MIRRORS OF THE SOUL

Chapter 6: The Mirror Cracks

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.  
******************
"No...no...no...," annsmac kept murmuring over and over and over as Bud stood there, holding the woman in his arms.  Luckily, he had caught her before she'd hit the marble tiling of the foyer in Himself's apartment.

"Berti!" Bud frowned slightly.  "You...of all people...should know better than to say a thing like...THAT!"

Berti was genuinely contrite.  When she'd dashed back to the apartment with the news of Biebe's being locked inside the strange doorway, she hadn't really taken the time to think how her phrasing of information might be received by anxious ears.  "And there it lay in the hallway," she'd gasped.  

"What?" Franki had asked quickly.

"The equipment.  It was just lying there....alone," she said.  "No one was anywhere around.  No one.  Just the equipment.  It had obviously been discarded in some hurry."

Annsmac had moaned, turned white, and Bud caught her as her knees buckled. "Could you not be somewhat more free in your use of adjectives?" he asked, eyeing Berti.  It was, indeed, the lack of the descriptive "camera" in conjunction with the word "equipment" that was causing the New Orleansette such anguish of heart and soul.  The mental image she was enduring of Terry's equipment being somehow... disconnected... from his person and lying abandoned amongst the pigeon droppings was more than she could be expected to bear, well, without being cuddled in the arms of Officer White, which did help at least to acertain extent.  

Buggie, however, was standing there, mouth quite agape, staring at the door which had slammed shut behind her beloved's behind.  "Biebe!" she cried, running forward, grabbing the knob.  "It's LOCKED!" She turned, her gaze swingingly wildly from person to person. "It's...it's... locked...," she repeated, her eyes coming to rest on Bud.  "DO something!"

But Bud had his hands, not to mention his arms, full with anguished annsmac, who kept moaning something about equipment detachment, death, and dismemberment. Her brain emitted little sizzling sounds as her mind tried to grasp the concept that Terry's equipment had met not only an untimely, rather seraglioistic, but  most terribly unfortunate end, especially as her future satisfaction levels in epis were concerned. Terry with no...equipment? None?  How would he survive? How would SHE survive? WOULD she survive?  She shuddered violently in Bud's arms.  

 

He looked at the door, frowning. Then he looked at Alex.  Alex was the character most used to carrying women around in his arms, was he not? Bud really wanted to ram himself into that door.  Sure it was a bit of a strange way to entertain oneself, but he had done door-ramming competitively since he was 12.  He was good at it.

"Alex!" he called, holding out annsmac.  Alex, always ready to armhold a woman,  immediately stepped forward.  

"Yes?" he replied, cocking an eyebrow, and looking at the cop as though he had no idea in the world what Bud wanted.  

Without another word, Bud handed annsmac over to Alex, backed up several yards down the hall, and charged like a bull at the door.  *WHAM*   The door buckled inward several inches in its middle, but so did Bud.  Berti walked up to where he lay on his back, one eye looking northwest, the other southeast.  "I'd call that a draw,” she

pronounced, then squatted beside him to tend his dents.
 
Biebe, on the far side of the door since only the Captain got to be on the far side of the world (though, truly, they ALL were on the far side just a bit these days), jumped several inches off the metal mesh when the door bent inwards with a mighty *WHAM*. He knew, of course, that the whamming was Bud-whamming, once having personally witnessed the officer take first place in intramural door ramming in Sweden.  

 

"BUD!" he cried.  But, alas, the door was sound-proofed and the echo of his voice returned unfruitfully to his own hammers, anvils, and stirrups (despite the fact that East was not even nearby at all).

Quickly he discovered the lack of knobbishness on the inward parts of the door and so turned gazing down the spiraling  steps, eyes narrowing with caution as a pale glow shone from around a corner a bit out from the right at their bottom.   He pressed his lips together and ran his right hand thoughtfully over his beard.  Five characters, not to mention Himself, had disappeared most untowardly of late.  Caution was... necessary.  But would it be enough? Probably not, given that this was an epi and all.  

