The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

now taken Garth back three-quarters of the way through that realm, and I felt I had no choice but to take him the rest of the way. Whatever happened at the end of the journey, if anything, would be my responsibility.

Gotterdammerung.

As the lush, revolutionary music of the final opera in the Ring cycle flowed through the earphones into Garth's brain and mind, he again began to weep. After a few minutes I realized that I, too, had begun crying. I brushed his wet cheek, then rose from the edge of the bed and walked to the Plexiglas window. I stood looking out over the moonlit grounds of the Rockland Psychiatric Center, remembering the horror. .

'What are you doing?!'

I wheeled around, and was thoroughly startled to see Charles Slycke standing over my silently weeping brother and glaring at me. He abruptly snatched the earphones off Garth's head, ripped off the sheet covering him, and grabbed the Walkman. The psychiatrist's unruly gray hair stuck up from his head as if an electric current were running through him, and his rheumy eyes glinted with rage. I started to say something, but the man was obviously in no mood to listen to any explanations, even if he had requested them.

'What are you doing here?!'

'Just a minute, Doctor. I've signed in every time-'

'Signed in?! That didn't tell me you were here in the middle of the night! That was left for somebody else to tell me!' Slycke's moon face was almost crimson as he marched around the bed, marched up to me, and shook the Walkman in my face. 'Wow I see what you've been up to! What on earth do you think you've been doing?!'

'I think I've been playing some music for my brother,' I replied evenly, stepping away from Slycke so that I could see Garth. 'In case you haven't noticed, Garth is responding.'

'The man is crying!'

'So what? Aren't signs of sorrow better than the vacuum that was there before?'

'That's not for you to say!'

'It's for anybody to say!'

'You're not a doctor!'

'And my brother isn't a Goddamn turnip!' I paused, took a deep breath, lowered my voice. 'The tears show that Garth's mind is still there; it hasn't been burned out of him. Whatever door it's locked behind has been opened, even if just a little bit, by the music. I'd think you'd be pleased.'

'What you've done is unauthorized! How do you know what effect that music has had on him?''

'We can both see the effect; he's awake, and he's aware.'

'You had no right to do something like this! He is my patient!'

'He's my brother, and I've done absolutely nothing but play some music for him. Instead of standing around and screaming at me, why don't you consider the implications of the fact that the music elicited a response?'

'Just because you're a friend of Lippitt's doesn't give you the right to do something like this without my permission! This is my clinic, and in medical matters I have supreme authority! I'll have your pass removed, Frederickson!'

Garth settled the argument when he suddenly sat up in bed. Slycke and I stared, dumbfounded, as my brother swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He swayed for a few moments, supporting himself with one hand on the edge of the bed, finally steadied himself. Then, without really looking at either Slycke or me, he walked forward, almost casually pried the Walkman from Slycke's stiff fingers, turned around, walked back to the bed, and got in. He put the earphones on his head, turned on the player, lay down on his back, and pulled the sheet up to his chin.

I let out a whoop of joy and excitement that must have been earsplitting, because it brought the three male nurses into the room on the run. They stopped just inside the doorway when they saw Slycke and me, exchanged puzzled looks.

Garth was going to be all right, I thought, elation welling up in me and overflowing as tears as I stared at my brother. I let out another whoop, even louder than the first, just for good measure, then did a little hopping dance of celebration. I picked up my shoulder bag, which contained the rest of the tapes and an ample supply of batteries, triumphantly set it down on Garth's stomach.

'Batteries for the Walkman and the rest of the tapes are in here, brother,' I said.

I waited, my breathing shallow. Slowly, Garth's hands came out from under the sheet, wrapped themselves around the bag. I wheeled around to face Slycke, who was continuing to stare at Garth with an expression of disbelief.

'You want the tapes and the player, Doctor,' I continued, unable to wipe a very large grin off my face, 'you take them away from him.'

'Frederickson-?!'

'Keep up the good work, Doctor,' I said, skipping around the three stupefied male nurses and heading for the door. 'I'll see you all later.'

7.

AT seven fifteen I found Garth sitting up in bed eating breakfast off a tray by himself. He was wearing his earphones, and the Walkman was on the pillow just behind him; the leather bag was sitting at the foot of the bed. Tommy Carling was leaning against the wall, ankles and arms crossed, looking bemused.

'Yo, brother!' I shouted, running up to the side of the bed and pounding Garth's shoulder. 'Welcome back to the land of the living!'

There was no response; Garth simply waited until I had stopped thumping his shoulder, then resumed eating his scrambled eggs. I leaned over the bed, waved my hand in his face. 'Hey, Garth,' I continued with just slightly less spirit, 'it's me-your favorite only brother. Remember me? How about a little 'hello,' just for old times' sake?'

My brother stopped chewing, looked at me. His eyes were clearly in focus on my face, but it was as if he didn't recognize me-or simply didn't care. He studied me without interest for a few moments, then once again resumed eating. Chewing slowly and methodically, he finished his eggs, swallowed some coffee, patted his mouth with a paper napkin, lay back in bed. Bewildered and not a little hurt, I looked inquiringly at Tommy Carling.

'What can I tell you?' the burly male nurse said with a shrug. 'What you see is what you get. I can understand how you might be a little disappointed at his lack of response, but you'll have to admit that the overnight change is absolutely remarkable. Garth just isn't ready to talk yet; it's what we call VMS-'Voluntary Muteness Syndrome.' We see it quite often in certain kinds of patients. But the improvement is incredible. I think I'll suggest that we pipe Wagner into the rest of the clinic so all the patients can listen to it.'

'Garth?' I said in a voice that had suddenly grown hoarse. I found myself wanting to reach out and take the earphones off his head, demand that he acknowledge my presence, but knew that probably wasn't such a good idea. 'Can you speak? Will you speak?'

Garth's eyes momentarily darted to my face, but then he went back to staring at the ceiling as he listened to the music. I peered in the plastic window of the Walkman, saw that Act One of Das Rheingold was playing; he was beginning the cycle of operas all over again.

'How long has he been like this?' I asked Carling.

'Since sometime after five this morning. I came on duty at six, and the night guys told me about what had happened earlier between you and Dr. Slycke. When they'd checked Garth an hour earlier, he'd been like you'd left him-lying on his back and clutching that bag. I came here first, and I found him sitting up in bed with his earphones on. He'd removed the tube from his nose and the needles from his arms, which I took as a not so subtle sign that he was ready for some solid food and wanted to feed himself. You saw how he handled breakfast-and that was his third helping of eggs. If he keeps this up for another day or two, I'm sure they'll remove the colostomy tube and sew him up.'

'Does Slycke know?'

'He left about a half hour after you did. He's supposed to attend a symposium in New York today, but I called him right after I found Garth sitting up. He should be here any minute.'

'Garth obviously knows what's going on,' I said tersely, looking directly-perhaps a bit defiantly-at my brother. The hurt I'd felt was now melting into a sourish sense of betrayal; I knew I was losing sight of the proverbial big picture, and was ashamed of myself for my feelings. I'd found more than a bit of Charles Slycke in myself, and I