Kareem Miskel
Time Immemorial
The island is as close to paradise as I have ever seen in my very long life. The warm sea air, the smell of the ocean, the fragrant scent of autumn all around me. It was magnificent. My heart beat in time with the world – the ocean lapping at the shore, the whisper of the grass in the breeze, the calling birds, the droning flies, the chattering crickets – all of it a grand song that I was part of. The setting sun lit a smoldering fire of orange and purple in the sky as the encroaching night calmed the worldsong to a slower tempo.
Soft skin gently graced my shoulder. I laced my fingers around the slender wrist of my woman. Her hair was waist-long and raven-black, her skin tanned to golden perfection, her figure shaped by the gods themselves. Her smile was broad and cruelly arousing, setting a primal fire burning through my veins. When our eyes met, something elemental flashed between us. It was a wild, carnal power – electric and irresistible. Flesh called out to flesh. Skin beckoned skin. The burning blood in our veins pleaded for kindred heat. The beating of our hearts demanded to be joined. We surged forward, both of us a savage creature trying to lay claim to the other. The taste of her mouth on mine, the skin of her neck on my tongue, it was like brandy. It made my head swim with intoxication and delight. Her touch sent ripples of agonizing tension into my nerves. We fell to the ground taking vulgar comfort in each other.
Suddenly, a rush of power poured out of her and I felt her become one with everything. She was the dirt beneath, the sky above and the sea that surrounded us. She was the animals, the trees, the tide and the approaching storm. There was a new song now as everything shifted tempo and rhythm to obey the will of her ecstasy. The pulse of the waves against the shore intensified. Thunder rolled overhead. Unnamable energy flowed through her and she overwhelmed all of my senses making me helpless in her grasp. Overpowered by the strength of her passions, there was no doubt who belonged to whom. And as we made love on the forest floor, he did what he always did.
He woke up. He started to panic at the unfamiliar setting. The warm sea air had become cool and stale. The coarse earth on his back became offensively soft. Cypress and olive trees were replaced with drywall and plaster. It took several seconds for him to recognize his bedroom. It took several seconds more for him to catch his breath.
So much of it was fading quickly. The scent of the air, the feel of the breeze and the intense song of the world was receding from his mind. Even his arousal had started to fade, leaving him only with his memories of the woman. But those memories were eerily vivid. He could still taste her on his lips. The sounds of her rapture still rang in his ears. It wasn’t just their lust on the naked earth that remained. He could remember the music of her laugh and the bitterness of her tears. The look of gleeful anticipation on her face when she peeled open a fig or a pomegranate was as familiar to him as anything else he’d ever known.
Blake snatched the covers off of him in exasperation and went into his bathroom. He looked into the mirror. A handsome but tired face looked back at him. It was hickory brown and lean and crowned with black hair. And the eyes. His eyes were deep black and filled with frustration. He wasn’t sure why but they were always filled with frustration. Like there was something they were looking for that was just out of sight. He was leaned over with his hand on the sink but when he stood up straight, he was rather tall and more muscular than anyone with so inactive a life had any right to be.
His splashed some water on his face, his eyes lingering on the sink as he tried to ground himself. He trembled a bit. He wasn’t sure why. His head spun and ached. He felt like he had jet lag. Like he’d traveled from the other side of the world. And both places felt so real. Right now he could feel the linoleum on the floor, the porcelain of the sink and the water on his face. But a few minutes ago he could feel the forest floor and the island air.
A pair of arms around his waist startled him back into the moment. They were thin and freckled and tipped with red fingernails. A round face with green eyes and a dimpled smile rested on his shoulder. A curtain of brown hair tickled his bare back. “Good morning,” she sang.
“Good morning,” he answered languidly, the pain in his head fading away.
“How’d you sleep?”
“Better,” he lied.
“Chamomile tea. Works every time.”
He gave her a peck on the cheek. “Like a charm. You work today?”
“Just for a few hours. I should be home by two.”
He turned to face her. “What time is it?”
“About seven thirty. So I need you to get out of the bathroom so I can get ready.”
“You sure you don’t want me to join you? I can help you with those hard to reach areas.”
“No!” She giggled and shoved him out of the bathroom.
