Authors: John Norman
Another of these unlikely conjectures would be that of time travel. Aside from initial implausibilities pertaining to time travel, of the sort made clear by a complex variety of diverse puzzles and paradoxes, we note that time travel, as usually understood, involves a device of some sort, a vehicle or machine, for effecting the temporal translations supposed to occur. One, we may suppose that no such technology, even if in some sense possible, currently exists. Two, it seems clear that Paul would not have access to such a mechanism, even if it existed. One could speculate endlessly, of course. For example, perhaps time travel does not require a mechanism but is facilitated by incantations or potions, or perhaps there are time slips, where one might lose one's footing, so to speak, and slide into the past, or future, or, if there is a mechanism, perhaps it is not ours, but has been constructed by aliens who are using Paul as a guinea pig, not wishing to risk one of their own superior sort in such an perilous endeavor, until the technology is perfected, and so on, and on, and on. But I think we can rule out time travel because, in its various manifestations or techniques, it does not seem to fit Paul's case. Normally in time travel, at least as commonly conceived, one would live normally in the new time, so to speak. For example, one would sleep in the new time, awake in the new time, conduct oneself in the new time, and so on. The sleeping/waking cycle of Paul does not seem to fit the usual understanding of time travel. Too, in a normal time travel, if one can speak so, one would be a stranger, a visitor, in the new time. One would not enter it with a place in society, a detailed awareness of customs and mores, a knowledge of the languages, an emplaced family, and so on.
Let us now consider the hypothesis of parallel worlds, though one sees little point in the geometrical analogy. If one wishes such analogies, why parallel? Why not intersecting, why not tangential, why not overlapping, porous concentricities, and so on?
Despite some speculation on the part of perhaps whimsical physicists and mathematicians who are willing, interestingly, to suppose anything whatsoever if it helps their equations balance, or seem to balance, there seems no reason to think there is more than one world, more than one universe. Where would one put it? If this is an illegitimate question, why is it an illegitimate question? Is there more than a verbal answer to that? Physics, if loosened from evidence, might degenerate into mathematical fantasy. Mathematical elegance has doubtless its own appeal and beauties, but these virtues do not entitle it to supersede evidence, to neglect experiment, to replace fact. Perhaps there are unusual dimensions, even infinite sets of such, superior to our familiar, prosaic length, width, depth, and time, but, too, perhaps there are not. One recalls natural place, the center of the universe, celestial spheres, ether, phlogiston, and other triumphs of science. But let us not dogmatically deny parallel universes. Let us rather, if interested, ask if they are intelligible, if they are likely, if they are needed, if they are good for anything. But, at this point, without additional encroachments on the speculative entitlements of mathematicians and physicists, let us return to the case of Paul. Parallel worlds seems unhelpful in this case. For example, Paul's France, so to speak, has normal dimensions. He does not find his experiences there bewilderingly incomprehensible to him, much as a cat might find differential equations hard to follow, or as a coelenterate might turn aside from the intricacies of high finance with a clear conscience. But, might there not be parallel worlds with the same, or similar, dimensions to ours? Why not? But does this help us out? It does not seem so. How would one communicate with the other dimension, how would one access it? And in sleep? So precisely? And with such diurnal and nocturnal regularities? And why, if entering this other dimension, would one not experience normal staying times, normal times of residence, so to speak?
In the light of these speculations, and others, it seems we are returned to the hypothesis of charlatanry, however implausible it might seem in Paul's case.
My friend, to whose care Paul had remanded himself, resolved to embark upon a novel therapeutic venture. To this day, despite my reassurances, and support, he blames himself, certainly mistakenly in my view, for its apparent consequences.
Paul's case, as you have perhaps surmised, bore some resemblance to what is now commonly known as the multiple personality syndrome. It had many differences, of course, and certainly was not, strictly, an instance of that syndrome. Nonetheless, because of the sense of more than one life involved, the resemblance was there. Whereas there are variations on the multiple personality syndrome from case to case, there are occasionally, in such cases, what might be called “unilateral leakages,” or, more technically, “unsymmetrical awarenesses.” The notion is that one of the personalities, say, A, may be aware of the other personality, call it B, but the B personality, as we may refer to it, remains unaware of the A personality. In Paul's case, he was clearly aware of his “other life,” so to speak. Had he not been, he would not have sought counseling, and so on. On the other hand, the other life, so to speak, the putatively medieval life, was completely unaware, as far as we can tell, of what we may call the contemporary life, or, more simply, the Paul life.
