MIRRORS OF THE SOUL

Chapter 5:  That Which Is

He smiled.  A large white pigeon with brown markings was wandering in a seemingly irregular pathway toward a distant doorway he'd never really seen before.  He, however, knew that what seemed irregular to
uneducated minds really had a most unique, mathematical pattern to it. No one was about.  He chuckled.  Maybe he couldn't study a dozen patterns on the kitchen counter, but he surely could study one here in the hallway!
********************
Himself heard the click of new footsteps on the glass.  He didn't want to look, didn't want to see which of his characters would be the next to fall prey to the madman who held him captive behind the two-way mirror.  He didn't want to look...but he did.

"Noooo," he sighed silently, for his mouth was still gagged. "Not... Nash!"  He squeezed his eyes tightly shut a long moment, thinking of Nash in a place like this, a place where truth was rammed with unforgiving force down the throat or else distorted into some devious weapon of destruction.  What did the hooded figure have planned for the mathematician?  A shudder took him and then...quietly...he opened his eyes, needing to see what might happen on the other side of the glass wall.

Nash seemed fascinated by the room, by the patterns of reflections reflected and then rereflected over and over.  His chin was slightly tipped upwards and he turned in small circles as he walked, a little smile playing at the corners of his lips.  "Oh, God," Himself moaned inwardly, "he...likes...it."  

He had been so focused on Nash, he'd not noticed that the cloaked man stood now just to the left of his chair.  "He should have gotten the Oscar, you know," the rather oddly raspy voice pronounced.  "He's very good."

Himself turned, looking at the figure, unable to see anything but the side of the forward-hanging hood that obscured the face.  Brow creased in a frown, Himself, had he been able, would have rejoined, "He's...me."

Turning only slightly, still keeping his features in deep shadow, the figure continued. "Oh, I know you're thinking that it's you and not him who should have gotten the golden statuette.  After all, you created him, right?  Whilst he is just...himself." He laughed, patting his captive's arm.  "Or is it you who is...Himself?"  He gestured around the Gallery. "And look!  Every one of them will be bringing you a statue!" Again he patted the arm.  "Are you not pleased? Are you not... entertained?"

Himself pulled hard at his bonds to no avail.  "Now, now....you are my guest.  Be still. It's time for the show to begin."  And saying that, he was gone.

Stopping his vain struggles, Himself turned his gaze back to Nash just as Charles appeared in the mirror on the far side of the Hall.  

"Charles!" Nash said delightedly.  "Are you looking for Terry and the others, too?"

"Buggerme," Charles grinned, tipping one shoulder down a bit in that rakish way he had of holding his extraordinarily long, lean body.  "I was just tagging along after you, my old friend.  Has someone gone missing?"

"There was a note from Terry on the door at the top of the stairs.  Said he was looking for Cort and Hando."

Charles looked completely mystified.  "Terry?" he repeated.  "Never heard of him."

"Come on, Charles.  TERRY!  You know Terry."

Charles shrugged offhandedly.  "Nope."

Nash frowned.  Sometimes Charles' sense of humor was quite unfathomable.   He decided to ignore Charles' statement and continued with, "Did you see any signs of Cort or Hando?"

Charles straigtened the lines of his eyebrows over his pale eyes and puckered his lips a bit.  "Rather odd names for grad students, don't you think?"

Nash sighed, not dignifying Charles' continuing joke with an answer. "Well, will you please keep an eye out for them?"

Just then little Marcee skipped up beside Charles, beaming at Nash.  Instantly his demeanor changed, a large smile forming on his face as he returned her look. "What'cha doin', Uncle John?" she asked.  

"Looking for some friends," he replied, walking up to the mirror and placing the wide-spread fingertips of both hands on it, studying it.

"I'm your friend, Uncle John, " she piped brightly.

"Yes, yes, you are, Marcee," he said, now tapping his fingers on the glass.  He licked his lips.  "How did you get over on that side?" he asked, tapping harder.

"What side?" she inquired.

"Over there...where you and Charles are standing.  How did you get over there?"

"We're not 'over' anywhere, Uncle John.  What do you mean?"

He began to feel a little agitated and his fingers made small, figety movements on the glass.  Then Parcher walked up on the other side of Marcee, adjusting the angle of his dark hat when he stopped.  "Hello, John," he said, his voice low, knowing.

John nodded a bit jerkily.  "William," he acknowledged.  

Parcher fixed him with a steady gaze.  "Why are you here, John?"

"I...I'm looking for my friends."

"Friends? Which friends?" Parcher asked suspiciously, looking from side to side.

"Other characters," Nash explained.  "Other Crowe characters."

Parcher cocked one eyebrow.  "Characters?"

"You know, from Himself's movies.  Characters."