“You sure?” he asked from the doorway.
“I can’t be late to work three Saturdays in a row.” She closed the door in his face. “Handle your own hard to reach areas!”
He laughed his way downstairs to the kitchen. Jamie didn’t much care for large breakfasts so he didn’t make her one. Scrambling eggs, toasting bread and slicing fruit, he prepared a small meal. Then he set two plates at the table in the dining room and sat down. When she came in, she smiled at him. He loved it when she smiled at him.
“You’re too good to me,” she said giving him a peck on the cheek.
“I know. But I love you just the same.” She sat down. “So,” he said. “What do you want to do when you get home?”
She shrugged and took a bite of fruit. “Sit in front of the T.V. like as pair of couch potatoes?”
“Plenty of time for that later tonight. You said you’d be home by two. I was thinking we could try that new Japanese steak house that just opened up by the mall.”
“Whatever you want.” Jamie took another bite of fruit and flashed him a smile.
He glared at her disapprovingly. “You’re not going to get even close to finishing that, are you?”
She grinned sheepishly. “I had a bowl of cereal before you woke up.”
“A bowl of cereal is not a meal.”
“Millions of kids and parents would disagree.” She got up and pecked him on the cheek again. “This means there’s more for you, though. You need it to maintain that beautiful body and those creative juices.” Her head rested on his shoulder. “Forgive me?”
He sighed overdramatically. “Oh, I guess.”
“I promise to be plenty hungry by the time you’re ready for dinner.” She grabbed her purse and made her way for the door.
“All right. Have a good day.”
“You too.” The door closed behind her.
After breakfast and a quick shower, Blake thought about what he wanted to do with his day while Jamie was out. He enjoyed some moderate success as an artist. Enough to pay bills. But he hadn’t had any work for a few weeks. Things got this way from time to time. There was an unsteady ebb and flow to his business. Sometimes he would be swamped and sometimes he would have nothing at all. Before he knew it, someone would call him to paint a family portrait, whip up something for an ad or draw some pictures for a book or magazine. He wasn’t worried. He was never worried. In fact, he usually enjoyed the down times but lately he found himself anxious about getting back to work.
Without thinking, Blake went downstairs into the basement. His studio was just past the laundry room and the storage closet. At first glance, it looked like a cluttered mess but, like most messy people, he had a system. It was a system only he understood but it allowed him to navigate his work area with no trouble. Everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. Well, almost everything.
There was an easel sat in the back corner covered by a white sheet. Under the sheet, something spoke to him. Called to him. It was like this every day. Some days he was able to shut it out. Turn his attention to something else. When Jamie was home it was easier. But he was alone right now. So very alone and the call was too strong to ignore.
He snatched the sheet away and looked at the painting underneath. It wasn’t his best work. The strokes were too wild and undisciplined but the detail was uncanny. It was like he’d been there! It all started with this. The dreams, the visions, the sleepless nights. He hardly remembered painting it. He had wandered downstairs a few weeks ago half asleep in the dead of night and woke up, brush and palette, in hand staring at it. The trees were just trees. The grass was just grass. This painting was just a painting but it was so much more. It felt familiar. More than familiar. He knew this island like he knew his own name. He knew its sounds and scents. Its sensations and flavors. He remembered every step and stone and bush and beast. But when he left it, ignored it, those memories vanished and came back only in his dreams.
He had never touched it before. He didn’t really want to but something in him was saying it had to be done. His hand stretched out almost on its own caressing the air just before the canvas. The tips of his fingers felt warm as if reaching for a window on a hot summer day. His breath stalled. His pulse quickened. He snatched his hand away before he made contact but it didn’t ease his anxiety. It didn’t quiet the voice calling out to him.
His heart almost stopped when the doorbell rang. “Shit!” He took two steps and felt his legs wobble. He leaned against the doorway. His head swam as he struggled to catch his breath.
The doorbell rang again.
“Yes, yes! I’m coming!” he called as he rushed upstairs. He opened the front door and his heart almost stopped again. A pair of dark, almond eyes greeted him from a perfect face. Full lips as red as cherries curved upward into a spellbinding grin. Head tilted to the side just so, a curtain of black velvet cascaded down her shoulders. It was her! Just as he had imagined her!