 

Still, he had no recourse BUT the descension of the spiral steps. This could be...probably would be...proven an uncomfortable development for him.  He was experienced in the ways of epis, having been not SO terribly long ago bitten by a wererabbit and tossed off a speeding train. (See: A New Jeopardy)

The hooded figure leaned over Himself.  "I hear him coming," he said, smiling.  

Himself manfully controlled his urge to strain against his bonds, not to mention his urge to pee, having been chairly-attached for some time now.   He hated this! He absolutely hated it!  It was much worse even than when the Rabbitohs did badly.  His eyes turned, studying the five quiet figures of stone on their individual platforms.  Who would be bestoned next?  His heart sank when he saw Biebe step cautiously around the corner and into the mirrored room. Not Biebe!  Then he held his breath as the thought came to him that surely the good-hearted sheriff would not be broken by a bit of mirror-torture. Surely not!

As the last epi had been written a good (and, alas, oftimes not-so-good) six months ago, things had greatly changed in the mind of she-who-sits-at-the-keyboard.  It had begun to seem to her that Mirrors of the Soul was verging on having something all too akin to a plot! Ack, ack, ack! How had such an uncanonical thing happened?  She had NO idea and there was nothing in her brain six months later but the one thought that she must, she simply MUST get them out of Sydney and on the road again as soon as ever it was possibly possible.  Even for her twisted brain, the thought of torturing each and every one of the characters in turn, though delightfully tempting, was a bit wearing.  After all, had she not just tortured Bud most thoroughly, not to mention Maximus?  Well, ok, go ahead and mention Maximus if you like.  She seems to like that. And now that it was time to continue with her continuation, i.e., this very epi 6, she paused long and lengthily at her snow-covered keyboard as she engaged in that rarest of activities....thinking (always and ever a dangerous, dangerous thing when attempted by frozen Pennsylvanians!)

What to do?  What to DO?  How simple it would be to unthink the first 5 epis.  Alas, though they would probably never see the light of day on Enchantments, they HAD been read by a good 50 or so souls as well as Ando, to whom the word "good" all too seldom actually applied.   She was stuck!  Trapped!  She had painted herself into a corner with 5 statues. Now, the thought of being trapped in a corner with Cort, Hando, Terry, Steve, and Nash was, in itself, not a terribly upsetting concept except for the fact that they were stone through and through and, therefore, currently rather useless.  Except maybe to Ando.

With only the VERY vaguest of ideas, she put the brakes on Mirrors, hoping no one would overly mind the few cracks that quietly jagged their way up computer screens around the world.  She went back and reread every epi starting with YOOK, sat at her keyboard, and typed:  

Not Biebe!  Then he held his breath as the thought came to him that surely the good-hearted sheriff would not be broken by a bit of mirror-torture. Surely not! Himself felt his muscles tense, though, as Biebe walked out onto the mirrored floor, wondering what this character of his would find facing him.   Good-heartedness might well not be enough to save him.  

Biebe, comfortable more than any of the others on the slippery, smooth surface, walked about 10 feet into the room as the lights grew steadily brighter around him. He kept a careful eye peeled, though, for possible wererabbit attacks.  Suddenly a dark puck skittered past him, whamming with a loud crack into an unseen surface, then ricocheting to some far corner.

"Missed it, you has-been!" called a voice.

He looked toward a dim shape taking form not far in front of him, squinting, trying to determine its identity.  "I've no stick," he said softly.

"No backbone," the voice came again.  "Old man with no spine anymore."

A light shone on the shape and Biebe saw that it was Judge Burns.  "I didn't see it coming," he defended.

"That's the problem, old man.  You don't see any of them coming any more."

"I didn't realize we were playing hockey down here," Biebe rejoined, irritated.

"You wouldn't.  You're too far gone to know which end is up."

Donna Biebe walked out, joining Burns.  "He's right, you know, John. You never were really any good.   Not at...anything."

Charles Danna stepped out of the shadows, taking Donna's hand in his. "You stayed in Mystery, John, only because you knew you didn't have what it takes to make it in the real world."  He leaned down, kissing Donna slowly, thoroughly.