Charles and Parcher exchanged meaningful looks.  Nash noticed. "Terry," he spluttered, "and Cort and Hando.  And Steve's camera equipment was in the hallway so he's probably down here, too. Characters," he said again.  "Like me."

Parcher ran the pad of his thumb slowly back and forth over his lower lip, studying Nash.  "What do you mean, John, 'like me'?"

"From the movies, William, for God's sake!  You know exactly what I mean!"

"No, John, no...I'm afraid I don't."

Nash looked a bit desperately at Charles.  "Tell him, Charles! Tell him how sometimes you're Charles and sometimes you're Stephen."

Both Parcher's and Charles' eyes widened considerably.  Nash began hitting his forehead with the edge of his right hand, his lips working as he muttered something to himself under his breath.  Charles looked really concerned. "John, he said soothingly, "you know I'm your friend. Right?"

John nodded.  "Why would I leave you and become someone else?  Why
would I do that?" Charles continued.

"Be..because...sometimes...Jack needs you.  Or...or...someone is hurt...and...."

"Who's this Jack?" Parcher interrupted, looking at Charles.  Charles shrugged, shaking his head.  

"Jack." Nash said, his voice a bit shaky now.  "The Captain.  He's always wanting you to be Stephen.  Always taking you away from me to do some dumb stupid thing like play your cello."

"You know I can't play the cello, John," Charles replied.

"YOU can't!" Nash fairly snorted.  "But when you're Stephen you can."

"Listen to yourself, John," Parcher said, cutting in harshly.  "Get a grip, soldier!"

John closed his eyes.  Slowly taking in and letting out three deep breaths, trying to calm his heartbeat, which had started racing wildly. "I'm...fine," he said.  "I'm just looking for my...friends.  That's all. Looking for my friends."  He raised his head, meeting Charles' eyes.  "You know what I mean.  I know you know what I mean."  

Charles blinked back tears, reaching out to grip Marcee's little shoulder.  "What's the matter with Uncle John?" she asked, her lower lip beginning to tremble.

"He's just...confused.  That's all, Marcee.  Nothing to worry about.  Uncle John's just a bit...confused."

"I am NOT confused!" John bellowed.  "Stop saying that!"  He hit the mirror with the side of his fist, startling Charles and Marcee, who took a couple of steps back.

"Will you go get Alicia?" John said tiredly, dropping both hands to his sides.  "I can't do this anymore.  Please just go get Alicia and bring her here."

Parcher stepped up almost to the inside of the mirror.  "Don't you...remember?" he said, his voice sounding truly amazed.

"Remember? Remember what, William?"

"Alicia's not real, John.  You know that. She was never real."

Nash's nostrils flared.  "Now you've gone too far, Parcher," he growled. "Of course Alicia was real in my movie."

"Your...movie?" Parcher gasped.  "What ARE you talking about?"

"The MOVIE, William, the MOVIE!  The one you were in with me!" He pointed then to Charles and Marcee.  "And THEM!"

"John, you need to calm down.  I've never heard of any 'movie'.  All there is is you and me...and Charles and Marcee.  That's all there's ever been.  Just us."

Nash backed up a couple of more steps.  "Alicia WAS in the movie.  She was my student. She came to my office and asked me to dinner and I married her.  She WAS in the movie! I know she was!"

Parcher smiled as though he'd just come to understand something. "Ah," he said, "you mean when you were sitting at your desk with your paper cup and then you bit the edge of it and held it in your mouth?"

"YES!" Nash cried.  "That's when she asked me to dinner!"

Parcher reached into a pocket, producing the cup.  "This cup?"

Nash recognized it.  "That's it," he nodded.  "That's the cup!"

Parcher smiled again, holding the cup up right against the mirror, turning it slightly. "This cup?" he asked again.  Again Nash nodded, seeing his teeth marks on its lip.

Parcher pulled the cup back just a little, tapping a mark close to its lower rim.  "And what would this be?"

Nash looked at the mark.  "It's the recycling symbol," he said. "Everybody knows that."

"John," Parcher said, his voice quiet, level, "there was no recycling symbol in use in 1951."  He looked at the cup and it disappeared in his hand.  "The cup's not real, John. Alicia is not real."

John was too upset by what Parcher was saying to even think that it was, actually, quite often in movies that such anachronisms slipped by eyes that should have been more watchful.  "Verifiable, empirical data, John," Parcher continued.  "No cup...no Alicia."  

John pulled his eyes from Parcher, latching them onto Charles' as though his roomie's pale orbs were life preservers in a sudden storm.  "Charles?" was all he could utter.

Charles shook his head sadly, one tear overbrimming.  "No Alicia," he whispered.  

John bit his lower lip.  "Just you three?  You are all that's real?"

