure seems like amnesia.”
“I’d like a
second opinion on that.” He seemed a little taken aback by the remark—had I
offended his professional pride? Wondering if this was a common event for him
given his relative youth and what must have been limited medical experience, I
surprised myself by trying to ease his discomfort. “Nothing personal. For all I
know you’re the best doctor in the world, but I know my memories are real.”
Wilbur’s
expression grew more ambiguous. A moment’s hesitation later: “Of course a
second opinion can be arranged if that’s what you want. But I can see no other
explanation for your loss of memory.”
“Look,” I
said, perhaps more loudly than was warranted. “I don’t know what this is all
about, but I do not have amnesia. My
name is Steven Stone, and I do not know
you.”
Another
lingering look but no words.
I turned
away from him in frustration, and my gaze fell on an object plugged into a wall
socket—it looked like a phone recharger. Inspiration struck. I could kill two
birds with one stone by phoning Yvette: not only could I stop her from needless
worry by telling her what had happened, and that I was at least in one piece,
she could confirm my identity to Wilbur.
“Can I use
your phone?” I said, my voice suddenly enthusiastic.
“Phone?” he
said, obviously surprised, then suddenly sure. “O, you mean… Of course.”
He put his
hand in his shirt pocket, extracted something, and passed it to me. It was
small and rectangular like most phones, not as slim as most, and with unusually
precise square edges. It also had no brand name or model number, nothing
visible at all, a completely black object. The only thing that distinguished it
from being a smaller version of the monolith from 2001 A Space Odyssey was a small socket at one end—for recharging
presumably—and a slight difference in texture distinguishing front from back. I
tapped its front, but it stayed blank. Seeing nothing else to press to activate
it, I turned it over and around, struggling to figure out how to use it. “How
do I…?”
Wilbur held
out his hand, with a quizzical but concerned expression, and I passed the
“phone” to him. He took it, tapped the back
of it lightly with a finger, and returned it, watching me studiously the whole
time.
On the
phone’s now lit screen, I could see several app icons, one of an old fashioned
handset. I tapped it and a number pad appeared under an address book icon. I
tapped in Yvette’s mobile number, but when it rang through, all I heard was an
auto-message suggesting there was no such number and that I should check it
before trying again. Ignoring the advice, I tapped the same familiar number,
more carefully, a second time. The result was the same.
“This is
impossible,” I said. “I dial that number all the time.”
“Perhaps
your amnesia has confused you,” replied Wilbur. “You could check for the number
in the directory. Assuming it’s not private.”
“Directory?
For a mobile number?!”
Wilbur’s
quizzical expression did not last long. “Perhaps if I show you.” He stretched a
hand for the phone.
I hesitated
before passing it to him, but then watched as he tapped it to bring up the main
screen.
“This is
the app,” he said, pointing at an icon I didn’t recognise. “Just enter a
person’s full name in it, then tap search.”
He handed the
phone back to me, and I followed his instructions, but the two search results made
no sense. “What sort of phone numbers are these?” I said angrily. There were
two digits too many! “And where’s Wunsa Pond?” With a deep frown, confused
beyond imagining, I turned to Wilbur and thrust the phone back to him.
He pocketed
it then indicated two steaming cups. “Perhaps we should take this on the
verandah. It’s perfect weather for it.”
“Sure,” I
muttered, my mind overwhelmed yet relieved to have a distraction. “Whatever.”
We walked
together to the verandah, sat down on the cane chairs, and drank. Judging by
the shadows and temperature, it was early afternoon.
Confused as
I was, I could not help admiring the view from the porch. In the background
were nearby wooded hills, about all I could see beyond the perimeters of the
yard other than occasional tall eucalypt trees. I wasn’t sure but I thought the
screening hedge at the far end of the yard had a discontinuity, a section at
one corner where it ended and re-started further out.
My
attention was further taken, if briefly, by the garden’s abundance of spring
colour. Birds chirped merrily all around, flitting into view to sip nectar from
a profusion of large native flowers giving off delicate familiar scents.
Insects hovered, bees buzzed, flies pestered. It almost seemed like home, but I
was not in a state that permitted me to relax and enjoy it for more than a few
distracted moments.
Perhaps the
coffee cleared my head though, because after several sips, I suddenly realised,
with considerable surprise, that I hadn’t so far thought of asking the obvious
question. “Where am I anyway?”
“My name’s
not ‘Anyway’,” replied Wilbur, straight-faced. When he saw me frown and narrow
my eyes as response, he continued with obvious discomfort. “Just trying to
relieve the tension with a little joke.”