Again, he didn’t breathe. He couldn’t speak. His mouth just hung agape and useless, still and silent.
“Hello.”
Her voice – that voice that he knew so well – struck him like a blow to the gut. “Oh. Um. Hi. I’m…I mean…I…”
“My name’s Callie. I’m Glenn Davidson’s granddaughter.”
Glenn Davidson. Did he know that name?
“He lives in the house next door.” She pointed at the yellow paneled house right next to his.
He shook his head. Of course. He’d lived next door to the man for six years. That must have been it. He had seen Glenn’s granddaughter some time ago and remembered her. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“I’m staying with grandpa for the summer but I locked myself out of his house. You mind if I use your phone?”
“Oh, sure. Right this way.”
“Thank you so much,” she said following him inside. “You’re a lifesaver!”
“Don’t mention it.”
He led her into the living room and left her to make her phone call. He went into the kitchen and started to brew a pot of coffee. Callie came in after a few minutes. “Thank you again.”
“It’s no problem. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water? Iced tea? Milk?”
“You had me at coffee.”
“Coffee it is, then.” He poured her a cup. “Cream? Sugar?”
“I like it black.”
He poured a cup for both of them and they headed for the dining room. “So let me guess,” he said sitting down at the table. “You locked your cell phone in the house too.”
She chuckled. “Yes.”
“It happens to the best of us.”
“It’s my own fault. I was trying to help out around the house by doing some chores. I took out his trash but forgot to leave the door unlocked.”
“Well, you’re welcome to wait here until your grandfather gets home.”
“I appreciate it,” she said. “But you don’t have to do that. You were obviously in the middle of something. I can just wait on his front porch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s too hot out for that.”
“You’re a true gentleman.” She looked around. “You have a very nice house.”
“Thank you.”
“Grandpa says you’re an artist.”
“That I am.”
“How’s someone get into that kind of work?”
Blake shrugged. “Just gotta be crazy enough to have an unrealistic dream and stupid enough to follow it,” he said. “And lucky enough to be successful, I guess.”
“I don’t know that luck has much to do with it. I saw the one you sold to grandpa. The one with the cabin on the lake. With the old man and the little boy fishing. It was really good.”
He grinned. No matter how humble artists try to be, there was no getting around being flattered when someone complimented your work. “Well, thanks.”
“It reminds me of this place my parents used to take us when I was a kid. There were some cabins to rent in the middle of the woods. There was a lake nearby.” A smile played at her lips. “We’d spend a week fishing, swimming, skipping rocks, playing tag. I know a lot of families had more exciting stuff to do in the summer but that was ours, you know.” She looked at him and brought her cup to her lips self-consciously. “It must sound cheesy as hell to you.”
He smiled back at her. “Not really. It sounds nice.”
“So what did you do on your summer vacations? Wait. Let me guess. Museums.”
“I…don’t think my folks ever took me to a museum.”
“What’d they ship you off to summer camp?”
“They died,” he blurted out rather abruptly. He recoiled at the heat in his voice. He hadn’t meant to be so defensive. “When I was young. There was an accident.”
Her eyes closed and her mouth hung open. “I am so sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“…it’s okay,” he said.
“So,” she said searching for some way out the awkward silence. “Did you always want to be an artist?”
“Oh, yeah. As far back as I can remember. When I was a kid I used to stare for hours at Hopper’s Nighthawks and project myself into he picture.
“Hopper’s Nighthawks?”
“Edward Hopper. It’s a real famous painting. You’d know it if you saw it. A handful of people sitting in a diner at night. I imagined what those people were like. Where were they from? What did they eat? What were they talking about? Why were they up so late? I wanted to create worlds like that.”
“I bet your art teachers loved your work.”
“I…” suddenly his head hurt again. “Yeah, I guess. Would you excuse me just a moment?”
“Sure.”
Blake went upstairs into the bathroom. He switched on the light and flinched when he caught view of the mirror. For a second – for the briefest, tiniest second – he didn’t recognize the face that looked back. The feeling vanished as quickly as it came. He stared at the reflection for a while, trying to get the sensation of unfamiliarity back, trying to find out where it had come from and where it had gone.