She melted into him, returning his embrace fully, then turned, still wrapped in Charles' arms, and said to Biebe.  "Why couldn't you be more like him?  Why couldn't you ever be a SUCCESS at anything you did?  I wasted my life staying here in Mystery with you, John.  Wasted it!  I should have gone with Charles...then I'd be...happy."  

Judge Burns spoke up again.  "And now you're all washed up, John.  You never did anything much at all, and now even that's gone.  Done with. Over."  He looked Biebe up and down critically.  "What a failure!"

"Yes," Donna agreed, nodding her head.  "And he can't even write a decent love letter...has to mark words out of someone else's."  Looking at Charles' face, she continued, "Have you ever heard of anything so lame?"

Beads of sweat were forming on Himself's brow as he watched.  He knew they were getting to Biebe, were pouring salt in open wounds.  It looked like everything would be just the same, that within moments a 6th statue would join the others in the gallery where he, Himself, was imprisoned.  It would just go on and on until all his characters were granitized.  The hooded figure smiled, the smell of triumph in his nostrils.  "Like taking candy from a baby," he cooed.

"Not quite," spoke a voice, familiar, yet just a bit different.

The hooded figure jerked his head up, peering sharply through the two-way glass as a man stepped into the light beside Beibe.  Himself, Biebe, and the hooded personage all sized him up.  None of them had ever seen him before.  The new arrival, clad in casual slacks, a white shirt, and slightly dusty shoes, cocked his head, grinning.  He seemed to be aware that the mirrored wall behind him and Biebe was actually two-way as when he stopped walking, he turned his eyes knowingly in that direction and inclined his head just a bit in greeting.  

 

"Grape?" he asked, a chuckle in his voice, as he held out a small purple oval toward the glass.  When only silence met his query, he said, "Oh, well...," and began carefully, studiously to peel the proffered object.

Himself stared at the man, his forehead creasing deeply.  Had his mouth not been so tightly gagged, his jaw would have dropped completely open.  Even the hooded figure seemed quite taken aback and looked several times quickly from the bound Himself to the man down whose gullet the grape now made its peeled way.   The man grinned again, then used his right hand to brush back a lock of rather floppy hair that had fallen across his forehead.  

"Sorry to bust up your party, Harold," he said, his accent unmistakably English. "Well, not actually 'sorry'," he laughed.  

Judge Burns, Donna and Charles had all faded into nothingness, leaving only Biebe and the new arrival to be seen.  The man now raised both his eyebrows and said more seriously, "You're going to have to let them go now.  Himself has a film role coming up and a new character to make. You can't keep him here any longer."

"A new character!" the hooded figure spluttered.  "And who in hell might YOU be?!" He pushed some hidden button and the whole two-way mirrored wall sank into the floor, fully revealing the gallery behind and its contents, both flesh and stone.  

Ignoring the hooded one, the new arrival looked straight at Himself and bowed gallantly from the waist, his eyes dancing with merriment.  "Greetings, Himself," he chuckled, rising from his bow.  "It is way past time that you and I met."

Himself was shaking his head back and forth slowly in disbelief.  This man was obviously, well,....him.  How could this BE? "Mftpplmffghargh!"  he replied.

"Please, Harold.  Take off the bloody gag," the new arrival said levelly, his words not a request, actually, despite his use of 'please.'

For some reason, the hooded figure complied, and Himself stretched his mouth muscles for a second, then licked his lips before attempting speech.  "Who...who ARE you?" he managed.

"Max," the man replied.

"You are NOT Maximus!" the hooded figure snorted.  Himself just looked completely confused.

The man grinned."Has Joimus even ONCE ever referred to the General as 'Max'?"

Both of the still-breathing figures in the gallery thought about that for a moment. Himself's mental gears were whirring in overdrive.  "Max?" he repeated almost under his breath.  "Max?" he said again, slightly louder.

Max nodded, waiting.
 

 

"Max?" Himself said yet once more, staring hard at the man, still shaking his head from side to side.  "It can't be."

"Possibly it could," Max chuckled.

"No," Himself replied.  "I would have had to have been there!"

"Been WHERE?" the hooded figure shouted.  "WHERE?"

Without taking his eyes off Max, Himself said slowly, "Provence.  I would have had to be in Provence."

