Hill of Candles - 1. Hill of Candles

道

HILL OF CANDLES

"Birth is not a beginning; death is not an end. There is existence without limitation; there is continuity without a starting point."

Zhuang Zi, Chinese Philosopher, 4th Century BC.

 

Forty minutes along the private lane, tracing the barren Scottish coastline from Melvaig to the Seahaven Open Facility, the surface transformed from smooth tarmac to deep, uneven tyre tracks of mustard-coloured mud. Like a rowing boat caught in a mighty wake, the Nissan rental wobbled and pitched before plunging to the left, wrenching my hands from the steering wheel. On instinct, my foot stamped the brake pedal, stalling the car and bringing the beast to a trembling halt.

I hissed an expletive and shook out my bandaged wrist despite being curious at experiencing no pain from the jolt. Since Monday, I had driven the same route and passed the same hand-painted warning sign four times. Once again, my concentration had wandered, distracted by a sleepless night spent cross-examining thoughts and feelings stirred up by Guardian, the 'extra-terrestrial' patient from ward seven.

"Put aside everything you believe for one moment, James, and let us assume that I am correct," he had said, pursuing his beliefs on rebirth even though I firmly stated my scepticism, "and that your species lives on, one life after another. If I were to offer to show you proof, to unlock the memories from each of your incarnations, would you accept or decline?" He spoke in his usual straightforward manner. "I ask because many would refuse, afraid of what they might unearth, not understanding that the first step to enlightenment begins with the opening of a door."

Tired of his many diversions, I began to answer immediately, somewhat dismissively, but then hesitated and mulled over the question.

"I'm not sure I would want to know," I replied evenly. "In both my personal and professional experience, I've found memories can be unreliable."

"And rarely objective," he said, nodding his agreement. "From a rooftop, one boy may observe bombs dropping on a city with awe and excitement, in much the same way he experiences a firework show. Another, by comparison, may watch in abject horror. What they behold is identical, but each boy's memory is shaped not only by his personality traits and early cultivation, but by the ripples of emotional experience and memory from past existences. No human essence—soul, if you will—comes into this world empty-handed."

Even before he had finished, I dropped eye contact. Half listening, I unhurriedly closed my paper notebook and clipped the pen onto the stiff outer cover.

"What mystifies us," he continued, more softly this time, "is the nature of memories and emotions onto which some of you choose to cling, without even considering the redeeming power of self-forgiveness."

Again I said nothing, continuing to pack my bag. But this time, something in his voice and the words he used forced me to meet his gaze.

"Blame and guilt, for example. Without those all-consuming of human emotions what would become of you?" he said, before leaning towards me and nodding once. "I mean you, James. What would become of you?"

After this short, unfathomable statement, he reached out to touch my bandaged wrist. At first, I flinched—knowing their aversion to physical contact—but instead allowed him to lay his surprisingly cold hand on top of mine. Through his steady gaze, I assumed he thought my discomfort would eventually subside. When he realised he was mistaken, he withdrew his hand.

The interview ended awkwardly, leaving me feeling disconcerted and less in control. During the week many of his statements had been either perfunctory or elusive—not unlike the artful divagation of a politician—his responses providing nothing conclusive, and too often deflected by another question. Until yesterday, even though I had warmed to him in more ways than I cared to admit, everything had remained strictly professional between us, both respecting each other's personal boundaries.

Yet even though his words had been ambiguous, I sensed a truth in them and a need to understand. On the drive home, I raked them over repeatedly, shaking my head like an obsessive, vowing not to return, all the while knowing I would, that I had no choice.

>>>道<<<

Ahead of me, the sky smouldered with premature darkness auguring showers, or worse still—especially in this remote part of Scotland—a thunderstorm.

After another restless night, and tired of chasing reason, I breathed out a long sigh and rested my forehead on the cool arc of the steering wheel. I reached to push the ignition button, the instant hum of the engine tingling through my skull and back of my neck like a caress. I inhaled deeply and wrapped my arms in an embrace around the wheel. After a few more deep breaths and feeling centred again, I prised my head away.

Studying the deteriorating weather, I knew the sensible thing would have been to abandon today's visit altogether. Any other day, I would have turned the car around and returned to the basic comfort of the bed and breakfast in Inverness, rather than chance a two-hour drive back in pitch black and heavy rain. I would not though, and quickly chastised myself at the mere thought, not because the grounds would soon be in view, but because to turn around now would mean defeat—and my family had been drilled never to entertain failure.

Never became a popular word in our house.

Never speak during meal times; never answer back; never bring friends home; never let your father hear you so much as breathe when he is working.

Never bring shame upon the family.

We never showed affection either, the Mannigans, and ridiculed families of a demonstrative nature. My father even went one step further and called them puerile and weak-minded. I'm not sure I ever saw our parents touch, let alone embrace. Even ten years after her death, I often wonder how happy my mother had been with the arrangement, wonder if she viewed the news of her cancer in the same way a trapped sparrow views an open skylight.

My sister Jessie fared better, opting to study nursing in the US and adapting to more normalised environments and relationships. Four years older than me, her grounding presence in the house had helped me through the worst, and I suffered from acute abandonment when she left home. Opting to attend the local university, I froze in horror at the over-zealous and tactile affection of friends, unable to comprehend the act or elicit a suitable response.

Before Alain, that is. Before him, I lived a half-life.

Today, of all days, I needed his gentle voice to anchor my thoughts and feelings, to smile and tell me not to worry, that everything would be fine. Instead, the face of my father kept appearing, a man I had spent most of my young adult life despising. Only at Alain's insistence had I tried to absolve him, to pity him even. My father, a man who right at that very moment, bedded down in my living room sinking towards the end of his life.

Jessie had moved in to help. Reaching the level of advanced nurse practitioner before becoming a full-time wife and mother, she had reassured me on Sunday night that he would be fine. Unfamiliar with the coincidental placement of mirrors in my house, she remained unaware of me witnessing the bleak exchange of expressions between her and Donald, her doctor husband.

Eager for another human voice, I glanced at my mobile phone secured into a plastic holder on the dashboard and noticed a rare stable signal. With the engine idling, I pushed redial and snatched the unit to my ear. After one ring, my sister answered.

"Jim. I wondered when you were going to call. Everything okay?" she said, alert as ever. I usually called at the exact same time every morning. Last night’s distraction had messed with my routine.

"Fine. How is he?"

"Had a rough day, but he's comfortable now. Well, as comfortable as he'll ever be. But he's refusing to sleep, the tough old sod. Says he doesn't want to miss the six o'clock news."

A part of me suspected he wouldn't sleep for fear he might never reawaken.

"Should I talk to him?" I asked.

"Do you mind not? Don's prescribed something to settle him," Jess answered too quickly, as though she had expected my question. She left unsaid that she didn't want the voice of his abandoning son to rattle him. She needn't have worried. Despite his softening with age, we only ever discussed trivialities like the news, the weather, or my location. We never dared venture too deep, to delve into anything more profound or intimate.

"How's the injury? Any better?" she asked, correctly interpreting my silence. Her time spent in hospital wards had taught her to amputate sentiment from practicalities.

"Much," I replied. She meant the wrist I had bruised on Sunday, crushed between mattress and door frame, helping to move our father's bed from the hire van into my living room. "Strange though. When we talked yesterday the joint was throbbing like buggery."

I pulled back the loose bandage and prodded the skin. The bruising had almost faded.

"Not uncommon. Probably wasn't as bad as you thought. You should have let me take a look before you left. Keep it rested. What's the latest on the little green men?"

"Very understanding." Even though the comment caused one side of my mouth to twitch, I adopted a tone of chastisement. "Coming from a former medical professional."

"If you had deigned to join the medical profession," she said, teasing me with a speech I had heard many times, "instead of insisting on a writing career that entails camping out in prisons and reference libraries, you'd know the difference between genuine mental illness and freeloaders. Seriously, how's it going, little brother?"

"Fine." I sighed at the chance to change the subject. "Extremely well. Interesting session last night with Guardian. The thing is they're not stupid, Jess. Just finding ways to survive. What they've been through would send any rational human being over the edge. If they're delusional, they have every right to be, but they're certainly not stupid. And there is something extraordinary about him—about them, I mean."