My friend speculated, plausibly, in my view, that a way should be found to break into the medieval life, to enlighten it, to make it self-aware of its deprivation and misery, and its meretricious, deceitful nature. This done, communication opened up between the lives, my friend hoped that Paul's medieval life would yield to the contemporary life, give up its strictures and limitations, and relievedly become one with the contemporary life, this assuaging Paul's symptoms, and hopefully returning him shortly thereafter to a productive, satisfying normality.
Paul welcomed my friend's suggestion, and, together, as they could, by means of a variety of techniques, imaginative anticipation, mental preparation, projective rehearsal, explicit resolution, frequent repetitions of intention, psychological suggestion, and others, even hypnosis, they sought to bring it to fruition.
Never hitherto had Paul attempted to communicate with the other Paul. Indeed, it was not clear that this would prove possible.
Can one, so to speak, telephone the 14th Century?
We know of it, but could it know of us?
The hope, of course, was that there was some sort of link here, and that, obviously, was Paul himself.
As nearly as we can tell, Paul was successful.
The communication, it seems, may have been effected.
Things from this point on are not altogether clear. There are discrepancies between the two police reports, despite the fact that the original report, and the second, were filed by the same officer.
It took place on Central Park West, in Manhattan.
The reporting officer heard a terrifying, long, drawn-out scream of agony. This occurred about two AM. He spun about but the sidewalks seemed clear. He then, some twenty yards away, saw a body on the sidewalk. At this point we will follow the account in the first report, that subsequently revised.
As though about the body on the sidewalk the officer sensed, if he did not literally see, at first, a crowd of unruly, strangely clad individuals swarming about the body, kicking it, spitting on it, and abusing it. He heard sounds, screams of fury and bitterness, but could not follow the language in which they were uttered. It was unfamiliar to him. It seemed then that he could see these individuals, like shadows emerging from shadows. Their eyes, he claimed, were terrible. Many held primitive implements of some sort. A young woman was shrieking and crying near the body. She was brutally pulled away, back into the deeper shadows. The officer blew his whistle, furiously, for several seconds, and then, wisely or not, charged toward the body, and the shadows about it, his night stick raised. He felt that he struck something, the feel of it in his arm and shoulder, and then something edged tore at him, and he fell backward, bleeding, and the shadows were gone, only the body remaining on the sidewalk. That is pretty much the gist of the first report. The second report does not report hearing a scream, nor anything other than finding the body on the sidewalk, no shadows, no crowds, no cries. He was, however, injured, however it may have occurred. Some long-bladed, curved instrument had apparently struck him shortly after detecting the body. It cut through his jacket and shirt, and half severed an arm. It was an unusual wound, much as might have been caused by a large, wielded blade, such as a scythe. It is supposed the wound was the result of an obscurely motivated, independent attack on the officer, perhaps by some maniac, unrelated to the finding of the body.
The body, of course, was that of Paul. It was naked, and it bore the marks of closely encircling chains. It was blackened and scarred, and seared, and it stank. If one did not know better, one might say it had been burned at the stake.
Mirrors are strange things, and what one might see in them.
Perhaps you have had such experiences. One does not know how common, or uncommon, they might be. Certainly one does not talk much about them, and, I suppose, for good reason.
Have you ever been afraid to look in a mirror, for fear of what you might see?
I do not mean that you might be dissatisfied with your image, something so simple, that it was, say, unkempt, sallow, bruised, or such. I mean something quite different.
Suppose something not yourself, or certainly not recognizably yourself, was there.
Some people are afraid to look into mirrors.
Did you know that?
They do not know what they might see.
Suppose what you saw in that silvered surface, so innocent, familiar, placid and smooth, so like a window, was not you, but something quite different.
Have you had that experience?
Might it not be an ancestor, or a stranger, or something else, perhaps an animal, perhaps one unfamiliar to you, unfamiliar perhaps even to your mythologies, or might it be something more terrible, more bestial than a beast.
Or it might be something like a human, but not a human, not really, something like a human, but not a human.
Perhaps it resembles you, but you know it is not you, not really you.
But similar.
What does it want with you, if anything?
It puts its hands, or paws, on the glass, from the inside. I could show you the scratch marks. They are deep.
It is no wonder that some people are afraid to look into mirrors, especially, at night.
Fear of the dark has been selected for, doubtless. I do not think it is simply a matter of a partial impediment of vision, for an absolute darkness is seldom found in nature. There is the light of the moon, and stars. I suspect, rather, it has primarily to do with something that took place long ago, over thousands of years, with what hunted and prowled at night, things with excellent night vision. Night was a time of danger. Apes who did not fear it would surely at their hazard share the night with sinuous, stealthy, and silent things, things swift, unwelcome, and hungry. And so those to whom the night seemed disconcerting and hostile might huddle together until morning, their predilections to be rewarded, and deepened, and confirmed, in the callous lotteries of the jungle. And the gift of fire, would it not have been as much a weapon against the darkness, as a comfort in the cold? In any event, fear of the dark is common in ground apes, and we still, on the whole, respond to genetic cues honed in their way by ancient knives, knives moist, curved, and barbaric.