"PROVENCE!" the hooded figure said in loud disbelief.  "You've been here in these secret chambers under Woolloomooloo for MONTHS now! Of COURSE you were not in Provence!"

"But 'I' was," Max said softly.  "Ridley Scott and I were."

"RIDLEY SCOTT and a MAX!  HA!" laughed the hooded figure in great derision. "Now I know you're a fake! Scott and Max made Gladiator and Maximus is up on the Wharf unknowingly awaiting his turn to become one of my statues."

"I think not," Max rejoined.

"You think NOT!" roared the hooded figure.

"As I said," Max replied softly, making a slight gesture with one hand.
Zack, Egan, Colin, Johnny, Andy, East and Corbett stepped around the
corner from the spiral stairs.  Max smiled at them as they clustered
just behind him.

Zack gripped Biebe's forearm.  "Glad to see you're ok, buddy," he said.

Biebe was still in a bit of shock.  He'd just been emotionally mauled by
whoever that had been in the mirrored wall, and now he found himself
standing beside someone he'd never seen before but who yet looked
remarkably like himself as well as Himself.  "What in thunder is going ON?" he asked, blowing out a big breath.

Colin and Egan moved quickly, gripping the hooded figure by his arms, holding him tightly while East and Corbett untied Himself.  Though now free, Himself remained a long moment still on his chair, rubbing his wrists, staring at Max. "You can't be real," he murmured.  "You can't."

Max moved closer to Himself.  "But I assure you I am."  He placed one of his hands firmly atop Himself's where it rested on the arm of the chair. "Flesh and blood."  Briefly his eyes flicked to the 5 statues.  "Unlike these blokes, I'm afraid."

Andy and Johnny were walking down the row of statues, their mouths open in astonishment.  Johnny reached slowly out, letting his fingers touch Hando's arm. It was hard as rock.  It WAS rock!  He gasped, pulling his hand back, turning to look at Himself as though he might have the wherewithall to alter the situation.  

Himself was, of course, massively concerned with the well-being of the five, yet was still so astounded by the presence of Max that he couldn't take his eyes off him for the moment.  "I...I was...not...in Provence," he said.  "Therefore, you cannot...be."

"Ah, to be or not to be," Max replied, raising his eyes toward the ceiling
a bit overly dramatically.  Seeing his reflection there, he smiled, adding,
"Look up, Himself, look all the way up."

Himself turned his seagreens, following Max's gaze.  A bit of a jolt
went through him as he saw clearly that he, Himself, had changed
during his captivity.  He looked less like Jim than he had.  His hair
was longer, floppier.  He looked remarkably like...Max.  The other
characters, well, those whose blood still coursed through their veins,
also looked ceilingward.

"Wow," Biebe said, then lowered his gaze, looking from Himself to
Max and back again.  "He IS you!"

"He CAN'T be me!" Himself bellowed, rising now from his chair.
He staggered and would have fallen had not Max quickly gripped
his arm.  

"Bit weak in the knees from sitting since early August, I 'spect,"
Max pronounced.

Himself sat back on the seat.  "August?" he sighed.  "What
month is it now?"

"February," Max supplied.  

"FEBRUARY??  I've been tied to this chair since August and
it's FEBRUARY??"

Max reached into a pocket.  "Have a grape.  It'll make you feel better."

Himself knocked the grape out of Max's hand.  "Stop it!" he cried
peevishly.  "HOW did you get here? Who MADE you?"

"You made me," Max answered, shrugging.

"I CAN'T have made you!" Himself roared, his statment followed
by some choice words that are best not put down in an epi.

"Did you read 'A Good Year'?" Max asked.

"Of course," Himself muttered.

"Did you read the screenplay?"

Himself gave a reluctant, jerky nod of affirmation.

"Did you have discussions with Ridley?"

"None of that matters!" Himself said, gritting his teeth. "I was NOT in Provence!!!"

"But I was," Max affirmed.

"So you've told us," Himself growled.  "But you without me are... nothing."

"Bit of an ego problem there, eh?" Max grinned.

"Ego has nothing to do with it!" Himself rasped.  "If I was not there,
you cannot have been there."