She fell silent, doubtless processing my misnomer. When she spoke again, I could tell she was trying hard to mask her concern.

"Look, I know it's what you do, Jim, and either way I'm sure you'll produce something eminently publishable, even if at the moment the whole thing reeks of National Enquirer. But don't let this Guardian fellow string you along—"

"Come on, Jess. I've been doing this long enough to know the difference. At the moment he paints a compelling picture, and he's opened up, been entirely cooperative. And you know me. If they have something to hide, I have a knack for separating the truth from the fantasy."

"My little brother. Ever the professional interrogator. Dad always said you should have followed him into The Force…."

She stopped short, probably realising she had wandered into dangerous territory.

"Yes, well. Dad was disappointed about most of my life choices," I responded a little too quickly and then stopped. I didn't want to argue with her, my long-suffering sister, who had spent her life straddling our familial no-man's-land.

"You know what day it is today?" I asked.

Jessica remained silent at the end of the phone.

"Jess—?"

"Of course I do. I miss Alain, too. We all do. "

"I almost forgot. Two years ago today, and I almost forgot. I woke up this morning in a strange bed, in an unfamiliar country, and realised I could barely remember what Alain looked like. This is not me, Jess. You know what I'm like, a detail freak, but everything feels adrift. I should have driven back today. I probably have enough material already—"

"Finish what you started." Her voice sounded resolute. "Donald's pulled too many strings to get you in there, so you might as well end the job properly. And you're back tomorrow. Dad'll be fine, I'm sure. You've got your mobile, and I'll let you know if he—if anything—if we need you back for any reason." I heard a faint voice from the end of the phone. "That's him now. I'll speak to you later."

In the short time I had spent on the phone, the bruising of the clouds had worsened. More from habit than anything, I checked and adjusted the rearview mirror, even though I had never passed another living soul in the four afternoons driving the same desolate route. With a gentle release of the clutch, I sent the car wobbling forwards along the bumpy track.

I parked up against the knee-high wall of red brick mounted with tall iron railings marking the boundary to the institute. Each day I walked the same path to the double doors of the main house. Well-tended lawns stretched out either side, and from the first visit I had found the short walk cathartic; the satisfying crunch of gravel underfoot, the delicately scented melange of ozone-laden sea air and mown grass.

Today on the grounds near the entrance, a middle-aged woman and young girl played with a Frisbee. The pink disc, caught on a rogue gust of wind, hovered over towards me and dropped near the path. As I bent down to collect the object, the girl ran over. She stopped a few feet away, a knitted toy elephant wedged beneath one arm.

"Don't be sad," she said, looking straight at me.

She wore a pretty aquamarine dress with frilly white trimmings, something Jess would have called an Alice dress from the Alice in Wonderland illustrations. She even wore a simple white headband and matching socks, although, unlike Alice, these had dropped untidily around her ankles.

"I'm not sad," I said and managed to produce a smile.

"I'm with Mummy," she said, glancing around at the woman wearing a tell-tale plastic hospital bracelet. She stood there now, her hands on hips, waiting for her daughter.

"And it's my birthday tomorrow," she continued on as though we were old friends. "Daddy brought me today, so I could see Mummy, and then we're having a party tomorrow at Grandma's house, and all my friends are coming. Mummy can't, though, because she's got to stay here and get better. Do you like my elephant?"

"I do."

"Mummy made him," she held the stuffed creature out towards me. "He's called Jimbaloo."

"He's—what?"

"Jimbaloo. He's called Jimbaloo," she said, gazing briefly at the toy. "He likes you. Do you like him?"

Alain's pet name for me had been Jimbaloo. Since his death, no other living soul had ever uttered the nickname.

"I—yes, I do."

"Good," she said, and then snatched the Frisbee from my hand with a triumphant smile and ran back to her mother.

While I stood glued to the spot, watching, a few icy raindrops hit my cheek. By the time I reached the main door, heavy rain had begun to darken the flagstones. I turned to warn the mother and child, but they had already vanished.

Instead of the usual nurse, Senior Nurse Brent, a steadfastly silent woman with a permanent frown and pinprick eyes, someone else met me at the entrance. She introduced herself as Nurse Ross, a plump little thing, all smiles and chit-chat. She hurried me along the now-familiar route, straight through the main house of cream and burgundy paintwork, beautifully preserved oak panelling, and ornate stucco, to a plain glass door next to the kitchen.

"Shouldn't I check in with Doctor French?" I asked, pausing by the door she had opened for me. "She asked me to report to her each day."

>>>道<<<

Doctor Eleanor French, the head of the institute, had graduated from Saint Bartholomews in London with Donald, Jessie's husband. To say he had called in a few favours to get me the interview would be a vast understatement. The way she glowed when she talked about him, I suspected at some time in the not-so-distant past, Eleanor French had felt something more profound and more personal than professional admiration for my sister's husband.

A starched professional in her late forties, she micro-managed every aspect of the facility and insisted on meeting with me each day upon my arrival. Although she never said as much directly, I guessed Seahaven to be her main concern, and how I planned to portray the facility and its operation in my publication.

She had nothing to worry about. According to the wealth of data available, by using psychiatric medication and psychotherapy, as well as occupational therapy, Seahaven had an incredible rate of success in healing patients and rehabilitating them back into the community. Some reports cited the remote location as contributing to the healing process.

On Monday, my first day at the institute, the ground rules had been set, amiably enough, but firmly and unequivocally.

"We've softened the visitor rules for you. Between four and nine o'clock is acceptable, Professor Mannigan. Any more, and please check with me. If there is anything you need, simply ask. Feel free to move about as you wish; there are locks on none of our doors and the front gates are open twenty-four hours a day."

That the nearest village lay more than a twenty-mile hike away across uninhabited rough terrain she left unspoken.

"However, I must insist on two things. One, no photographs are to be taken of the brothers without their express permission, which I'm afraid is highly unlikely. Two, you respect the privacy of the other guests and confine your interviews to the brothers. Most people are here to rest and heal. They need special care and attention by professionals, and I will not tolerate any interference that might adversely affect their recovery. Do I make myself clear?"

Whenever she wanted to force a point, her head rocked forward, and the gold chain attached to either side of her spectacles swayed beneath her ears. I nodded my consent.

"Good," she said, her tone softening, the rules set. "My particular specialisation is general medicine and modern psychiatry, professor. Apart from touching on Zimbardo's Stamford Prison experiment, I am not familiar with studies in psychology—"

"Social psychology. And Zimbardo is far from representative."

"Social psychology, then, but I have it on the highest authority you are one of our country's foremost specialists in your field of study." Before continuing on, she leant forward and smiled conspiratorially, her cheeks glowing, the gold chain swaying. "A mutual friend asked me to give you every assistance. We even have a visitor's bedroom set aside, in case you need to stay overnight."

"That shouldn't be necessary, but thank you anyway."

She paused, studying me. After a moment, she leant back in her chair and folded her arms together beneath her bosom.

"Professor, I must be honest and express my surprise and, quite frankly, intrigue, at the fact the brothers granted you an interview at all. They are fiercely private. In their fifteen years here, only one other person has been allowed an audience, a journalist from the Sunday Telegraph, and then for precisely one hour. Do you have any idea why they would agree to your request?"

"I wasn't aware of their exclusivity." That wasn't strictly true, but at the time this new information didn't seem significant. I had read the previous journalist’s article, which I am fairly certain sensationalised the brothers in order to make the article more readable. “Perhaps they're among the few who have actually read any of my work."

Even though the response didn't appear to satisfy her, she let it go. Instead, she turned and began shuffling papers, signalling an end to our meeting. I made no effort to leave because there remained one member of her team that I needed to interview right away, one who had been in service the first day the boys had been submitted.

Doctor Eleanor French.

"You must understand." Mildly affronted at my fundamental question, about why the boys had ended up somewhere as austere as Seahaven, I noticed whenever she broached areas of policy, she sat bolt upright and spoke with a professional articulation using what sounded like rehearsed words. "It is not the policy of any health authority to place minors into establishments such as this. In fact, soon after their discovery, they were found suitable foster homes in Devon; Guardian and Walker in a house in Dartmouth and each of the other boys in homes in Exeter."

