the library for one—one I was reading when you came in. Hold on.”
Tad went away, came back with a big, thick book.
“Medical volume,” Tad said. “I want you to listen to something.”
He began to read:
“‘There have been numerous cases where, either by accident or birth, or due to catastrophic injury, or even childhood disease, the brain has been affected, or altered, in such a way that it can perceive color as smell, or even sound. Meaning, to some, seeing the color red could activate sensors that would cause the observer to smell cinnamon, or rose, or even fecal matter. In reverse, smell can sometimes be perceived as color. There are cases of images being activated by the audio as well, resulting in the ability to interpret sounds as visuals. And there is some questionable evidence of sounds containing images of past events that have been recorded in the surroundings. Rocks, dwellings and the like, even the designs on pottery. Trapped in the manner of sound trapped in the grooves of old-style records. Sometimes, these “recordings,” like the remembered voices and sounds of songs sung, come back in flashes of sound, appearance, and, most destructively, emotion.
“‘Some people believe this is the source for the belief in ghosts, and since not everyone has this innate, or acquired, ability, this is why some people hear or see “ghosts” and others do not.’
“That’s from the
Tad closed the book, put it down, picked up the book already on the counter, flipped to the marked page, said, “Now this:
“‘Audiochronology: akin to second sight, but instead of the ability to see the future or the past, it is the ability to determine past events through the transference of sound and its transformation to visuals of past events contained within the sounds hidden within objects or structures. Often a sound will activate images, wherein the audiochronaut can travel back in time, at least in the sense of seeing past events as they happened and were recorded in inanimate objects. Often these images are retained in the objects due to a violent discharge of bioelectrical energy being absorbed by the surroundings and, in turn, being reactivated by sound, therefore discharging the bioelectrical energy, which in turn now acts as an audio, visual, and emotional recorder. The slamming of a door, the scraping of furniture, provided the door and furniture were a part of the violent past event, can easily stimulate this action in an individual prone to this ability. The person experiencing these events not only hears what happened in the past, sees what happened in the past, he receives the emotional energy in such a way that he or she may be affected to the point of nausea, illness, or disgust.
“‘The facility is often inherited, or is sometimes brought on by injury to the brain, or even disease, or perhaps a combination of all three.’”
“Damn,” Harry said. “That sounds right. That a medical journal too?”
“No. This is a book on supernatural and preternatural abilities.
“Swell.”
“But the thing is, Harry, my man, they—the medical and the preternatural businesses—agree, even if they give slightly different reasoning…really not that different. That’s the interesting part. So, could be something to that shit you’re talking.”
“Thanks.”
“Really doesn’t matter. That’s not the point. I think we can help each other. You can give me impetus, and I can give you the knowledge you need to at least control, to some extent, your ability to deal with this sound business.”
“If you don’t know for a fact you believe it, then how can you know if you can give me control over anything?”
“Anything and everything is about self-control, Harry. Discipline. Organization. Even creativity. It’s not about wild abandon. It’s about control of yourself to the point where you can feel what you need to feel and reject what is unnecessary. Interested or not?”
Harry sat for a moment, looking at the counter, at the book Tad had laid there on top of the other. He lifted his head slowly.
“When do we start?”
“Today.”
“Tad? You doing this for me?”
“Kid, wish I was so unselfish. I’m doing it for me.”
25
They were outside, in the backyard, if you could call about three brick-walled acres covered in well-spaced walnut and oak trees a yard.
Harry knew people who would call this a farm. Maybe a plantation.
Light was slanting through the trees and there were leaves coasting down from the branches, twisting in the rain-flavored wind. The smell was good and cool and hinted at the beginnings of fall.
Tad looked at Harry, said, “First thing, before you start trying to control things, is you got to learn you can’t control shit.”
“Guess that about does it for me today,” Harry said. “I’ll go home and think that one over.”
“Just listen.”
“I’m already fucked, Tad. That sounds like what we in the university environment call a big fucking contradiction. I don’t know I’m up for all this kung-fuey shit, this Zen double-talk.”
“Just pay attention. Those leaves blowing there. They are flowing with the wind. Not fighting it—”
“Leaves don’t have a choice, Tad. They don’t have a brain.”
“Who’s the instructor. Me? Or you?”
“All right, I’m cool.”
“Let the leaves be your guides.”
“My guides?”
“Yeah. They don’t fight the wind, they go with it. They are part of the universe. You and me, at this point in time, are not part of it at all. You following me? What are you thinking?”
“That maybe you’re a nut shy a peanut patty.”
Tad sighed. “Listen, man. I spent the morning reading my former martial arts instructor’s books. One of which I helped him write. I’m trying to regear a lot of old stuff. You got to trust me. It makes sense, all of it. Not at first, maybe, but just try to stay with me. Okay? We try it for a couple of weeks, we don’t get some improvement, feel a few things snap in place, sense the wobble stopping, you and me, we’ll go out and buy a case of whiskey and see just how drunk we can get. Deal?”
“Deal.”
“Good. Now, listen. You got to be like the leaves. You have to find your connection with the universe, not your separation. You’ve got to not fight the wind, you got to go with it. Look there, see those leaves blowing close to the ground, touching the ground? They flow, they skim the earth, they go back up and float back down—”
“The wind’s doing it.”
“I know that, moron. Just pay attention, okay? So now close your eyes. Do it.”
Harry closed his eyes.
“Listen to me. Put one foot forward…. Not like that. Not some kind of stance. Forget all that shit you’ve seen in the movies. You want mobility. Relax. Try again…. Good. Very natural. Now, I’m going to stop talking for a moment, but before I do, I want you to listen very carefully. I don’t know that ear of yours gives you better hearing in general or not, but let’s find out if you can hear at all. I want you to hear the universe. The wind. The leaves, the sounds they make. I want you to really listen. And I don’t want you thinking about pussy or beer or whatever. I want you to think only about what you hear. What you sense. You got that?”
“I’ll try.”
“I’ll tell you when to stop. Just breathe deep like you’re lying in bed, about to go to sleep. Relax. Listen.”
The wind was cool and Harry could feel it, heavy at first and then, as he relaxed, lighter, and he could hear leaves blowing across the ground, and he thought he could even hear them snapping in the air as the wind twisted