"But I was."

"Were not!"

Max smiled, reached into his back pocket and pulled out his wallet,
producing several small pictures of himself (though not Himself) amongst French vineyards.  There was even one of him dancing with a voluptuous, dark-haired French woman.

Himself paled, then looked up at Max again.  "This breaks all the known laws of the universe, you know."

"It's an epi.  What more can I say?" Max chortled.

Himself sighed deeply, burying his face in his hands.  "It won't be an
Oscar-contender, will it?" he asked hopefully through his fingers.

"Probably not," Max agreed.  "Though your next one may well be."

"My...next...one?" Himself repeated, lifting his face just enough so that
his eyes appeared.

"Yes, your 'Gone With the Australian Wind' one."

"I...I'm...playing Rhett Butler?" Himself gasped.

"Doesn't have a name yet," Max supplied, "but I doubt you'll actually
be running many blockades into Charleston harbor."

"Thank God," Himself sighed.  

"What about...them?" Zack interrupted.

Himself turned weary eyes toward the five statues.  "I have...no...
idea," he admitted.  "Maybe...he...does," he continued, turning
quickly and pulling the hood off the hooded figure, making him thereby
into the no-longer-hooded figure.  He took a step back, gasping in
disbelief at the man who stood before him, the man whose picture
every (well, almost every) Australian knew from recent history
books or newspaper accounts.

"Who the bloody hell IS it?" East asked, being one of those Australians

who'd let his reading of recent history books slide just a tad.

Zack, though merely a humble Yankee, recognized the man despite his
own lack at not having been privileged to have been born an Aussie.
"Good God!" he exclaimed.  "It's the Prime Minister!"

"HOLT?" Himself gasped.  "Harold Holt?"

Harold, his arms still firmly being restrained by Colin and Egan, inclined his head in acknowledgement.  

"But...but....WHY?" Himself asked, amazed.  "How....why...would you do...THIS?" He indicated the stoney five with a wave of an arm.

"Aren't you...dead?" Biebe asked, peering at Harold.  

"Only in the newspapers," Holt said, smiling slightly.  

"Ok...Ok...somebody tell me what he means," East groused.

"He means," Himself continued, "that on December 17, 1967 while swimming alone off Cheviot Beach near Portsea, Victoria...he disappeared in the enormous undertow and was never seen again....until now."  He narrowed his eyes at the man who'd been Prime Minister at the time of his disappearance.  "There...were...rumors, one heard, that you had a Chinese submarine waiting for you offshore."

Holt shrugged as best he could with his arms held.  

Himself shook his head.  "And all these years when Australia thought you were shark bait, you were actually building this huge gallery in some unknown cavern beneath Woolloomooloo Wharf?"  He came close to Holt, narrowing his eyes as he walked.  "Why me?  Why do you want to destroy my characters?  What possible difference could that make to you?"

Biebe leaned over, whispering in Zack's ear.  "I bet that's the question 'she's' been dreading having to answer ever since she came up with this stupid plot." He was, of course, right...but, no matter.  Himself had finally asked it.  It lay there in all its black print across her white page, leering at her, waiting to see what lame answer might be thought.  This wrapping up of a cast-off storyline was proving to be a bit of a bugger in more ways than one!

"What possible difference...?" Holt repeated, liking the sound of the so-
very-close-to-Maximus dialogue.  He jerked forward, surprising Colin
and Egan.  Thick material slipped over his arms, leaving the two characters holding only the robe as the Prime Minister stood within inches of Himself. Everyone in the room who had breath, gasped.  Holt's attire was...amazing. The ruffles of a Napoleonic shirt peeked out above a wolf's head emblazoned cuirass.  Around his waist was belted a cheap, rusty pistol.  His pants were green camo while his feet were clad in regulation World War II Australian air force boots.  Over the ruffles and cuirass hung a hideous 1950's American tie.  

Himself stepped back in shock.  "You...you...," he gasped.  "You want to be...me?"  

"Not YOU!" Holt said, springing toward the off-guard Himself, sending him sprawling backwards on the mirrored floor.  "Your characters! I want to be your characters...ALL of them!!!"  He laughed maniacally as he attempted to choke the struggling Himself.  