"They split them up?" I asked.

"Standard practice," she said, a tenor of professional defensiveness creeping into her voice. "Back then, as it is now, finding a foster home large enough to take in two siblings, let alone four is almost impossible."

"And how did they react?"

"Bouts of temper are familiar territory to foster parents, trained to deal with such behaviour, but when the boys became uncontrollable—violent and destructive, even threatening other children—something had to be done."

"And then you received them?"

"Not at first. There are a number of charitable institutions catering for parentless children, Barnados and the SOS Children's Villages to name a few, who under normal circumstances would have been happy to accept them. The main problem was the effect these four young teenagers had on the other children."

"I see," I said, looking down and making bulleted notes in my notepad.

"Do you? How well have you researched the Vynx brothers, professor?"

"As well anyone could from what little is available. Newspaper articles, hospital reports, doctor's notes, witness statements. That's why I'm here, to carry out a more comprehensive analysis."

"One of the foster parents called them pure evil, did you know that?" Something about the way she spoke the words unsettled me deeply.

“I did not,” I replied, and my disgust must have shown. "But if I were you, I would review that particular person’s suitability. How could any rational adult call a frightened child evil?"

She studied me for a long moment and then, finally, as though coming to some internal decision, smiled. Had Donald briefed her about me, I wondered, and if so, what had he told her? She rotated in her seat, reaching for a large file on the window ledge behind her desk. She set the untidy collection down in front of me.

"This is not normal practice, professor, but I feel you are someone who will value and respect a professional confidence. I've copied the Vynx file for you. A little bedtime reading, so to speak. This information is not strictly confidential, but I still would appreciate you not revealing the source should you choose to use any of the content. Something I did not include that may come up in conversation, and something sent to the facility's general email address for the attention of the Vynx Brotherhood is this."

She pulled a sheet of folded paper from her drawer and handed it to me.

The page contained a printed email, marked in the subject field for the attention of the Vynx Brotherhood. The body of the message detailed the intention of the sender's group to locate somewhere called the SRP and join their life essences with those of a visiting entity. The writer ended by promising to use the group's collective astral consciousness to alert the brothers’ race and initiate a return voyage home.

"SRP means Sacred Rendezvous Point," she explained.

"I see," I replied, even though I did not, although the acronym resonated in my memory. "I'm still not sure I understand the significance. This looks like the work of a fanatic, not something anyone would take seriously."

"I agree," she said, with a sigh. "And after having to wade through the reams of spurious attention they received on first arriving here, and then the misguided article by that reporter from the national newspaper, I discarded this little missive as exactly that. Nonsense. Tragically, however, this one proved genuine."

I scanned the short note again. The email, sent from a nondescript account, admin@zmailer.com, still appeared insignificant.

"Look at the date and the sign-off initials," she said, sensing my confusion.

Silent seconds passed before I deciphered the detail, my sharp intake of breath alerting her.

"My God. CLM. That isn't…?"

"Cedric Lester Morris, leader of the Chamber of Celestial Consciousness. The message is dated two days before the Dartmoor incident."

The Dartmoor incident had captured the world's networks around eighteen months earlier, when a group of twelve men and women in their early twenties calling themselves the Chamber of Celestial Consciousness had been found dead on top of a rocky tor in a remote part of the moor. I knew the story well, had interviewed members of the group's grieving family and co-workers and, along with the media, had written off their motives as a UK copy-cat of the Heaven's Gate tragedy. Each had committed suicide using a similar lethal cocktail of drugs. If their website or group ethos had mentioned anything about the Vynx Brotherhood, I would have known.

"Something didn't signify at the time," she continued, pointing to the bracketed eight-figured number beneath the initials. "The first two numbers followed by a colon refer to an ordnance survey map location, in this case, number twenty-eight, which covers Dartmoor. The six subsequent numbers provide coordinates that correspond to Curling Tor, the spot where the group ended their lives."

"Did you show this to anyone else?"

"Only to the brother called Shaw," she replied, and I could tell immediately that something troubled her, "and even then, too late. Back then, we forwarded private post to our guests every day without fail, but emails sent to the general account intended for them, unless marked urgent, were distributed when time permitted, a practice that has since been improved. I had the same initial reaction as you and saw no urgency in forwarding this. I barely acknowledged the sequence of numbers, assumed them to be a telephone or pager number. As soon as Shaw saw the message, he decoded the reference. But by then, three days later, the damage had already been done."

"If the media had got hold of this...."

"Which is why the original has been wiped from our system, and why this copy stays locked in here and remains between us," she said, taking the sheet of paper back.

I nodded my understanding. Her caution had been justified. Had she alerted the authorities at the time she first received the email, there may have been a chance, however slim, of averting the tragedy. Even afterwards, family members might have cited negligence and, at the very least, a detailed and messy enquiry into the institute’s operations would have been inevitable, the kind of publicity that would inescapably tarnish the reputations of both the institute and French. She took a deep breath and then pressed a button on her telephone.

"Good. Enough then. Our Senior Nurse will escort you to the room," she said, with a sigh, and although this was only our first meeting, I noticed her shoulders and posture relax.

"One moment," I said, looking up from my pad. "I have a few more questions."

"Tomorrow, Professor Mannigan. Ask me tomorrow once you've read the file notes and spent some time with the brother assigned to meet with you, the one called Guardian."

"As you wish," I said, putting my pad away. While she remained seated, I stood, nodded my thanks and walked to the door.

"And professor," she called, as I reached for the door handle. "Mobile telephones are prohibited in Seahaven. But in consideration of your father's condition, and as long as you keep the device in a soundless mode, we have waived that requirement for you. I truly hope you get what you need."

So Donald had discussed me. Moreover, she had been right. After reading the file notes that evening after meeting Guardian, I needed nothing more from her.

The file, meticulously organised, contained routine medical and psychiatric reports for the boys. Each appeared to be in perfect, if unremarkable, health. The statements from the foster homes made for an interesting read. The reaction of the boys, even when placed with different families, had been entirely consistent. They had begun by sitting crossed-legged by the front door, screaming unintelligible abuse at the adults. After this came the violence, grabbing any objects and launching them at windows or walls or people, although in no instances causing any physical damage to others or themselves. Whisper, alone in the house in Exeter, had not only escaped through a bathroom window, but had found his way unaided to his other brother, Shaw, in the same town, even though he had no way of knowing where he was or how to find him.

>>>道<<<

Nurse Ross stood now with her back holding open the pale blue door waiting to usher me forward. I slowed my pace, brought back from my thoughts, waiting for her response.

"Doctor French, you say? Called to Edinburgh for an urgent meeting. Won't be back 'til Monday. Asked me to apologise and take care of you."

Even on my fourth visit, the stark transformation from the stylish main house to the modern sparseness of the outbuilding unsettled me. Each shoe-box corridor looked the same as the next; pale blue and grey walls, neon strip lights, and white linoleum floors.

"What do you know about the Vynx brothers?" I asked, to pass the time and in the hope she might provide more personal insight than her officiously tight-lipped predecessor. Nurse Ross appeared a little friendlier, perhaps more open.

She walked some way ahead of me, but I felt sure I heard a soft snort. "About as much as anyone. Poor wee bairns found roaming naked in Dartmoor,” she said. "Claimed to be from outer space or some such nonsense. None knew where they really came from or where their folks were. All that media attention and still none came forward. What a world we live in. So they ended up here, and that's where they've been ever since, the poor wee wretches."

"For fifteen years. A considerable drain on public funds."

"Oh no," she said, stopping and turning to me, surprise in her eyes. "Did you not know? They get no hand-out from the government. Their fees are paid in full by a private benefactor. Did Doctor French nay tell you?"

Seeing my confused reaction, she gave a soft snort, a quick shake of her head, and then continued walking on. Through double glazed windows framing the manicured lawns of the grounds, two orderlies with umbrellas hurried patients along pathways, out of the downpour, to the shelter of the main building at the back of the building. As usual, by the time we turned into the fourth or fifth corridor, I had lost all sense of direction.

"I suppose she warned you off talking to the guests about them?" said Nurse Ross.