One supposes that fear of the dark is recognizably irrational, but there are, of course, irrationalities which have their utilities, or had them, at least at one time, and now linger in the hereditary coils, embedded for better or for worse in the fiber and sinew, the dispositions, of a species, things like the salt content of the blood, with its recollection of the fluid chemistries of ancient seas.
Dreadful surprises, of course, need not lurk only in the darkness.
The eye of the day is no stranger to horror.
It regards it with equanimity.
The experiences I have in mind do not require gloomy hours or dismal settings. Indeed the routine trappings of night might serve to mitigate the shock of such surprising occasions, facilitating and encouraging as it would interpretations in terms of fatigue, moods, and shadows. Indeed, if such experiences occurred only under conditions of poor lighting, conjoined perhaps with inattention, exhaustion or stress, it would doubtless be easier to discount them. Unfortunately, perhaps, they can occur, or intrude, under conditions which might seem to maximize the ease and acuity of observation. For example, they can occur, unexpectedly, as one glances into the mirror in a public washroom, or in the showroom of a furniture shop, in a hand mirror left lying on a dresser, and so on. Too, a polished surface may give them a habitat, or a way of appearing, or intruding, even the surface of calm, shaded water.
One is familiar, of course, with the myth of Narcissus, who, supposedly enamored of his own image in a pond, or mistaking it for a lover, one as beautiful as himself, sought to embrace it, and drowned. Doubtless the story, as commonly told, and understood, is intended to convey a warning against the advisability of too great a self-love. So it is a good story, one supposes. On the other hand it has occurred to me that at the root of this story, and rather different from its common, even contrived, interpretation, there might lie another reality, one rather different. Perhaps what Narcissus saw was quite like himself, and yet was not himself, and that, as he watched, perhaps in horror, it reached up from the water, and, its bared arms dripping, seized him, and drew him beneath the surface.
It is just a thought.
I have occasionally seen things in the mirror, which I have not understood.
There are, of course, one-way mirrors, in which one side is a mirror and the other side a window. In this way, one does not know, of course, when one is before such a mirror, if one is, unbeknownst to oneself, being viewed from the other side. But I do not have such devices in mind, at least not in the usual sense.
Commonly there is nothing behind the mirror but a wall.
It is not a window.
To be sure, a mirror might be replaced with something else, and then, in a sense, it would not be a mirror, but a window.
What one took to be mirror might be a window, through which one might be viewed.
More importantly, perhaps, through which one might view. Surely you and others have regarded one another through a window, and thought little of it.
To be sure, the mind is a large and strange place, not well understood, and it may have many corridors, leading to different rooms, not all of which are familiar. Perhaps through such rooms, as through vision, or touch, we might reach other realities, or they reach us.
Due to the contrivances of atoms and fields a soundless, colorless world may give us sunsets and symphonies.
One wonders if there is such a world, so comforting a world, one of atoms and fields. It is a bold hypothesis, a reassuring guess, a marvelously constructed defense against incomprehensibility. We salute it, and wonder if it is true. The only world we know is that of our first-person experience. Beyond that what do we know?
One wonders if all the marbles of the universe fit into our little sack.
Doubtless, but one wonders about it.
What if they don't?
You have probably all, at one time or another, looked into a mirror, perhaps from the side, and seen something watching you, from behind, or the side. You turn about, and it is gone, of course. And you look again into the mirror, and you note that it, whatever it was, if it was anything, has left.
The following has occurred to me.
Let us suppose this has happened to you, or to someone I know, perhaps a friend.
Perhaps what you took to be your reflection took you for
its
reflection. And what if you were
its
reflection?
Is it as interested in seeing you, as you might be in seeing it?
The most interesting aspect of this matter, from my point of view, is that, recently, I can detect no one in the mirror, no one. I can, for example, see the bed, the dresser, the wall, the picture on the wall, and such, but I cannot see anyone, not anyone. For example, I cannot see me. I cannot see
my
reflection. It is not there. I should not have broken the mirror, I suppose. But I was trying to drive away what was on the other side.
The mirror has now been repaired, and I can press my hands against it, but I cannot penetrate its surface.
The world here seems much like the world I left.
Sometimes I see the face in the mirror.
I have clawed at it, but I can only scratch the inside of the mirror. The gouges are deep.
I suspect it will want to go home sooner or later. Perhaps we will pass one another in the corridor.