Zack, Biebe, East, and Max pounced on him, dragging him off the prostrate Himself.  Holt was foaming a bit at the mouth as he spat, "You're not even AUSTRALIAN!!! And yet you've taken them all...all the good characters!" His eyes rolled counterclockwise.  "I'M the best actor in Australia....not YOU!   Not...you!" His voice began to fade away.  "If I got rid of them...got rid of...you...then I could be them."  He glared wildly at Himself.  "I AM them!!!!"  He lowered his chin, brushing it through his white ruffles.  "Where away?" he murmured to himself. "Where away?"

"HE'S an ACTOR?" Johnny murmured to Andy.  

Holt turned bleak eyes toward the young characters.  "Nobody knew," he sighed. "Everybody thought I was happy being a politician.  But...," he looked back at Himself, "I was handsome and...strong...and I could've killed tigers and blasted masts.  I coulda been a contender!"  A tear trickled down one cheek.  

"Why this...place?" Himself asked.

"The submarine brought me back to Sydney."  He looked almost foggily
now around the large room.  "I was born in Sydney, you know.  And I was a swimmer...a GOOD swimmer...everybody knew that." He smiled sadly. "What they didn't know was that the summer I was 35, I discovered a huge natural cavern under Woolloomooloo Cove whilst on a scuba dive in the harbor.  My new friends on the submarine and I...we built this.  "When it was finished," he continued, "I watched your career....watched you from Corbett on through Braddock."  Turning toward Max he added, "Didn't know about this one, though."  He shook his head. "Anyway, it wasn't....right.  Not right at all.  You're a Kiwi, for Pete's sake!!  And not nearly so good an actor as I am!  I should have had the roles.  I WOULD have had the roles but for....you."  He glared again at Himself.  His glare flowed into a really strange smile as he looked at the statues.  "Got rid of 5 of them, I did."

"About them," Himself broke in.  "How can get I get them back?"

Holt just looked at him.  "Back?  Why would I want them to be back?"

"Because they're PEOPLE! Not statues!" Himself exploded.

"No, they're not," Holt smiled evilly.  "They're only characters."

Himself grabbed Holt by his tie and ruffles.  "This is an EPI!  In epis
they ARE people!"

"Well," Holt said as Himself loosened his grip,  "if you insist.  You might give this a try."  He reached into his vest pocket, quickly bringing forth a small vial of ruby red liquid.

"What's that?" Himself asked suspiciously.

Holt smiled.  "The antidote to the red powder from my ring."  He held it out toward Himself then deliberately let it drop.  "Ooops!" he laughed as the vial shattered on the mirrored floor, tiny shards of glass splattering out,  mingling with the splash of red liquid.  

Himself's jaw worked terribly as he looked at it.  Slowly he bent, dragging 3 fingers of his right hand through it, wincing slightly as a few of the small shards cut his flesh.  Standing, he studied his hand.  There was so little of the red liquid.  He turned toward the statues.  What to do with it?  He walked toward them, thinking hard.  How much liquid did it take to restore a statue to flesh and blood?  Reaching out, he touched Terry's cheek.  Instantly a pink blush began to appear in the grey stone of the K&R agent's face.  It spread down his neck, out his shoulders and arms, down his torso...but stopped at his waist.  Seagreen eyes opened, startled, blinking.  Himself reached out, intending to apply more, but the strange red liquid had quickly dried on his fingers.  

"I...I'm sorry," Himself whispered.  "There's no more."

"No more...what?" Terry asked a bit hoarsely, his throat so recently having been stone and all.  

Silently, Himself held up his hand so Terry could see it.  "No more of....this."

Terry, shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to understand what was going on. What did Himself have on his fingers and what did it have to do with...him? He stepped forward to get a better look.  

"Whoa, there!" Himself cried as Terry simply folded in half.

"My legs!" Terry gasped.  "Why won't my legs...move?"

A tear sparkled in Himself's eyes.  How would he ever be able to explain
to annsmac the current...condition...of Terry's equipment?  

DIRECTLY CONTINUED AS:
"CROSSING AUSTRALIA"