When nothing happened, he opened the medicine cabinet and swallowed two Aspirin. He took a moment to look in the mirror one more time and went back downstairs. “Sorry about that,” he said taking his seat. “What were we talking about?”
“Being an artist.”
“Right. Enough about me. Tell me about yourself. What do you do?”
“I’m a student a Schuster. Getting my Ph. D. in social anthropology.”
“That sounds fascinating.”
“It is. Human beings are remarkable animals. And the way they interact is intriguing.”
He stared at her silently.
“What?”
He grinned teasingly. “They?”
She giggled. “Sorry. It just kind of…”
“I get it. When you try to look at us objectively as a people, you wind up getting a little detached.”
“It annoys the hell out of my family.”
Blake nodded. “It’s the price of education. Nothing is ever just what it is on the surface. You learn to see it with different eyes. I can’t look at a piece of art and just see a pretty picture anymore. I have to take it apart. Color palate, brush strokes and all that. It’s second nature.”
“And talking about it just irritates people who don’t get it.”
“I imagine it’s worse for anthropologists.”
“One of my professors warned me about that sort of thing,” she agreed. “Every interaction, conversation and cultural norm deconstructs itself in front of you. A party’s never just a party. A wedding’s never just a wedding. A funeral’s never just a funeral.”
“Sounds like he knew his stuff.”
“He was the smartest man I ever met. You know those teachers you see in movies? The really inspiring ones?”
“The ones that inspire students to stand on their desks and say ‘Oh captain, my captain’.”
“Yes. He was one of those. At least he was for me.”
Blake nodded. “I think a lot of people have one of those teachers or professors. The one what made them the person they are today.”
“Who was yours?”
He cocked his head. “What’s that?”
“A talented artist like you has to have had one hell of a teacher.”
His head throbbed again. “I think all of my teachers were good.”
“You didn’t have a favorite? There wasn’t one that you would’ve climbed a desk for?”
“No,” he chuckled.
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Schuster. Just like you.”
“A fellow Gladiator! I had no idea! You must’ve taken History of Western Art with Professor Undine.”
“He had to be the most boring man alive,” he said. “I used to think he was doing an impression of Henry Kissinger.
She laughed. Her laugh was made of silver. It made him smile. “My middle school math teacher was like that,” she said between chuckles. “The woman was a caricature of a boring teacher. I used to get in trouble for making fun of her.”
Blake shook his head. “Shame on you!”
“Yeah. I bet you were the kind of kid that never got in trouble.”
“Well, I…I wouldn’t say never.”
“Really? What did you used to do? Wait. Let me guess. Graffiti?”
“I never did any graffiti as a kid.”
“What did you do when you were a kid? Besides paint, I mean?”
He shrugged. “Normal kid stuff, I guess. Running, jumping, playing tag.”
“Yeah? You struck me as more of an RPG kind of kid?”
“RPG?”
“Role playing games. You know, bunch of funny dice. Make up characters. Play out stories. That sort of thing.”
“Hm. No, I never did any of that. Did you?”
“Guilty as charged,” she answered.
“It takes a few people to do it, right? How big was your group? Were a lot of people into it?”
“It really only takes two. Starting out it was just me and my best friend but we gathered more people over time. I had a small group of good friends as a kid. But we had a lot of fun. How about you?”
“Well, like I said, I didn’t do any role playing.”
“I meant your friends. Did you have a lot as a kid?”
“No. Not really.”
“Oh. Right. You probably had to move after you lost your parents.”
“Well, yes I…what I mean is I moved but…” A dull, leaden ache took hold of his head.
“Who did you live with after they passed away?”
“My aunt and uncle.”
“Were they related to your mom or your dad?”
“My mom. It was her brother and his wife.”
“What were their names?”
“Uncle Tom and Aunt Linda.”
“Did they have kids of their own?”
He was getting dizzy. “No, they never…”
“Did you like living with them?”
“Yeah. I guess it was…” It was like ache in his head was starting to spin.
“Are you close to them?”
“No. They died when I was in college.”
“That’s terrible! Where did they live?”