"Indeed, she did. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing. But keep in mind that not everyone's doo-lally in here.”

She stopped before the familiar navy door to the meeting room and, after a quick glance through the door's circular window, turned to face me.

"Here you are," she said, a lilt of humour in her voice. "He's been here since four. Taken quite a shine to you, has that one. Think he's been looking forward to chatting with you all day."

For some reason, this news unsettled me even more. Once she turned to go, I remained outside, breathing deeply and taking a few moments to centre myself.

>>>道<<<

On the evening of my first meeting, Senior Nurse Brent pushed through the door, and used her back to hold the heavy portal open. She informed me I would be speaking to Guardian and his brother, Whisper. After pointing towards the far end of the room, she left, letting the door swing closed behind her. A woman of few words.

Before that moment, the only photographs and television footage I had seen of the brothers had been taken years before, at the time of their discovery. All in their early-teens, they had appeared small; emaciated and frightened.

Nobody had warned me about the astonishing features of the young adult men introduced as Guardian and Whisper, and especially their eyes, Asian almond-shaped. Still, where one might expect deep shades of brown, those gazing back at me were aquamarine, the blue-green of wild oceans.

I approached the young man I assumed to be Guardian, who sat at a table by the window, his hands cupped together in front of him on top of the white Formica top table. Beside him, to his right, he had an old shoe box stained on the lid by a mix of pastel colours. Beneath lay a large manila folder containing sheets of paper.

The other brother sat behind on a seat against the radiator, arms folded across his chest, observing. Both wore identical grey sweat suits, the tops with the hoods down. Unlike Guardian, whose sweeping black fringe and long sideburns leant him a rugged, Bohemian quality, the one I came to know as Whisper had almost albino colouring; pure white hair, ivory skin, and a carved, stolid expression. Only their lean build and distinctive eyes spoke of shared genealogy.

At the time, I held out a hand to Guardian.

"Good evening. I’m—”

"Professor James P. Mannigan," he interrupted, without looking up. His deep, mature voice, belied his youthful age. "Cults or Cultures: A Study of Contemporary Fringe Society. A fine piece of work, if a little lacking in substantive case study."

He remained seated, finally looking up into my face, ignoring my outstretched hand. A memory flashed back to me, something written by the other journalist, that the boys shunned physical contact for fear of human microbial contamination. Something else struck me then. Somewhere there must have been a photograph of Guardian—maybe in one of the many reports I had read—because his face seemed hauntingly familiar. Whatever their origins, they had aged remarkably well, both appeared to be in their late teens. According to Dr. French, they were already in their teens when they arrived at the institute fifteen years ago. After collecting my thoughts, I lowered myself into a plastic chair and pulled my briefcase onto my lap.

"Nice to meet someone other than my sister and publisher who has actually read the book," I said eventually, with a smirk. In truth, the book had sold remarkably well, especially in medical circles, and I had spent an exhausting eighteen months signing books and providing lectures to interested parties.

While Guardian waited politely, unspeaking, I removed my trusty old digital Dictaphone from the case and placed the device next to my mobile telephone. My sister had ragged me about the ancient machine, saying my phone could do the job just as well. But old habits, and all that.

“Do either of you have any objection to me recording these interviews?”

I looked past Guardian to where the other brother sat staring at me.

"My brother is here merely to observe," said Guardian, without turning to his sibling. "Please direct your questions to me, Professor Mannigan.”

"I see."

"And I recommend you take written notes, professor."

"James," I said, clicking on the recorder anyway. "Please call me James. I'll take written notes as well, but I find it easier to listen back when I type notes on my laptop. There's something more personal, more three dimensional about listening to a voice."

"As you wish, James. But before we begin, please assure me that you will dispense with the usual catalogue of questions about which planet we come from and where we parked our spacecraft?"

I looked up and grinned. His face remained impassive, and my smile slipped away.

"You have my word."

“If I am to be perfectly honest, I have to admit to wondering why people find us so fascinating."

"Four young brothers of unknown origin found wandering the moors alone, who claim they are not human?”

“Within this institute alone, I could introduce you to a very charming woman who insists she is Queen Victoria, or, indeed, to two young men who claim to be lost elves of Middle Earth. Why do they not command the same attention?"

This time I resisted the urge to smile. "I'm sure experts in other fields of study may find them interesting, but they haven't produced the same effect on pockets of the general populace as you and your brothers."

Although his features remained frozen, his eyes lowered with disappointment.

"You mean the suicides?" he said, and produced a deep sigh. “We overestimated the integrity of the previous journalist. You know, at some stage in your evolution your species will come to understand that existence coupled with cognisance is a boon, not a burden. But with each renewal, you are so consumed by the brisk passing of time and the search for meaning, that you forget the simple joy of being."

Rebirth. For research purposes, I had no interest in the brother's theories on human reincarnation, except perhaps as a footnote, so I redirected the conversation.

"Well, as our time together is limited, I hope you won't mind checking some of my research for accuracy in between our meetings?"

Interviews would be conducted in the late afternoons. I planned to use the evenings and the mornings to write up drafts and print them off for him to review.

"Not at all," he said, nodding while assessing me for a long moment. "Now, before we begin, would you like something to drink, James? I understand you are partial to ginger and peppermint tea.”

Clearly, they had done their own research. Before he had even finished speaking, Whisper rose and moved to another part of the room, returning shortly with a cup of hot water and the string of a tea bag hanging over the lip. I took a couple of polite sips before pointing to my Dictaphone. In return, Guardian nodded once for me to begin.

"Maybe we can start with something simple. How do you spend your days here?"

"Much the same as anyone."

"More specifically?"

"Breathing. Eating. Walking. I'm not sure what you want."

"Take me through an average day at Seahaven."

"Why?"

"So that I can gain a perspective on your lives."

"Our lives are much the same as everyone else here. We wake, wash, and dress. During the day we are fed at fiercely regulated meal times. We are afforded activities such as reading, listening to music, painting, and, if the weather is clement, performing these activities within the confines of the institute grounds. On such days, we work on our vegetable patch at the back of the kitchens and sometimes are allowed to help the institute groundsman tend the gardens and flowerbeds. Once or twice a month, we have guided trips to local beauty spots along the coastline. Some activities we no longer choose to engage in."

"Such as?"

"Watching television programmes."

"You never watch television?"

"Isn't that not what I just said?"

"Why do you choose not to?"

"The programmes sanctioned for viewing are either trite or of little interest. And those deemed as serious reporting—news items and current affairs—are so blatantly biased and divisive as to be ludicrous. We learn what we need through the provision of an array of more noteworthy mediums; newspapers and publications, or through updates from Walker, who, when afforded the opportunity, is a keen internet enthusiast."

"I see. And do you communicate with the other patients?"

"Guests. Yes, of course. If we are spoken to. Would it not be ill-mannered to do otherwise?"

"I mean, do you actively engage them in conversation?"

"Why should we? We share very little in common."

"Apart from being here?"

"Which is hardly a topic of lengthy or stimulating discussion."

"What about group therapy session?"

“Living at the institute, as well as undergoing regular physical and mental health assessments, we are invited to attend focus group sessions particularly for those suffering from what the institute professionals deem similar acute traumas. These allow guests to vocalise their experiences and feelings. They are executed as efficiently and professionally as one might expect from an establishment of this nature."

"Do you and your brothers participate?"

"The sessions are non-compulsory."

"So…you don't participate?"

"We choose not to. Not any longer. We fill our days with other things."

"I see. And at night-time?"

"We sleep."

"Before you sleep?"

"Again, I am not sure what you want me to say. We do not perform any exotic extra-terrestrial rituals at nightfall, if that is what you are alluding to."

"Okay, then," I said, sitting back in my chair and making a mental note of the manner in which questions would be answered. "Let's discuss your experience in the foster homes?”

He had been right about taking notes. When I reached my lodgings on the first evening, I discovered the Dictaphone had malfunctioned, picking up only static during our meeting, our voices indiscernible. After Monday, I chose to leave the device in my briefcase.