“I’d like a
second opinion on that, too,” I replied sourly.
He showed
no sign of offence, merely took another sip of tea before answering. “I suppose
even if you don’t remember this place, you must have deduced it’s where I
live.”
“Which is
where exactly? What city?”
“Chord, of
course.” My expression must have reflected my puzzlement—soon he repeated the
name. “Chord. Jibilee locality.”
“Locality?”
His terse
nod gave nothing away.
This made
no sense. I’d never heard of Jibilee or Chord. Or, for that matter, localities.
We had shires and towns and cities, most local government electorates had
wards, and churches had parishes, but what the hell was a locality? “Okay,
let’s try it from another angle. This is Australia, right.”
His eyes
widened, clearly surprised by the question. But just when I thought he was
going to say otherwise, he said, “Yes. Of course it is.”
In other
circumstances, this would have been the most unremarkable piece of information
imaginable, but hearing it then and there I almost breathed a sigh of relief. I
pushed on. “Victoria?”
His
surprise mounted. “Dianne’s daughter? What about her?”
“Not
funny,” I moaned. “Victoria! The smallest mainland state. South-east corner.
What am I doing telling you this? You must know!”
“Yes, Ern—”
He stopped himself in time to smile wanly, then, with obvious emphasis,
“Steven. Yes, we’re on the south-east corner of the continent, but the region’s
name is Hillbeach. Australia doesn’t have states.”
An alarm
inside my head erupted. Previous desperate theories about my predicament paled
beside the one now springing to mind: had I shifted to an alternate universe?
With different suburb names? And phone numbers? Blame it on all the sci-fi I’d
read and seen, but it was hard not to form a similar conclusion given Wilbur’s
responses to my o so simple questions. Even so, it was not a conclusion I could
accept. A conspiracy to delude me seemed more plausible if no less explicable.
“This is
some kind of joke,” I exclaimed. “Right? Friends and family are going to leap
out from behind the house and yell ‘surprise’ any minute now. Okay, well,
you’ve all had your fun, but I’ve cottoned onto you now, so why not drop the
charade? Australia doesn’t have states—very funny!”
He looked
long and hard at me: his expression—instead of relenting and breaking into a
prankster’s satisfied grin like I hoped—grew more concerned. Indeed, I thought
I saw doubt creep across his face. “Everything I said is true, Ern— Steven.
Where do you think you are?”
I grappled
for an answer, then plummeted into a daze. “Somewhere near Melbourne, I
suppose.”
“Melbourne?!”
His expression was one of mild incredulity.
“Melbourne!
Capital of Victoria,” I blurted out, my frustration blossoming into anger. The
prank was definitely starting to outstay its welcome. “For god’s sake, it’s the
second largest city in the country.”
He did not
reply, but his expression gave me the impression he was contemplating which
mental health service had the most to offer me.
“But…,” I
began before realising I had nothing further to add. Could he possibly be
serious? If he was acting, it was an impressive performance.
“It would
seem you do not have a simple case of amnesia after all,” said Wilbur, sipping
quietly on his tea.
“It’s not
amnesia. I’m telling you the truth.”
“You’re
telling me what you believe is the
truth, but they are clearly false memories. Probably filling in the void of
your amnesia.”
“That’s
ridiculous. I don’t have amnesia. And I know who I am. And where I come from.”
“Perhaps
you should fill me in.”
“I told
you. Steven Stone. I live in Melbourne—an outer suburb anyway. What I don’t
know is how I got here! Wherever here
is!”
Wilbur
hesitated before saying, “What is the last memory you have before waking?”
It was then
my turn to hesitate. If this wasn’t all some elaborate put-on, I must have
already seemed unhinged to Wilbur, and my case would certainly not improve if I
answered his question with, “O nothing much—I just ran into a demon.” It was
all starting to seem like a dream anyway, and surely it had been a dream, so why mention it? Besides, even
without the demon, the rest of the story was going to be hard enough for him to
believe.
“All
right,” I said, sullenly. “This will probably seem just as ridiculous to you as
it does to me, but I was at home in bed at night, then all of a sudden, a flash
of lightning blinded me, and when I could see again, I was somewhere in the
wilderness in the daytime, naked and alone. And
exhausted. I found a road and walked for maybe an hour, before I felt a
tremendous pain in my chest, then I must have lost consciousness. The last
thought I had was that I was having a heart attack.”