“Upstate.” The air was getting thin. “I don’t like to talk about…”
“What were they like?”
“I don’t know. They were old.”
“Older than your parents?”
He squeezed his eyes shut against the whirling pain. “Yes. I mean, no. I don’t know!”
“Were they strict?”
His stomach lurched. “A little, I guess.” He just needed a minute.
“Were they Christians?”
“No. I mean, yes.” But the questions kept coming.
“What church did they go to?”
“The First…” Electric pain lanced through the whirlwind in his head. His mouth bobbed open but no answer came. He couldn’t conjure one from his memory.
“Did they have any pets?”
“I…no.”
“How did they die?”
His fist struck the table sharply. “That’s enough!” The dizziness and pain evaporated instantly. He stood up and looked down at her, his vision blurred by anger. Hot, seething outrage like he’d never felt before. He moved toward her barbarously, taking her by the shoulders and yanking her to her feet. “No more questions, do you hear me?” He shook her furiously. “No more goddamned questions!”
She cocked her head and looked him in the eye. “Just one more. One more question and after that, I’ll leave you alone if you want.”
He seethed. “Ask.”
“What does Glenn Davidson look like?”
A moment passed when he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly. “What?”
“Glenn. He’s been your neighbor for years. You sold him a painting. What does he look like?”
Blake tried. He thought about it for several minutes, his mind desperately searching for an image to put with the name but he was coming up empty. The more he thought about it, the more holes there seemed to be. Not just with Glenn but the house next door. “I don’t have a next door neighbor,” he said suddenly. “That house has been empty for years.” He sat down. His legs were once again too weak to hold him up. “Who are you?”
Her hand eased onto his shoulder. It was more welcome than it should have been. “Someone who loves you and needs you.”
“Jamie loves me.”
“I’m sure she does. But she doesn’t need you. Not the way I do. It’s time for you to come home.”
“I am home!” He sprang to his feet as the anger started to build again. “This is my home! I don’t care who you are, you can’t just decide it’s time for me to be somewhere else.”
“I didn’t decide that, my love. You did.”
“What do you mean?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer.
She reached out and slipped her hand into his leading him gently but with great force through the house to the basement door. He had been down there less than an hour ago. He’d spent more hours downstairs than he could count but at the moment this door held more dread than he had ever known.
A tender touch caressed his arm. “It’s all right,” she said. “You don’t have to be afraid.” He followed her down. With every step the basement was less familiar to him. Suddenly, he could barely remember washing any clothes in the laundry room or putting anything in the storage closet. How could someplace he’d spent so much time be so alien?
He stopped at the door to the studio. He heard someone say “I can’t go in there.” It wasn’t until he caught the sympathetic look on her face that he realized that the words had come from him.
“You need to,” she urged softly. Her hand touched the small of his back and nudged him forward. Into the room they went, clumsily making their way through his studio until they reached the painting.
“Why?”
“You know why,” she answered.
“But I don’t!” he said almost sobbing. “Please tell me!”
“You made this life,” she said after a moment. “Created Blake Harrington from your imagination so you could lead a mortal existence for a time. You wove his story into the world the way one might create a character in a story or paint a man in the background of a picture. You do this sometimes. You wish to keep one foot in the world of humanity. You’ve lived this life like an ordinary man but Blake has only existed for fifteen years. That is why you can’t recall the smaller details of his early life. You never lived them.”
“What about Glenn Davidson?” he asked. “When you told me he was your grandfather I remembered him. I remembered selling him the painting. I remembered his face and his voice but now…”
“I put him in your mind,” she said. “And then I took him away to make you see the truth.”
“If I’m not Blake Harrington then who am I?” he asked desperately.
She smiled at him. Smiled that smile that he knew so well but couldn’t remember. The one that warmed his heart and comforted his soul. Her hand gingerly brushed his cheek. “You are my love,” she said. “And my champion. You always come back to me when I need you.” She gestured toward the painting. “You create a doorway back to our home.”
“But why now?” he asked. “Why do you need me now?”
The woman shrugged. “I don’t know. As I said, I didn’t make this doorway. You did. When you didn’t come through, I came to find you.”