Our meetings had been cordial enough but revealed little more than I already knew. Although physiologically human, when they first arrived, they claimed to be extra-terrestrial, brought to Earth on a mission of observation and enlightenment. The amnesia masking their true origins, they believed to be intentional and a condition allowing them to study life unencumbered and non-partisan. At some point in the future, they would receive a signal providing coordinates for a sacred rendezvous point and begin their journey home. Unfortunately, the previous journalist had reported most of this, which had no doubt contributed to the cult suicides.

From my professional experience, they conformed to a classic social cult model, forged through their individuality and segregation. In my own research and from the studies of colleagues, I had found groups ranging from children to those in their twenties, victims of troubled homes or those who had suffered traumatic experiences, inventing and believing intricate stories to mask their 'real' lives. In some notable cases, usually in childhood where a group had endured these ordeals over prolonged periods—in violent households or cases of extreme isolation—they had invented their own language, adopted as a means of self-protection. Interestingly, one of the focuses of my research centred on the increase in cases and how the age of readily available modern technology and especially the ability to form private social groups had hidden cases from professionals. While online connection had created beneficial outcomes, providing a wider audience for advice and support, detrimental effects came in the form of spreading misinformation, expanding into wild conspiracy theory territory, and lastly, the many instances of vitriolic trolling often resulting in the self-harming or suicides of vulnerable individuals.

Outwardly the brothers appeared well-adjusted, communicable and reasonably integrated. And yet they had created no emotional bonds outside the group, relying exclusively on their interconnection. To cope with their ordinary situation, they had invented an extraordinary reason to explain their existence: fantastic, unprovable, and yet, in the absence of any clear evidence to the contrary, unshakeable.

By Wednesday, I felt I had gathered as much as I could. Guardian had named himself well. Answers had been brief and economical, not particularly insightful, but with the help of Doctor French I had enough material to work into a reasonable first draft of research.

That evening, however, as I closed my notepad at the end of our session and began to ready myself to leave, something changed.

From the smudged fingertips of his right hand, I guessed that Guardian had been working on one of his pictures before I arrived. I knew the brothers were gifted from the file notes but had seen nothing firsthand. As I pulled my briefcase onto my lap, I asked to see his work. Without hesitating, he opened his portfolio, shuffled through, and then selected a particular picture, a landscape of pastels, beautifully illustrated, of a rugged cliff-faced coastline.

He held the picture in front of his chest and provided a rare smile. "This is what I’m working on, the cliffs bordering Seahaven, in a style inspired by—"

"Thomas Moran," I muttered, intuitively, because I knew exactly what he was about to say and then wondered where the words had come from. A shiver prickled down my spine. Behind Guardian, I noticed Whisper sit upright, his eyes widening, staring at me, while his lips moved soundlessly.

As though listening, Guardian tilted his head to one side and then smiled at me. "You are familiar with the works of Moran?"

"Actually, no. I mean, objectively I appreciate art as much as the next person but… Perhaps I read or heard the name somewhere." I frowned, confused, because with sudden crystal clarity the words had sprung from my head to my lips.

"Your instincts were correct," he said, looking straight into me. "He is well-chosen."

A second went by before I realised Guardian had addressed his brother.

"Look. I don't know what happened there, but I can tell you this much. I have never studied Thomas Moore."

"Moran. Of course you have, James. How else could you have remembered? Maybe not in this life, but at some point in time. Perhaps you even were him. What you just experienced is what we call a ripple, something magnificent. You recalled a memory from another existence. We sense similar tributaries running through your lives each day, but many of them so mundane they would not signify.”

"Is this about you being immortal?" I asked, making no effort to mask my ridicule. I yanked my briefcase onto my lap and snapped the clasps open. I had purposefully avoided being drawn into their ideology, but now his certitude had begun to rile me. "When all tests performed to date show you to be as human and as temporal as the rest of us?"

"Not immortal, James. Nothing is unending; not insects, animals, forests, mountains, oceans, planets, nor stars. Nor the universe. Ours is a matter of protracted existence. You and I are fundamentally the same. Both of us live within the time boundaries of our species, but while you are the flowers that blossom and fade within the course of a season, we are the trees, deliberate and constant. Eventually all our forms pass from the physical world, some before our time, but the difference is our natural longevity affords us the opportunity to observe you, the same way you can observe the life-cycle of plants and flowers.”

I remained seated, in part to humour him, and in part to steady myself.

"I see. And do you find us amusing and entertaining?"

"Why are you being cynical?"

"I'm..." I faltered, having expected another answer. "This is not part of my research."

"Have I not remained professional and cooperative throughout these interviews? For the past three evenings, have I not answered all of your questions?"

“I—yes,” I answered, and then sighed. He was right, I had been unprofessional, bordering on rude. What harm could there be in spending a few moments listening to his theories, however outlandish or superfluous? "I'm sorry. Please continue. Tell me, how do you view us?"

"Without cynicism."

All traces of friendliness had left his eyes. Contrition hit me hard. The change affected me more deeply than I could have anticipated.

"I truly apologise, Guardian. You’re right; you’ve been polite and accommodating from the outset. Please. Tell me from your own perspective what you see? I would like to—no—I think I ought to know."

He hesitated again. Behind him Whisper's lips moved soundlessly. Without turning, Guardian nodded and looked at me again, straight into me.

"Imagine standing on a hill at midnight beneath a starless sky. Scattered below you are millions of candles of varying shapes and sizes, some newly lit, some almost spent, and a whole array in between. Each has a unique flame; a shape, a colour, a size and movement. Although some are similar, no two are exactly the same. As you watch, one weary candle extinguishes, leaving a wisp of smoke. During the same night, in another part of the darkness, an identical flame relights on a fresh candle, the light strong and unwavering. Individually you are solitary lights in a blanket of darkness, but from where we stand, from the top of the hill, you form an ever-changing ocean of beauty."

"Eloquent. And yet we're still alone in the dark.”

"That is not what I said. In fact you are all connected. And your flame remains with you."

"Remains?"

"Echoes within you each time you evolve; memories, emotions, feelings. Even little habits and idiosyncrasies, tucked away within your essence, but there nonetheless."

"All very inspirational, but unscientific and unprovable."

“Unscientific? One of the basic principles of science concerns energy. Your being is a combination of matter and energy, is it not? Your flesh and bones are matter, while your life essence is the energy which powers the body and the mind. Matter deteriorates, the body grows old and dies. Energy, on the other hand, can neither be created nor destroyed. It has always been there and simply changes states, finding a new matter host. This is a fundamental governing law of the universe. The total amount of energy does not—cannot—change.”

“We could argue this for hours, but I have a long drive back.” I said, checking my wristwatch, more to signal my intent to leave than to check the time. “And I'm happy not knowing.”

With the briefcase still on my lap, I twisted around and pulled my jacket from the back of the chair.

"Happy, James?" This time the voice registered not humour, but pity. “Many guests haunt this institute because of severe emotional problems. I have yet to meet one more troubled or lost or guilt-ridden than the man sitting opposite me."

When I swung around in irritation, the well of compassion in the eyes staring back stopped me, and whatever I had been meaning to say dissolved.

"Blame and guilt," said Guardian, beginning a speech that had kept me awake throughout the night. Afterwards, he had rested his hand on my bandaged wrist.

The words and gesture had threatened to overwhelm me. From the moment I willed myself to leave until I lumbered towards the car park, squeezing the electronic key ring to unlock my car, I barely remembered taking a breath. Before daring to start the engine, I sat behind the steering wheel for a full ten minutes, staring into darkness, waiting for my hands and body to stop trembling.

A soft tap on the door window made me gasp and turn. I lowered the window and stared into an unfamiliar face with familiar eyes. Before either of us spoke a word, he handed me the latest pages of my research Guardian had offered to read and edit, pages I had forgotten to collect in my haste to leave.

"Forgive my brother. Sometimes he pushes too hard,” said the man, silhouetted in the soft emergency light of the car park. I had not even heard him following me. Apart from dark hair and the familiar shape of his eyes, I could make out none of his other features.

“There is nothing to forgive," I heard myself say, turning to stare ahead and pushing the ignition button. "Everyone is entitled to their own beliefs."

"I agree. What is it your Voltaire is often misquoted as saying? 'I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.' I assume the same goes for beliefs," said the man. He sounded warm and familiar, even a little unsure, completely unlike his brother. "I hope we haven't offended you, James?"