The three in the mirror nodded in unison.  "No characters?" John breathed. "No movies?"

All three shook their heads somberly from side to side.   "Australia?" he tried, getting the same response.  "Franki?"  

Moments later the hooded figure dragged his latest statue into the Gallery. Standing it on its named base, he dusted his hands together. "Yep," he said, "this one shoulda had an Oscar.  He was a real contender.  The title belonged to him." He chortled deep in his throat in an almost gargling sound.  "Wait till I get the real contender down here."  His voice rose a bit with excitement as he walked to Himself, forcing his chin up with a boney finger.  "You got a true champion in that one, you did.  I'll give you that."  He turned and Himself's eyes followed the line of his gaze to where an empty base was graved with the name Braddock.  

"Pigeon droppings?" Ando said in one of her better lines of dialogue.  "Down the hall?"

"Yep!" Biebe said, holding out a small plopping on the eraser end of a pencil. "Definitely pigeon droppings."

As he was, of course, a sheriff, none disputed his ascertations despite the fact that it was well-known that the man was ever so much more familiar with moose droppings.  They were all way too busily being glad that a moose had not just passed down their corridor. But then, even the former Welshwoman knew how rare meese, er, mooses  were in metropolitan Sydney...especially this time of year.

"But why would a pigeon be defecating in the hall of a five-star hotel?" Sue the Vile asked reasonably.  Privately, she thought that if the hotel allowed such happenings,  heaven only knew the state of their phone service.  "Shall we inform the concierge?"

"Um, I wouldn't do that," Alex said hastily.

"You wouldn't? If Himself were here, I'm sure HE would."

"Likely he would," Alex agreed.  He tended to be more cautious about hotels ever since that day in Mexico when he had died so suddenly in one.  "Let's just follow the, um, trail...and see where it leads."

Ando frowned.  Her Hando had been missing for some time now.  Her needs were not being met.  Not at ALL!  She felt...crotchety.  And now she was expected to schlep down a hallway to see where else a BIRD might have dumped?!?

"What are you guys doing?" Laura asked, coming down the hall behind them.  "Have you seen Steve?  I can't find him anywhere."

"Bird poop," Ando announced.

"Pardon?" Laura said, puzzled.

"She means pigeon droppings," Biebe explained, holding out his pencil. "There's quite a trail of them down the hall.  We're following it."

Laura thought seriously for a moment about asking 'why?'...but as it was an epi, such things were to be expected.  So she just repeated her query.  "Have you seen Steve?"

No one had.  "I thought he would be going back to your room after the photo shoot," Berti said.

"Me, too," Laura sighed.  "But the shoot's been over for quite a while now and there's been no sign of him."

"Might as well follow the bird poo with us, then," Ando suggested.  "If you've nothing better to do, that is."  

"Well...." Laura said, starting to turn in the direction from which she had come, avoiding ending her sentence in a preposition since she was, of course, in Berti's presence.  "I think I might just...."

"Oh, come on!" Ando grinned evilly, taking her arm.  "You know following pigeon droppings is right at the top of your 'to do' list!"

And, so, the small clump of cast continued along the hall, led by the carefully-stepping Biebe.  With Ando in their midst, there was no way, alas, that they could avoid rounding the square corner as previous characters had done, and before long they came upon the strange doorway with the post-a-note upon it, the camera equipment so suspiciously abandoned nearby, and the trail of pigeon digestive by-product ending smack dab at its threshold.  

"This is suspicious," Biebe said, looking about at the set-up that had been set up for their arrival.  

"Looks like a set-up to me," Alex offered, his distrust of hotels growing
stronger by the second.

Biebe reached out, resting the fingers of his right hand on the smooth surface of the strange doorway.  

"NO!" cried Buggie, grabbing his arm, pulling him back.  "Don't go in there!"

"Whyever NOT?" Biebe asked.  "Just because Himself has been kidnapped, Cort and Hando have disappeared without a trace, Terry left this note and then vanished,  Steve has strangely left his equipment unattended and has not been seen since, and the pigeon droppings would indicate Nash has been led to his doom....WHY should I not open the door?"

"Oh," Buggie said, bobbing her head a bit.  "I don't know!  I guess there's no real reason you shouldn't open the strange door that didn't seem to be here earlier but has now appeared with all these clues left around."

Biebe smiled confidently.  "I'm sure it will be just fine.  Alex will be right behind me."  So saying, the two men moved toward the doorway. Biebe pushed it open, stepping onto the mesh platform.  "See," he said, turning to look back at Buggie, "I'm...."  The door whammed shut, locking itself before Alex could stop it from his position still in the hallway.  "...fine," Biebe finished, finding himself in pitch blackness.  

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