He wanted to say something but his voice failed him. His mind refused to place words together. He looked back out of the studio and up the stairs toward the life that was not his. The life that he loved and would never return to. He ached at the thought of losing it all but it suddenly seemed so two-dimensional.
The ringing of his cell phone startled him. He fished it from his pocket. “It’s Jamie,” he said weakly.
“Leave it,” Callie said. “Let it ring.”
But he couldn’t. He needed to hear Jamie’s voice even if it was going to be for the last time. “Jamie?”
She didn’t answer. He could hear her laughing playfully in the background. She had such an ugly laugh. Not like Callie’s. But that deep, chortly hoot with its occasional snorts was like music to him. Just yesterday he spent five minutes tickling her just so he could hear it. And it would come at the most inappropriate times! At sad parts in movies, when she would get bad news, even during her mother’s eulogy. The thought of never hearing it again hurt too much to think about. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he thumbed the button to disconnect.
Callie’s hand gently found his shoulder again. “I know it’s hard,” she said. “But with time you’ll be able to…”
Blake struck her. He struck her harder than he’d ever struck anyone before. She spun and dropped, barely conscious. He climbed atop her and wound his hands around her neck, pressing the weight of his body against her throat. She struggled. Her long, graceful limbs lashed out in terror and desperation but he was just too strong. Slowly, her flailing, fighting arms became leaden and weak. He could feel the strength draining out of her body.
When it was done, when he had successfully taken her life, he rolled off of her and stared at his hands. But they couldn’t have been his hands. It wasn’t possible that these hands, filthy and tainted with the darkest of crimes, could be his. They were drenched in blood. He hadn’t cut her or torn her skin. Even the blow that took her down hadn’t broken flesh but the blood was still there. He could feel it. And yet they were still. Unshaken by the monstrosity he had just produced. Was it really that easy? Was death like one of these paintings? Art to be crafted? A world to be created?
He stared for hours before he realized that he had to clean up. It was frighteningly painless. He wrapped the body in blankets, put her into his car and drove her out into the middle of the woods where he dug a shallow grave for her.
Fortunately, Jamie was late getting home as usual. He was cleaned up and watching television in the living room by the time she walked in the door. “I know, I know,” she said coming into the living room. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said as playfully as he could. “You wouldn’t be you if you got home on time.”
She looked at him for a moment. “Is something wrong?”
“Nothing that a little time with you won’t fix.” He leaped up and grabbed her by the wrist. Spinning her around, he tossed her gently onto the couch.
She shrieked in mock-horror and giggled as he climbed on top of her. “Stop it!” she said laughing as his fingers found her ticklish areas. “What time are you wanting to go to dinner?”
“I changed my mind,” he said. “I’ve been out and about enough today. I want to spend the night in.”
“You’re sure? Your heart was pretty set on that Japanese steak house.”
“Well, now it’s set on something else.” He brushed the hair away from her face and just looked at her. She was a gem. She was his gem. Her eyes sparkled as she looked up at him. And there was something in there. Something that wanted out. “What’s on your mind, babe?”
She lay there for a moment with her mouth open before saying “Blake, honey. I’m pregnant.”
The world froze. He was stunned.
“Say something,” she demanded softly.
But he couldn’t say anything. He was too full to speak. He just pressed his lips against hers, kissing her lovingly until he talk again. “Thank you,” he said.
She touched his cheek. “For what?”
It took him a moment to find the words. “I paint these worlds and sometimes I feel like I want to crawl inside them. Like this world isn’t enough. Thank you for being something worth staying for. Thank you for being the fantasy I get to live.”
Jamie smiled up at him. “That,” she said. “Is the sappiest thing I have heard in my whole life.” She grabbed the remote control off of the arm of the couch. “We need to get an action movie in you stat! Before you turn into a girl and our baby has to be raised by lesbian parents.”
He laughed. They spent the rest of the night laughing, playing, joking and just being together. Maybe Blake Harrington wasn’t entirely real. Maybe his life was mostly a fiction but it was his. And he planned to live it for as long as he could. After that, who could say? Maybe the life of this other man, the man that Callie had loved and needed, would start. But for now, this was his life. This was his home. This was his whole world and he wasn’t going to give it up.