The Cold Smell Of Sacred Stone

'This is more than mere kindness and sympathy, Frederickson. This is empathy — almost total identification. Any decent individual is sensitive to the suffering of others, but with Garth this goes a step-or many steps-further. With Garth, it's almost as if he not only imagines but actually experiences the suffering of others. This intense empathy clearly seems to be linked to the music of Richard Wagner-specifically, Der Ring des Nibelungen.'

'Yes,' I said softly.

'Yes?'

'I can see that.'

'Can you explain why this should be? Does that music have specific associations for him?'

'What does Garth say?'

'Nothing edifying, since it's bound up in his quest fantasy. He claims that Siegmund Loge used that music to torture the two of you in some way.'

'The Ring has always had a powerful effect on Garth.'

'The anomalies in Garth's blood which I mentioned previously: Do you suppose the same unique antibodies would show up in your blood, Frederickson?'

'I don't know.'

'Your brother says that both of you were tortured and infected with this strange disease. If that were the case, you would also carry those same antibodies.'

'Are you saying that you believe Garth's stories may be true?'

Slycke shook his head impatiently. 'Of course not. The point is that he believes them to be true, and I'm trying to establish whether there may be some basis in reality for that belief. His fantasies are highly complex and structured, and he holds to them with remarkable consistency.'

'Even if I did carry the same antibodies in my blood, it wouldn't mean anything, would it? It would just indicate that I'd picked up whatever Garth had had, but it was such a mild case that I wasn't even aware I had it.'

'But you don't recall Garth ever suffering from any exotic disease?'

'No.'

'I hope you're not concealing anything from me that could be useful in the treatment of your brother, Frederickson.'

'I'm sorry I can't be more helpful, Doctor.'

'So am I, Frederickson, so am I.' Slycke paused, rubbed his temples with his middle fingers, grimaced as if he had hurt himself. 'You shouldn't have brought those tapes of the Ring to your brother.'

'I think I might agree with you. But that's a moot question now, isn't it?'

'We're looking at symptoms; we still don't know the deep structure of Garth's psychosis, or the mechanics of what's causing it. We could speculate that one effect of NPPD poisoning is to wipe the mind clean of most emotions associated with people and events, past and present. In essence, the mind becomes a kind of emotional blank tape, and the result is a state of profound depression leading to a paralysis of thought, will, and movement which closely mimicks classic catatonia. But that blank tape can be imprinted-if a stimulus can be found that is powerful enough to pierce the profound depression. You pierced the depression, and imprinted the tape, when you played the Ring for him. But that's all you did; you didn't reawaken the whole person, or heal the real hurt. Indeed, you've probably compounded the injury.'

'Why do I get the impression that you're trying to make me feel bad?'

'I'm trying to construct a psychiatric model of your brother's problem that I can work with, Frederickson. If you get the impression that you've made my work more difficult, and possibly endangered your brother's health, by taking unauthorized actions, it's a correct one. But what's done is done, and recriminations are useless. We have to go on from where we are.'

'I'm glad you feel that way.'

'Whatever experiences and feelings Garth associates with that music now form the core of his emotional being, and he behaves accordingly. As a result of that imprinting, Garth's personality is now focused almost completely on physical and emotional pain. You know, your brother actually suffers when he listens to that music.'

'So you told me.'

'Yet he won't stop listening.' There was a faint note of disbelief in the psychiatrist's voice.

'Maybe the music is the only thing that's holding him together,' I ventured carefully.

'Then he's holding himself together with barbed wire; eventually, that will shred him.'

'What are you going to do about it?'

'I'm not sure, frankly, that there's anything we can do about it,' Slycke said with a heavy sigh. 'Psychiatry is very effective with neurotics, but-I'm sad to say-not so effective with psychotics. At the moment, your brother is definitely displaying psychotic symptomology. Usually, the best we can do with psychotics is to attempt to change their brain chemistry in order to alleviate their symptoms and allow them to function to whatever degree they're capable of.' The doctor smiled thinly, without humor, and for a moment frustration and real pain moved in his eyes. 'We dope them up.'

'I appreciate your candor, Doctor, and I'm beginning to understand why you. . come so highly recommended. All right, then, what about medication? Antidepressants?'

'They might work to some degree,' Slycke said thoughtfully, 'but it's doubtful that they'd provide any significant or long-lasting relief for the sort of core personality disorder your brother is displaying. I may approach Garth on the subject; we'd need his permission to medicate. My guess is that he'll firmly reject the idea.'

'Nobody's going to dispute the fact that Garth is seriously disturbed. Why do you need his permission to medicate him? I'll give you permission, if you think it might help in any way.'

'You can't. He's now conscious, aware of his surroundings, not a threat to himself or others, and functions rationally within a construct of reality that includes this facility and his own treatment. Even if correct therapy didn't dictate that he participate in a decision concerning chemotherapy, which it does, state law insists on it.'

'Then what happens now?'

'We wait, and we continue to observe closely to see if more changes take place. Also, we hope. As long as traces of nitrophenylpentadienal show up in his urine, we know that the drug is continuing to pass out of his system as it metabolizes. If Garth's brain chemistry were eventually to return to normal-' Slycke paused, shrugged. 'Who knows?'

'You mean we may simply be waiting for him to get over one long, humongous hangover?'

There was a quick smile, reflecting genuine amusement. Then it was gone. 'I don't want to raise any false hopes, Frederickson.'

'You're not.'

'Your somewhat bizarre analogy may not be beyond the realm of possibility. We're just going to have to wait and see, and in the meantime deal with Garth honestly.'

'Thank you very much for your time, Doctor,' I said, rising to my feet. 'You've been very kind, and I appreciate your concern.'

'Frederickson. .?'

Slycke had begun to shuffle nervously through some papers on his desk. Finally he looked up at me, said: 'Mr. Lippitt really is a close personal friend of yours, isn't he?'

'Yes, he is,' I replied evenly. 'Why?'

The psychiatrist shuffled more papers. 'Have you spoken to him, uh. . lately?'

'No,' I replied, my curiosity aroused. None of the former hostility, resentment, or suspicion remained in the psychiatrist's voice; it had been replaced by what sounded like anxiety, and not a little uncertainty. 'I haven't spoken with Mr. Lippitt since the arrangements were made for placing Garth here.'

'I see,' Slycke said quietly, then cleared his throat. 'I thought. . maybe you had.'

'Is there some reason why you think I would-or should-have, Dr. Slycke?'

Slycke looked at me sharply, and something dark moved in his eyes. 'No,' he said curtly. 'Why do you say that?'

'I know that somewhere you got the notion that I might be spying on you for Mr. Lippitt, but that was never