Three Steps:

The Journeys of Ayrold

by

R. S. Nailor

     "Morg Shiloc," I whispered softly. A chill ran down my back and I shook my head. The image of the beast filled my mind causing goose bumps on my arms. Now, in the shadowed recesses of my imagination I knew it lurked, waiting: white fangs, yellow, fiery eyes and huge, ebony, re-curved horns that defined the nearly human, demonic face. "Please. Not now." I whispered to some Supreme Being as a token prayer request. I knew it was happening and I couldn't stop it. Men can't have a breakdown.

    Still, I hoped with anticipation, my leg nervously jiggling up and down while I sat in the subway seat.

    "Next station, Woodley Park." The subway's speaker squawked.

    Dr. Hancock had garnered a lot of information from the two previous meetings with his note taking, but he never seemed to have an answer. Would this be different? Three was my lucky number. The third time was a charm, they said.

    It was hard to believe that less than an hour earlier, I'd been in one of the worst nightmares of my life while at work.

    A woman, a very beautiful woman, approached me, floating in the midst of a storm. When she was almost upon me she changed into a vile and skeletal hag. The stench, carried in the swirling winds around her, overwhelmed me and I wanted to throw up. I could almost taste the bile in my mouth. Suddenly, I was in my bed but I was not alone. My wife, Carolyn, who'd disappeared in a freak auto accident, now slept calmly beside me. At least it appeared to be her. I touched her and her eyes flared wide; they were cold and soulless. I closed my eyes to block the image, and when I opened them, it wasn't Carolyn but some exotic, intensely beautiful, young woman in her place. Her eyes which echoed the knowledge of ages drew me in but it was her wings that overwhelmed me. I wanted this woman, this creature, with an intensity and could feel my emotions swelling. She touched me and I was instantly aroused.

    "A'lo. May I sit here?"

    The impish gentleman startled me, breaking my thoughts. He sat down before I could reply.

    "'Tis a beautiful morning, t'day." He smiled at me and removed his cap. "Aye. 'Twas blarney luck I were able t'get a seat."

    I sit listening to his voice, the Irish accent stirring odd memories. I could see an image of an older man, his eyes alight with the fire of devilment while telling me tales.

    I'm surprised. I never knew my grandparents, or at least had never remembered them prior to this. Yet, there was a face and it didn't look any of those in the pictures I'd found after mother had passed away. Those aged pictures, cryptic images of the past, squirreled away in a cigar box, discretely hidden in the back of a closet.

    "Where be ye a'goin?"

    "Uh, I get off at the next stop," I said. He certainly was nosy. Perhaps if I looked out the window at the tunnel walls and dark nothingness, he would leave me alone.

    I stared at my reflection, a failure looking back at me. I should have continued my schooling and perhaps become an attorney. Instead, here I was stuck and wasting my time as a file cleric in a law office. If only I had set my goals higher, to fight for something I wanted.

    Visions of a sword, cutting through the air to defend a beautiful maiden came unbidden.

    I smiled. A real sword, something with weight, something with meat on the blade; not that flimsy fencing instrument I'd used back in college. Kendo. At first it had been satisfying but it didn't fulfill the burning need, that hollow spot I felt.

    My right hand pressed the maiden behind me for protection and I grasped my sword with both hands and held it forcefully upright before me, the tip of the sword hovering just above my head. The short, bearded man approached; I lunged. My Kendo sword cut the air, struck and was propelled sideways while sliding down my opponent's blade. A quick twist of my swordhand and I clipped his wrist. Point. My three years of martial arts training had succeeded in defending her honor and repelling the enemy.

    In the reflective darkness, the visions of my nightmares seemed distant. The haunting woman floating in the storm clouds, the cold, cruel image of my deceased wife and the provocative woman with wings. My mind reeled again as I remembered the desk phone transforming into the beast that I called Morg Shiloc.

    "Then so be I, lad," the man said breaking my reverie. "Going t'yer office, eh?"

    I wiped the cold sweat from my brow but couldn't contain my frown. If he wanted to depart the subway when I did, that was perfectly okay with me. His image reflected on the window for me to watch: bright eyes that seemed to twinkle, a lock of hair that appeared to be uncontrollable and an engaging smile that now beamed. I suddenly felt happy and cast caution aside. I turned to him, and continued the conversation. "No, I have a doctor's appointment." Then I sat dumbfounded at my openness to this man's old world charm. I considered myself a loner and didn't normally speak to strangers, but here I sat spewing forth information.

    His face took on a somber look while he shook his head. "O', laddie, I hope ye aren't a'comin down w' an ailment."

    I shook my head. "No, just a followup." I perceived a sincere concern and was relieved when the smile returned to his face. A warmness, a certain camaraderie with this strange, little man enveloped me. He cared. He gave a shit about me, or so it seemed. I wanted to talk with him. I wanted to go with him, to be with him. It felt as if I had known him all my life. I tensed in realization that this was not me. Who was this 'Pied Piper' sitting at my side?

    "A body needs to express themselves, they do. Open their feelings if y'will, t'a total stranger sometimes." I nodded avidly in agreement, again throwing away caution.

    "Woodley Park, National Zoo. This station, Woodley Park. Doors opening . . . " The conductor's voice droned on.

    "Excuse me, this is my stop." I really didn't want to interrupt him, but I had to get to my doctor. He stood and I quickly slid out. Turning back to say goodbye, he was gone.

    Passengers watched me with that pensive look given to those who talk aloud to themselves. A new fear seized me as I departed under their muted conversations, knowing smiles and scowling surveillance. Did I have another damn daydream? The man was nowhere to be seen. Had I been talking in my sleep? I quickened my step. Worse yet, had I been talking to myself?

    My knees buckled and I stumbled from the subway car.

    The last few weeks of restless sleep, unwanted nightmares and that anxious, pervasive feeling of dread had drained me. I wanted to scream, to cry, but couldn't. Men can't have a breakdown and be considered reliable. Those words had become a mantra I whispered repeatedly to myself.

    Reality can be touched. Dreams are but figments of the imaginations. I'd touched and been touched by my dreams. My figments had substance.

    Suddenly I felt I could no longer separate reality from fantasy and know which was which. A breakdown was inevitable.

    I couldn't break down, not now. I just couldn't.