“Who are you?" I asked

"Walker. I'm the one who tracked you down," he said, with an edge of humour in his voice. "The thing is, you interest us. We have a connection. More than you can imagine. And Guardian, who rarely engages with any of your kind, has opened up to you. Will you return tomorrow?"

"I think I may have everything I need.”

Unlike Guardian, Walker showed his emotions openly and appeared immediately crestfallen.

"That would be extremely disappointing. There is still so much—," he said, and stopped abruptly. He looked behind himself for a moment and then back to me, concern carved on his face. "I have said too much. I must go. Return tomorrow. Please. You must."

And, of course, I did.

>>>道<<<

With Nurse Ross gone, I took a steadying breath, swung the door open, and strode forward. Immediately, I noticed the empty chair against the radiator where Whisper usually sat. As I seated myself, Guardian remained silent, his eyes lowered, hands clasped in front of him, although he appeared to exude none of my discomfort.

“Good evening,” I said, as I pulled out a chair and sat down. He waited a while before answering.

“My brother believed you might not return.”

I said nothing in response. My usual routine of taking out my notebook from my briefcase kept me grounded and occupied. Guardian waited until I had finished before speaking again.

“Come. Leave your things. Let us stroll, James," he said, standing suddenly. "Get some air into our lungs."

"I think you’ll find it’s raining. Quite heavily.”

"For which occasion the institute provides a simple, yet marvellous invention," he said, reaching for something leaning against the back of his chair. “Called an umbrella."

Only then did I allow myself to look into his eyes and see the humour there. Despite myself, I smiled back and for the first time, he responded in kind.

From the room, I followed him into a corridor I had not used before and, halfway down, to double doors leading out into the grounds. By now, the heavens had opened, the storm almost upon us. In contrast to the institute’s fierce coddling heating, the sudden coolness and raw metallic smell of rain brought my senses to life.

"I will let you into a little secret," said Guardian, as he unclasped his large umbrella on the porch, the playful tone in his voice, "something others have yet to unravel. Our names are not our own. We chose them as soon as we became aware of our surroundings, but there is nothing mystical about them. They are based on the first items that came to hand. In this case, we used what you call litter, discarded in a crevice on the moor. I chose mine from the front page of a newspaper, Whisper and Shaw's names came respectively from a confectionary wrapper and a discarded stick deodorant, although your authorities chose to spell the names differently, and Walker found his—”

“—on a packet of potato chips?”

"Interesting how your people strive to find meaning, even when the simplest answer lies right in front of them.”

Stepping onto the path, he stopped and turned, waiting for me to join him. When I did, and to my surprise, he placed an arm around my shoulders.

"During our time together, I have spoken about myself and my brothers. Apart from articles Walker discovered online, I know very little about the real you, James."

"There's not much to tell."

We continued strolling onwards, and I felt his presence next to me waiting quietly for a more satisfactory response.

"At this phase in my life, I'm devoting time to my profession as a researcher. Apart from a handful of articles in online medical journals, you've read my one publication which hardly constitutes a life's work. I've yet to gain a satisfactory level of accomplishment."

"Can I ask you a personal question?"

"Certainly."

"How did you and your late partner meet?"

"My…?"

"Alain. Alain Carpenter? Was that not his name?"

“How do you…?”

"James. Once published, whether you like it or not, you join the ranks of celebrity, however diminutive. When Walker researched you on the Internet he came up with no fewer than ten direct references. Your homosexuality seems to have been met by mixed reactions from your contemporaries."

"My personal life is nobody's business but my own."

"While ours appears to be open to public scrutiny?”

"You chose to cooperate. You invited me here,” I said, stopping beside an empty bench along the gravel path, largely sheltered from the rain by a large oak tree. Blood burned the inside of my neck. “And you have my oath I won't publish a single word without your consent."

"I know," For the first time in all our meetings, a flicker of regret passed across his usually impassive gaze. "I know. Forgive me. I didn't mean the question to unsettle you. Although I have known you only briefly, I sense you are a man of trust and integrity.”

"Thank you."

"But there is a reason for my asking. I would like to understand you better, because I feel we share an affinity.”

A silence fell between us. The question had surely been innocent, and I wondered more than anything why my reaction had been so hostile. Guardian lowered himself onto the bench and, with a soft sigh, I did the same, both of us still beneath the umbrella.

“There are few things I find difficult to talk about. But Alain is the hardest.”

“I sensed as much. If you would rather not—”

“No. You were right the other day when you said I have unresolved issues.”

A silence fell between us, but this time Guardian remained quiet. Once again he placed his cold hand on top of mine and squeezed, and the words began to tumble out of me before I had the chance to stop them.

"We met in the late nineties in Salvador, Brazil, towards the end of my uneventful trek across South America," I said, and then to clarify, added, "Up until that point, my adventure of self-discovery and enlightenment had turned out to be nothing more than a series of bus rides; stifling and dusty and solitary bus rides—despite being packed full of people.”

I explained how I had found myself in the cool afternoon gloom of a hotel bar in Salvador, escaping from the punishing midday heat. That particular afternoon, I remembered sitting there, peeling the label from a bottle of local beer, calculating whether I had enough money to fly on to Guyana and locate Jonestown, the former site of the People's Temple cult—however ghoulish—thinking a visit might add substance to a research that had frankly stalled; stale and uninspired.

Like bookends, we sat at either ends of the bar, the only clientele in the small room. The barman spoke very little English and, apart from the creak of the ceiling fan, the only other sound came from the traffic on the busy road outside. At one point, I caught sight of his reflection in the age-speckled barroom mirror, his unkempt shock of black hair not unlike the locals, but offset by pale skin and overtired eyes.

Eventually, he stood as if to leave, but instead lifted his bar stool and appeared next to me. He asked to join me and then nodded to the stool still held in his hands. Even in those few spoken words, I could discern a North American accent, one that turned out to be Canadian.

At first, I had minded him joining me. I possessed—still possess—few social skills and none at making small talk, nor did I wish to listen to his. Alain took my silence to mean acquiescence and installed himself next to me.

At first, he asked a few questions and in return got short, monosyllabic replies. Although this didn't seem to bother him, he changed tack and began to talk about himself, how he had taken a week out after working as a medical adviser in South America for an AIDS foundation, assembled to combat the spread of HIV and AIDS in developing worlds. Despite what must have been disturbing elements to his field of work, he talked about his labours and many adventures freely and with good humour.

Before long I found myself enthralled, asking questions and enjoying his company. In the three weeks I had spent in that continent, I laughed for the first time. When I finally opened up about the real reason for the holiday, beyond my study and research—my voyage of self-discovery—he teased me good-naturedly but relentlessly. More interesting for me, I allowed him to do so, oddly elated to find someone who took me less seriously than I took myself.

Over the next three days we became inseparable, co-conspirators, hunting each other out at breakfast and planning the day's activities. We trooped tirelessly from one site to the next: the Bahia Museum of Art, the Museum of Archaeology and Ethnography, the glorious Carmelite Church, and of course, to the Cathedral. Over those three packed days, I discovered the true joy of really seeing a city.

At dinner on the evening of the third day, eating alfresco on the roof of a cheap cafe he had been recommended and watching the sun set over the rooftops, he dropped into the conversation about the flight he had to catch in the morning. I remember the moment well because my reaction, one I thought I hid pretty well at the time, has stayed with me ever since. I barely heard the rest of his words, something about writing and staying in touch. The only thing I did remember clearly on that hot, humid night, was shivering suddenly as though an arctic wind had just blown across an empty playground. By the time we reached the hotel lobby, I had recovered enough to shake his hand with genuine warmth and to wish him well.

And then, as we reached the landing and before he turned to go to his room at the other end of the corridor, I grasped his hand again, looked him in the eyes and said, ‘You have no idea how much I’m going to miss you, Alain.'

"That night he came to my room." I said, smiling at the ground, a defining moment I would treasure until my last breath. “We made love until sunrise, and the next morning he rearranged his flight and stayed with me for the rest of my holiday. There's a lot more since, but that's how it all began."

"And how did it end?"