“Hmm,” said
Wilbur, after an inordinate silence. I could not tell what he was thinking—his
blank-faced expression gave nothing away. I
certainly wouldn’t want to play cards with him, I thought. After another
deep silence, he continued. “Well, at least you should be pleased to hear
there’s no evidence of a heart attack.”
I took a
while to digest the information. “That’s some consolation,” I finally said, “I
suppose.”
“You
remember nothing else?”
“A few
other things. Minor details like the weather, crossing a creek, some animals I
saw.” Another long still silence. “You think I’m making it up, don’t you?”
“Frankly, I
don’t quite know what to think. But though it may have seemed real to you, the fact
that I remember you as Ernest convinces me that at least some of it was not real. More probably, you have simply mistaken a
dream as real.”
“It was not a dream!”
“Can you be
sure? Some dreams can be very life-like.”
More confused
than ever but irritated by his calm surety that I was not who I knew I was, I
responded angrily. “Who knows! Maybe I’m dreaming right now.”
He ignored
this completely. “Were there dream-like aspects during your walk?”
The face of
the demon sprang to mind, and then the vague familiarity of the landscape.
Doubt crept into my head, and I responded more calmly. “There was a sense of some things being similar
but different—exaggerated—like in a dream. But still it felt more real than any
dream I’ve ever had.”
“Was it at
any stage surreal or hallucinatory?”
“No,” I
answered loudly. “Look, for all I know I did hallucinate the whole thing. I’ve
thought of any number of unlikely explanations—including being slipped
hallucinatory drugs—but none of this makes any sense to me. Even if you told me
right now it’s all just some sort of grand prank, I can’t think why anyone
would go to such extremes to trick me. And if I dreamed of being Steven when
I’m actually Ernest—and I know I’m not
Ernest—then why wouldn’t I recall knowing you? Or this house?”
“I would
assume the bump on your head has prompted a very extensive form of amnesia.”
I could not
think what to say. His explanation was starting to make sense, even though I
had the strongest feeling that it was simply wrong. Another long deep silence
ensued, with Wilbur and I both lost in thought. As much to break the silence as
anything, I finally asked, “After I lost consciousness, how did I get here? And
don’t tell me I sleepwalked.”
Wilbur
hesitated before replying, only briefly, but for an instant his poker-face
seemed to waver with uncertainty, filling me with suspicion. “I don’t know exactly
how you arrived here. There was a knock at the door late yesterday afternoon,
and there you were lying on the doorstep, unconscious, with no one else in
sight.”
Astounded
that I’d been unconscious for the better part of a day, but even more
disappointed that this only further heightened the mystery, I reacted with
sarcasm. “Was I in a picnic basket, wearing a nappy, with a note from my mother?”
Thinking of the demon, I massaged the lump behind my ear. “And why did she bash
me on the head?”
“I’m not
sure anyone bashed you. After you lost consciousness, you may simply have fallen
onto a rock.”
“Why didn’t
you put me in hospital for observation? Instead of just putting me to bed.”
“Your
injury’s not that severe. There was certainly no indication it would cause
amnesia.”
“It is not
amnesia! How many times— ?”
“Please
calm down. No doubt, this is all very disorienting for you, but I’m sure things
will sort themselves out soon. When you look back on it, it’ll seem like a
storm in a molehill.”
“A what?!”
I said, feeling even less calm.
“A storm in
a molehill. You know, like making a mountain out of a teacup.”
“Is this
another joke? Or is English not your first language?”
“It isn’t
actually.” Wilbur put his now empty cup on the table, and looked me steadily in
the eye. “If you’re feeling well enough to take a short walk, there’s something
that may be of value for you to see. Would you be willing?”
I
hesitated, half expecting this to be another trick, some new development in the
masquerade. But then I realised there was little point refusing. It was not
like staying put had anything to offer. On the other hand, following Wilbur would
probably give me my best chance of gleaning some hidden truth from some
overlooked detail in the conspiracy. Yes, I was starting to think in terms of
conspiracy, even if it was a grandiose word to describe what was surely just
some outrageous and unwarranted practical joke. Why it was being played on me I
had no idea, but what else could I
think without accepting that something strange and unknown had befallen me. I
certainly did not want to think any further about Wilbur’s explanation—that I
was not who I knew I was.
“Why not,”
I finally said. “What is it you want to show me?”
He stood.
“You’ll see for yourself when we arrive.”
Somehow,
that did not seem reassuring.
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Chapter 3![]() |