MY HEART IN STONE

PART 11:

Cort sat on the long brocade couch in the sitting room of the main keep.  Mikol had asked him to wait there while he went to get something. Sitting there waiting was not something Cort really was in the mood to do. His head had been pounding for well over an hour and he leaned forward, his right elbow on a knee, propping his temple with his thumb while the fingers of his right hand moved back and forth, exerting pressure against his forehead.  It didn't seem to help much.

"Ah, here we are!" Mikol said brightly, returning to the room. Cort sat up straight, not mentioning the headache. He seldom mentioned them any more, not even to Henri.

"What is it?" he asked, not really interested.

"You, my dear Cortland Wells," Mikol smiled. "This is you. Right here in this little flat box."

"Can you skip the riddles, Mikol?" Cort grumped, pulling a pillow out from behind his back that was uncomfortable and tossing it further down the big couch.

"A DVD, Cort. YOUR DVD."

"What might that...be?"

"Your movie.  A digital video disk of  'The Quick and the Dead.'"

"My...? Really?"

"You expressed some...curiosity...about it, did you not?"

Cort looked at the small box.  "How can that contain enough pictures to tell that whole story?"

Not answering, Mikol merely flipped open the box, holding a silver disk up on the tip of his index finger.  "The marvels of modern technology, Cortland. It's all right here."

"On that? There are pictures on that?"

"Hundreds. Thousands, even. You want to see?"

Cort nodded and Mikol walked to a large rectangular object on the far side of the room and popped the silver thing into a slot on a black box beneath it. Cort didn't know what he'd thought a movie might actually LOOK like, but certainly nothing like this.  The rectangular thing seemed to come alive and he opened his eyes really wide as he saw Ellen encountering the man by the wagon.  "That...that's...Ellen!" he gasped.  He looked at Mikol, his mouth open. "How did
they get pictures of that? There's nobody there but the two of them!"

"I assure you, Cort, there were  many others there.  All behind the camera.  No one who does the filming is seen IN the movie. Only the actors."

A tiny muscle under Cort's left eye began to spasm repeatedly.  His whole body felt tense and his headache grew worse because of it. But he couldn't take his eyes off the screen.  Then Herod walked into the saloon, the rectangle filled with a long close-up of his boots, his spurs jingling as he walked. Cort's hands tightened into fists. 

My God. John. There he was!  Herod spoke and the sound of his voice rang in Cort's ears. He felt dizzy with it. He wasn't aware at all of Mikol's intent watchfulness of him.  Then the saloon doors burst open and he saw himself flung inside, hitting the floor hard, rolling over and over with the force of the violent shove until he collided with the footrest of the bar. He winced, remembering the sickening crack of his left shin against its edge. He couldn't sit so he stood, walking several paces toward the screen.  He saw himself getting to his knees, saw himself looking at Herod, and it hit him...hit him like a powerful blow to the stomach.  This was a movie. This was...him...there in the box, there on that rectangle thing...and he wasn't...real. "Oh, my God," he moaned, his head exploding with the sudden knowing.  He turned, looking at Mikol.  "Oh, my God," he said again, then folded into a quiet heap on the carpeting.

"Henri!" Mikol shouted, sprinting toward Cort.  Henri had been stationed in the next room as a precaution. Mikol didn't think he'd be needed, but wanted him close just in case.

Henri rushed into the room, appalled by the sight of Cort on the floor.  "Damn," he snapped, falling to his knees beside him. "Damn, damn, damn! It was too much for him. You should've waited, Mikol. He wasn't ready yet."

"It's too late for that now, Doctor," Mikol snapped in reply.  "How is he?"

Cort had gone almost completely white, his skin clammy, cold.  "His pulse is weak, way too rapid," he murmured.  "Straighten him out, get his feet up."

Mikol slipped a couple of cushions from the couch under Cort's feet while Henri hurriedly unbuttoned the top of his vest and white shirt. "Katryn! Bring my bag!!"  He'd left it in the other room.

"She's dead, remember," Mikol said coldly.  "I'll go get it."

"Hurry, Mikol!" he shouted. Damn. The young man was going into shock. His whole system
was still too stressed from the warp. His body couldn't handle much more of this. He was even slightly blue around the lips.

Mikol returned, dropping the large bag beside Henri. "Get a blanket for him," Henri said, not taking the usual care with his tone of voice as was his habit with Mikol. He started an IV drip to get some fluids into Cort, then leaned forward, brushing long strands of hair off his face. "Hang in there, son. Just hang in there."

Mikol brought the blanket, shaking it out and letting it spread over Cort. Without taking his eyes off Cort's face, Henri said flatly. "You're killing him, Mikol. With all your questions, with making him face too much too quickly." He turned tipping his face to the still-standing man. "If you don't want to lose him, I suggest you stop this mad push of yours."

Not replying to what the doctor was saying, Mikol asked, "Should we get him to a bed?"

"Later," Henri sighed. He was holding up the IV bag. "Let him lie here for now. When this bag runs out, we can get him to his room."

"You intend to sit there...like that...until then?"

Henri nodded. Mikol inhaled a long, slow breath. "I'll be upstairs. Call me if anything changes."

 
Cort lay still for a while, then his head began to turn back and forth restlessly. "No," he murmured. "No."  Over and over...no...no...no.

"Shhhhh! It's all right, Son. Shhhhhh!"

Slowly, Cort's eyes opened, finding Henri's. "It's not," he whispered. "It's not all right."