"A puerile argument over whether we should set up house together. He should have been staying the night at my flat, but instead drove away angry. Twenty minutes later, I received a call from the emergency services, telling me he had been involved in a car accident, one he didn’t survive,” I said, feeling my brief moment of pleasure slipping away. "But please, Guardian, don't ask me anymore. I'd rather not discuss that part of my life."

“He still loved you.”

“I know.”

“And although I promised I would not lecture you again, you should know that he will find his way back to you.”

“Just maybe not in this lifetime?”

In response Guardian smiled again, moved his hand to my shoulder, before rising and indicating we walk on. By now, the shower fell heavily and evenly, hissing on the tarmac in the calm air.

As another flash of lightning lit up the scene, I spotted three men standing together beneath an awning, wearing similar clothing to Guardian’s attire; grey sweat suits, and black thigh-length rain jackets. One I recognised instantly by his shock of white hair. As one, they turned to look as we approached them.

"My brothers. I thought it only fair that you met us all together."

>>>道<<<

Walker was the first of the brothers to step forward, the one who had met me at my car the previous evening. Unlike Guardian, he smiled broadly and held out a hand in greeting. I turned puzzled to Guardian, who had the faintest hint of a smile, but nodded once. Walker’s handshake felt firm but ice cold, probably due to the weather.

“I followed your advice.”

“I’m glad, James. My brother has been monopolising you. These are my brothers, Whisper, who you have met already, and Shaw.”

Whisper I knew, of course, with his distinctive shock of white hair and pale complexion. Shaw appeared to be a slightly older version of Walker, but unlike his brother, eyed me warily. When I saw no movement to indicate any physical welcome, I simply smiled and nodded.

“Thank you for allowing your brother to cooperate with me this past week. I hope you’ve also had a chance to read my draft notes.”

“Of course.” Shaw seemed to hold some authority among the three, so I met his gaze. “Have you shown the pages to Dr. French?”

Although he, too, looked to be in in his late teens, Shaw’s voice sounded much older than his years.

“Not yet. But out of respect, I will do so once everything is assembled. For any comments or amendments. Just as I will do for you all.”

“And will you include any of what you and my brother spoke about yesterday before you ran to your car? Or will that remain a source of amusing anecdotes for your retelling at medical society dinner parties?”

Shaw did not even try to hide his hostility. Thunder punctuated his question. Perhaps, after all, I had been lucky to have interviewed Guardian.

“Shaw,” warned Guardian.

“No, it’s fine, Guardian,” I said, maintaining Shaw’s eye contact. Whisper’s eyes flicked to Guardian, before he pulled up the hood of his jacket and moved past me into the rain. Was there animosity between the brothers? I found the concept strange, bearing in mind what I had heard so far. “Shaw has every right to know how I will depict you all, especially if the work is published. And the answer is that I will mention your theories, but as I explained to your brother when I first arrived, the purpose of my research lies elsewhere, in how you manage to function so well given what have been difficult circumstances. And as I have said, you will have the final say on what I publish about you. If there is anything you find incorrect, or unfair, and most importantly, offensive, you have my word that I will remove it, Shaw.”

“My brother knows—” Guardian had been staring hard at Shaw, before hiking in a breath and turning suddenly at the sound of a scuffle. I turned, too, as Shaw and Walker hurried past me. Guardian handed the umbrella to me and joined them.

In the downpour, further off, I moved towards the shadows of two men who appeared to be having a conversation. Lightning once again lit up the scene, just as the smaller of the two—a bald man in his fifties—thrust a hand out and grabbed Whisper by the collar.

"Would you have sacrificed your own? Would you?" The man’s voice carried the weight of a preacher. I could see his face shining white with rage, his eyes bulged with madness. "No, you would not. And make no mistake, by Hammurabi’s Code, I am here to claim my retribution."

Even though the man fell short of Whisper's stature, he stood squat and powerful. His clenched fist held the brother by the collar, and Whisper, held at arm's length, appeared to allow him to do so without a struggle. Before anyone had a chance to react, I noticed the flash of steel in the man’s other hand. Shaw moved first, but the man’s hand thrust forward into Whisper’s stomach.

Shock had glued me to the spot, frozen in time. Not even the deafening thunder that rumbled the ground moved me. Whisper dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach as Shaw’s hand grasped the wrist of the man, the one holding the long hunter’s knife. In spite of the constant downpour, other people—guests—began to gather. Large men in white tee shirts and long trousers appeared from the way we had come, running.

Amid the commotion, I barely recognised the gentle buzz from my mobile phone vibrating in my pocket. Without taking my eyes from the scene, I planted the phone to my ear and muttered a colourless greeting.

"James?" The voice sounded distant, weak, but familiar.

Lightning illuminated the whole awful scene again, thunder now exploding seconds later. One of the guests, a young woman, stood a few feet away, pulling at clumps of her red hair and wailing. Two orderlies pushed Whisper onto his side, but Guardian waved a placating hand to move them out of the way. Pain contorted Whisper’s face, and he drew his knees up to his stomach. Even though his hands clutched the wound, blood had already begun to seep between his fingers, pooling with rainwater on the grass.

"Dad? Is that you?"

Guardian knelt beside Whisper, the other side from me. The attacker had dropped the knife and watched on, the impassive stare of a spellbound bystander. Even though he had calmed visibly, Walker rushed to Shaw's assistance and, with another orderly, secured the man, even though the action seemed unnecessary. Shaw's free hand seemed to move in circular motions behind the attacker's neck.

"Can I talk to you, son?"

Guardian muttered something inaudible to Whisper in what appeared to be an attempt to get his brother's attention. Once their eyes locked, he reached out to place a hand onto Whisper’s, but stopped when the younger brother shook his head, a barely discernible, yet definitive, gesture.

"Dad, there's been a terrible—um—incident. Can I call you back?"

There appeared to follow a non-verbal discord between the brothers. Guardian’s brow knotted with tension, his eyes pleading with Whisper. The younger brother simply shook his head again. Somebody tried to calm the screaming woman, but now two other guests had joined the wailing.

"Sorry son, I can't hear you," said my father's voice.

Careful not to disturb their interaction, I knelt the other side of the wounded brother, to where the knife had fallen.

"Someone been badly hurt. I'll call you back."

I thrust a hand into my pocket, pulled out a handkerchief and offered the piece of cloth to Guardian. The gesture felt futile and yet caused an instant, if unexpected, reaction. Whisper broke from his brother's gaze and stared directly at me. The force of his stare made the world spin within and around me. I had been there before, in the same moment. I knew exactly what to do.

"I understand. It's not important. Call when you're free," replied my father, although I barely heard him and thought he had gone until he said softly. "Take care, my son. I love you.”

I tossed the phone onto the grass and reached for the discarded knife. Opening my left hand, I drew the blade across my palm from thumb to small finger. Blood swelled instantly from the gash. Pooling as much as I could into my palm, I reached out for Whisper’s wound. He released his hands and allowed me to turn my hand palm-down onto his stomach. Once in place, he returned his own hands on top of mine, applying pressure onto the wounded area. In preparation for what I knew would come, I squeezed my eyes closed.

I stood on the moon and watched the earth breathing in and out, a living being. Everything made perfect sense. Cyclical existence, everything made up of spheres and rotations. Energy. Planets, atoms, subatomic particles. Everything rotational, not moving ever forward in a linear motion as I had always believed, but in circles and spirals.

I stood alone on a rocky outcrop. As though contained in a glass vacuum, a bell jar atmosphere, the air around me became still and silent. Above, the sun and moon chased each other across the sky, faster and faster until day and night blended into a blur of grey. Something I hadn't noticed before surfaced in my consciousness. Within everything around me, a chord of deep sound resonated, wordless voices that brimmed with the music of being, the tight vibrancy of life.

Lives passed through me, of children, men and women I had been. I felt their fears and loves, their hopes, dreams, and accomplishments. In some I had achieved prominence, and yet, the greatest joy came from the humble: the mother of five daughters, content even then, who became the resplendent grandmother of twenty; the English village artist who painted shop signs for his own and neighbouring villages; a loyal member of Henry Hudson's sailors finally forced to accompany him in the small boat when his crew mutinied on the Discovery and cast them adrift.