Later, they got him up to his bed. He slept a long time and when he awoke, he would say nothing. He just stared up at the ceiling, not replying to anything anyone said to him.

Mikol, standing on the stone steps, was halfway in the room, watching him. Henri sat in the chair beside the bed. A few minutes passed then Henri got up, walked toward the entrance, squatting to be on eye-level with Mikol. "Is he...damaged?" Mikol asked, keeping his voice low.

"He's trying to process it all. At least that's what I think he's doing. It would seem that viewing
himself in his movie made him realize things...too many things. He needs quiet right now. No questions, no digging. Just rest. He needs for us to...leave him alone." He cocked his head a bit. "Can you do that, Mikol? Can you give him that much?"

After both men had gone and he was by himself, his eyes finally left the ceiling, resting on a large

blank area of the stone wall.  It matched perfectly what he was feeling inside. Blank and stone.

He was from that little box. He could be put in a small slot.  He could be brought up somehow

inside the larger rectangular object.  He could be turned on and...off.  He could be started at

will, stopped at will. He did the same things over and over and yet over again. How could this...

be?  How had he never known? Was there nothing any more that he could stand on and say, "This is firm...this is where I am...this is who I am?"

A couple of hours passed and then Henri appeared with a dinner tray. He set it on the table and

turned to take Cort's pulse, to feel his forehead. "I could stay...."

Cort shook his head, not taking his eyes off the wall.

After some minutes, he got slowly up and sat at the table, looking at what was on his dinner 

tray.  A slice of roast, green beans, mashed potatoes, a hard dinner roll, a glass of red wine.

Picking up his fork, he held it over the beans, then set it back down, got up and walked to 

the window, staring out for a long, long time across the hills.  

After a while he turned his head, looking back at the tray on the little table.  He crossed the 

room again, standing beside the table, gazing at the food, not moving, just standing there, 

lost in thought, in memory. 

 
Back at the window again, he gripped the ironwork with both hands, leaning his forehead 

against it, looking down at the toes of his boots.  Still holding on, he let his body lower until 

he was half-sagging, his face pressed against the stones below the window.  He stayed that 

way until his arm muscles began to tremble with the strain.  Then he stayed some more.

Henri, at his monitor far below, watched silently. 

Finally Cort let go of the grill, sliding to his knees, his arms limp at his side, his face still 

pressed to the stone.  He had seen the castle, had walked the forest with Mikol, had held 

his heart in his hands, holding it out in his answers to the endless questions.  Was this all 

that there would be from now on? Was this what life had become, would remain?  He'd 

told Mikol he was just a man trying to find his way.  Mikol asked if he thought that were 

possible.  But it was Mikol who was ensuring it was not possible.  There simply was no way 

to be found in Kamen.  It was all some vast dead end.  He felt like a barn mouse that the 

grey-striped cat played with, lifting its paw just enough to let the mouse move away a bit, 

then bringing it back, never letting it go, never intending to let it go...ever.  The round

room was nothing more than a prison with a fancy bed.
 
Henri, not even realizing what he was doing, reached out his fingers, quietly touching 

his screen, something in his heart squeezing tight.

Cort slid over onto his left hip, sitting on the floor, his head down, his hair hanging over 

his face. Then slowly he leaned forward, putting his palms down, stretching his body out 

until he lay perfectly flat, face down, his arms fully out from his sides. He lay like that a

half hour. Finally Henri realized where he'd seen the posture before. It was the position

of a priest during ordination. What was Cort thinking, he wondered, that he would lie

there like that so long?

"Father," Cort whispered, his chin against the hard floorboards, "here I am." That was 

all he said for many minutes. He just lay there, waiting for the sense of God's presence, 

knowing he needed to quiet himself to be aware of it. "I can no longer bear this aloneness," 

he continued."I feel so...lost...like I've misplaced my sense of who I am, why I am. Please, 

Father, let me feel You near me, let me know that You know where I am, who I am, what 

the reality of me...is." Tears stung his eyes. "I...I...thought I was real, that I was who I 

always believed I was, that I was trying to serve You." Tears ran unheeded down his 

cheeks, making their way along the line of his jaw to where his chin touched the flooring. 

"They tell me that all that was made up by someone else, that...I...was made up. But You 

were there. I KNOW You were there! You're all I've got left, all that I thought was real, 

all that's still real...even here." He pulled his arms in, turning his left cheek down to the 

floor, covering his head with his hands, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "Be real for me. 

Oh, God, PLEASE be real for me! Help me find You again. Help me find myself again."

He sobbed out all his pain, all his lost sense of self, and then he cried for something he 

had no name for.  All he knew is that the anguish of it was nearly too much to bear. 

When he quieted, he rolled onto his back, lying still, a gentle sense of peace stealing 

over him. 

Another half hour passed before he got to his feet and walked to the table, his dinner 

now cold. But it was not to his dinner that he was going. He picked up the wine glass, the 

hard, crusty roll and carried them to the little window, setting them on the sill. Then, 

murmuring the age-old words, he broke the bread, lifting a small piece of it, staring at 

it a long time, then eating it. After, in words so low Henri could not  make them out, he 

lifted the cup of wine, then drank all of it.

Henri was so absorbed in watching he had not realized Mikol had come into the room 

and was standing behind him. "What is he...doing?"

Henri's lips clamped tightly a moment before he answered. He somehow did not

 like it that Mikol had seen. "I believe it's called...communion."

"Well, I'll be damned!" Mikol said, shaking his head.

"Yes," Henri thought soundlessly, "I imagine you probably will."

ON TO PART 12

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