And then, like a mountain train rushing headlong through the daylight, another tunnel loomed and swallowed me entirely into darkness.

>>>道<<<

After an exhausting string of meetings with the medical team, the local police and a long phone call with an unusually flustered Dr. French, the day transitioned into night. Nurse Ross found me a small room at the end of one of the maze of corridors, the one Dr. French had set aside for me.. Three metal bed frames crammed into three of the corners filled most of the room with a small wardrobe in the fourth.

Wind howled around the structure and rattled loose panes in the metal window frames. The rainstorm continued to rage outside, like handfuls of gravel thrown at the glass. Wearing only underpants, I rolled to the edge of the mattress facing the wall and hugged one of the mottled pillows to my chest. Apart from the faint smell of dust and urine, the soft filling of duck feathers felt comforting even though the blanket, coarse and threadbare, prickled my skin and provided scant warmth. I felt too drained to get up and put my dry clothes back on.

In my bandaged hand, I held my phone and stared at the old text message from my sister which read simply ‘Call me’. By the time I had returned her call, my father had already passed away.

"Are you awake?"

Even facing away, I recognised the gentle warmth of Guardian's voice.

“You should be with Whisper.”

“Shaw and Walker are with him. He is recovering well, thanks to your help. And we all agreed you should not be alone this night. I came to bring another blanket and provide company."

"I'm fine."

Without another word, he climbed into the bed beside me and pulled the extra blanket across us both.

"I did not ask your permission."

At first, the warmth of his body along my spine made me shiver, but then brought back such sudden feelings and memories of intimacy that I felt overwhelmed with sadness and had to hold in a sob. As though understanding, he pushed one arm beneath my neck, the other around my waist and pulled me closer.

“Nobody should be alone," he whispered into my ear. "When a kindred flame fails, no person should be on one’s own.”

The words and the simple act of compassion soothed me. Unable to speak, I shifted my arm on top of his and thread our fingers together. We lay that way for many moments, his warm breath on my neck, before either of us spoke again.

"You have had a strange effect on me, James Mannigan," he said.

"Likewise. What happened today?"

“The father of one of the suicides. Came to exact revenge for the loss of his son. As for you, in helping Whisper, in sharing your essence, you opened a door to your pasts.”

How could I forget? What happened in a matter of seconds, felt like an eternity. And yet what still resonated within me was not the memory of the people I had been and the things I had done, but the incredible range of emotions I had felt.

“How did I know what to do? Because I did. As though I had already helped Whisper.”

“Not tonight, James. I will not try to explain that concept to you while you are so vulnerable. You have experienced enough for one day. I will just say that memories are almost exclusively the sole domain of the past—but there are rare exceptions. Please do not question me further, but know that my brothers and I will be forever grateful to you for what you did today.”

After a few moments of silence, I turned in his arms and faced him, pulled away slightly so I could see his flawless skin, his beautiful eyes.

“Is that why you granted me an interview when you refused so many other?"

Guardian smiled gently.

“We were not the only ones being studied. We wished to study you, too, James. Of all those who approached us, none appeared as interesting. Walker made the connection.”

“Why? Because of my book?”

“Interestingly, no. Because of interviews he found in online articles. Almost as a side story, in one you talked about the time you visited the Isle of Wight.”

“That’s right. When I was a child. Why?"

A rare family weekend holiday in a caravan park back when I still tolerated my father. For a wide-eyed eight year old, taking a ferry from the mainland to that magical island, the holiday was nothing short of a Boy's Own adventure.

“And you visited Carisbrooke Castle?”

"Yes."

I had rarely thought about the strange events of that day. Even now, I am not sure why I shared the story with a reporter. Perhaps to explain the tricks the brain can play on us, backfiring at random moments, sending messages the way it does when we recall events.

"Tell me about the day?”

“My father refused to waste money on a tourist map of the castle, despite my sister’s pleas. So we basically found our own way around. But I knew where everything would be and, without the aid of a map, led my family through the Great Hall explaining its use and history, onto the Great Chamber, and even to the Constable's Chamber, the bedchamber for King Charles the First when he was imprisoned there. My parents assumed I'd read a guide book beforehand, but I hadn't."

"And remember when you ran off into one of the smaller rooms and claimed it used to be your bedroom. Remember how you felt?"

“Did I tell the reporter about that?” He maintained the same impassive expression. "Embarrassment, of course. My father scolded me for being a fool."

"No, James. How did the room make you feel? Think back."

"Safe, I suppose. And protected. I have no idea why, but I felt such great joy at being in that room. Later, my sister explained the reaction as ‘déjà vu’ or ‘déjà vécu’, already lived through. There are countless medical studies to explain the phenomena.”

“Of course there are.”

I returned his smile. At last, I understood why they had chosen me. Once again, we said nothing, but he moved his head forward, placed his forehead against mine.

“Can I ask you a question? Something I promise not to include in my work. Who pays for you to be here? Nurse Ross said you have a private benefactor.”

“Ah, James. Do you think we are the only ones of our kind on this huge planet of yours?”

“I see.”

“This is very pleasant,” he said. “I wish we could stay longer, and I could get to know you better, but if today has taught us anything, it is that our presence, however remote, still affects too many vulnerable and impressionable people.”

“The cult, you mean? The Chamber of Celestial Consciousness?”

“Not only them, but those all-consuming emotions they leave in their wake. I understand this desperate scrabble to belong, for inclusion, to be a part of something, anything. It is a human condition. But this cannot continue, we cannot be a part of this phenomenon which is immobilising everyone. We cannot give these lost souls what they crave, and we are, in turn, compromised."

"Give it time. Eventually, these things will—”

"No, James. We need to present an incontrovertible conclusion. Events will only cease when there is a credible end to this story. Now, I must apologise if what I am about to ask of you seems divisive, but I feel you, perhaps more than anyone, will understand."

"Anything."

"We have come to a decision.”

"What do you mean?"

"It is our time to transition.”

I fell silent. They were leaving. I had only recently connected with him on a more personal level. For the first time since Alain, I had felt connected to another person.

“I see.”

He understood instinctively, and pulled our bodies together.

“You must not be sad. This is the right thing to do. But will you promise me something?”

“Go on.”

“Will you promise to open yourself up to happiness again? You have such an untapped wealth of love and joy within you.”

>>>道<<<

As the first frosts of winter peppered the ground, I buried the body of my father. For the first time in my life I missed him. I understood finally how I had been a part of him and he a part of me, and felt sad, knowing I would never get the chance to share that knowledge with him.

At the same time, I felt hopeful because I knew he would get another chance, a chance to find happiness, to discover his own peace in a new existence.

Two days after the funeral, an orienteering group, who had misread coordinates on their ordinance survey map of Dartmoor, discovered the remains of two bodies in a remote crevice, two miles from where the boys had been found. The police identified the bodies of Mr. and Mrs. Mori, an Anglo-Japanese couple who had gone missing some fifteen years ago on a hiking holiday with their four sons.

I stood alongside in the final photograph of the brothers together at the funeral, a picture buried away in only two of the national newspapers. Something I agreed to help with was the sideline about the men, that they had left Scotland straight after the funeral to join their Japanese relatives somewhere in South America.

Having been the last to speak to them, and also keen to hear about my new publication, the reporter insisted on meeting me. Both of us being in London the day he contacted me—I had been to London to speak to my publisher—he sent a text message asking if I could meet him face-to-face in a small cafe off the back of Compton Street.

“Professor Mannigan?” came the deep voice, as I entered the humid cafe.

When my eyes followed the sound, the man sitting appeared much younger than the voice, broad-shouldered and attractive in a geeky kind of way. Despite the shock of deep red hair, like the unkempt mane of a lion, and a face full of freckles, I stared into Asian almond-shaped eyes of aquamarine. Completely out of character, the sight made me smile instinctively.

“My name is Barclay,” he said, standing and smiling back, reaching a hand out and almost knocking over his coffee cup.

“As in the bank?”

“Precisely,” he said, his smile widening and a brief wink of the eye. “Now, how about some tea before we talk? How does ginger and peppermint sound?”

“Sounds perfect.”

 

>>>END<<<