DATURA Read online

  “Of course I do,” the man said. “It’s the most necessary of advice. Black & Decker is by far the best choice.”

  “You,” I went on, “drew a comic strip illustrating how to go about drilling open one’s own head. Your proposal is beyond the pale.”

  “Now listen here, you’re obviously unaware that trepanation has met with great success for millennia. It is a noble skill. The ancient Greeks, Romans, Egyptians, and Indians all knew the secrets of trepanation, though they usually only performed it on slaves and the lower classes.”

  “I don’t doubt that for a second,” I said. “The history of humanity is one shameful chapter after another.”

  “In the middle ages, skulls were opened to let demons out. There is evidence that those who survived the operation gained new, even supernatural, spiritual abilities.”

  “And just how many survived, I wonder?”

  “As people grow up, they lose their original intuition and fresh ability to observe the world,” Cork continued, paying no attention to my question. “The flow of blood to the brain is reduced, perception and emotions become flat. It has been scientifically proven that trepanation restores vitality to the senses and potency to the emotions.”

  “Scientifically, you say,” I mumbled.

  He wasn’t about to let me get in the way of his lecture.

  “As you know, newborns have a fontanel in their skull that slowly closes up. Our skulls harden with age, the flow of blood ebbs. Trepanation is one of the most effective and permanent methods of restoring us to our original state of flexibility and happiness. I even know a doctor, a surgeon, who drilled a hole in his skull with an electric drill. He’s never felt better! I can give you his name and address and you can ask him for details yourself.”

  “No thank you,” I remained cold. He really looked like he meant to dig out a pen and paper.

  “If you ask me, you have a duty to tell your readers about this procedure!”

  His tone sharpened. He put both hands—and they were huge mitts—on my desk and leaned in so close that the brim of his cap brushed my forehead. The situation was getting uncomfortable, even threatening. I pushed my chair back farther from the table and wondered whether I should try to call the Marquis.

  “My conscience will be clear even if I never mention your procedure to a soul,” I assured him, but my voice came out weak and uncertain.

  “Don’t you want to hear about my experiences?” he asked.

  “I’d rather not, thank you very much,” I said.

  But he didn’t respect my wishes, and instead snatched the cap off his head and turned his back to me. I was flabbergasted. There before my eyes, amongst thinning gray hair, nearly in the center of the crown of his head, was a cork, an ordinary cork from a wine or perhaps a champagne bottle.

  What would have happened had it been pulled out? I trembled as I imagined a wet pop, followed by the murky contents of his skull gushing into the room.

  “I got benzocaine for a local anesthetic and various bandaging materials,” he went on, replacing his cap. “Iodine is, of course, necessary for sterilizing the hole. I went to the hardware store and bought a light, high-quality hand drill and drill bits made for ceramic tile. I was disappointed with the service, though. I asked the salesman what kind of bit he would recommend for drilling into the skull. Can you imagine he said he really couldn’t recommend anything? Such poorly trained employees! In the end, I was happy with my choice, though a bit made for drilling metal might also work. I absolutely recommend a double-handled Black & Decker.”

  I hoped that he would stop, and I began impolitely underlining my copy of the Voynich manuscript. But Cork leaned over my desk again, and I felt a heavy, sickeningly sweet waft of air. I shrank back in my chair. It could have been the stench of his cerebral fluids.

  “It’s best to use a chair with a head rest. A good office chair or a sturdy armchair would work fine. If you manage to borrow a dentist’s chair, you can congratulate yourself. You will also have to build some kind of support, to keep your head absolutely still. And then a seatbelt, don’t forget a seatbelt! It would be most unfortunate if the drill were to skip around here and there.”

  “Now listen, I’m quite busy at the moment,” I said tiredly.

  “I started drilling slow and easy with the help of a friend of mine who’s dedicated to the cause,” he continued. “In fact, I’ve promised to return the favor to him. Having observed the procedure, he is convinced of its benefits and can hardly wait for his turn.”

  I groaned and felt faint.

  “The work progressed slowly, but the hole in my skull grew deeper and deeper, until after about an hour, I heard a new, extraordinary sound, like a kind of bubbling or fizzing. I realized what it was: air bubbles under my skull had been freed from their skeletal prison. What joy! My friend carefully pulled the drill out of the opening.

  “I really don’t want to hear any more,” I said. I was afraid I’d throw up.

  Despite my expressed disgust, this ruthless man went on: “With two mirrors, I was able to see the blood ebbing and flowing in the opening in time with my heartbeat. I felt euphoria, an unprecedented joy and peace of mind. That feeling has stayed with me ever since. How I wish that more people could experience it! You, too, my friend!”

  He patted my arm.

  “It isn’t even expensive. I’ve already given lectures on the blessings of this procedure to many clubs and societies. I implore you, seize this opportunity and publish my article. It could bring quality and wellbeing to the dull lives of countless citizens. If enough people understand the benefits of this procedure, the fate of the entire nation could be changed! There must be a political party that would make this their banner issue.”

  I tried to collect myself and put some authority into my voice. “We are not publishing your article. It’s completely out of the question! This is my final word. You can always self-publish if you’re determined to get sued.”

  “I’m disappointed and astonished. I would have expected a bit more open-mindedness from The New Anomalist,” he said, dissatisfied.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  I was amazed that he finally seemed to give up hope of making me understand. Relieved, I showed him out, and I didn’t like the look on his face when he said goodbye. It didn’t look anything like euphoria to me.

  “You’ll regret this, madam,” he said. “You are in dire need of trepanation. This isn’t over.”

  I wondered whether Cork could have fit a double-handled Black & Decker in the pocket of his windbreaker. After that episode, at my insistence, the Marquis had a peephole installed in the office door.

  Two Marches

  “Yeats was right,” Kurt said. ”The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.”

  Kurt himself certainly didn’t lack conviction—some would say he had too much—but he was also a hot-blooded man, intense and passionate. He said that the state was the new Leviathan, spreading totalitarianism and violence. He was certain that big corporations are Beelzebubs, evil incarnate.

  When I was a young student, an acquaintance accused me of being politically naïve. Maybe it was Kurt. He was probably right on the money. I confess, my social awareness was—and still is—poorly developed. I was attracted to flowers, poems, and the glowing images that wander in the dreaming darkness, not the complicated machine that we call society. My knowledge of the history of the nation, of warring ideologies and power relationships, was pathetic. I couldn’t tell the difference between anarchists, Trotskyists, Maoists, and syndicalists. I couldn’t be bothered to read up on the reasons behind famines and inequality, the unfairness of taxation, or the problems caused by development aid, unemployment, or free trade. Lines like “Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean, roll!” inspired me more than exclamation marks painted on banners ever could.

  Kurt was different, even back then. From his new home across the sea, he follows events in his homeland every day. He moni
tors the employment situation, stock market fluctuations, mergers, protests, and the fortunes of political parties. But more than what’s happening now, he’s fascinated by what is going to happen soon, very soon. He’s always predicting revolutionary developments, radical changes.

  “The government will fall any day now,” he would say. “Big things are happening. This isn’t kids’ stuff anymore. You’ll see. Things will really get going this spring!” (Or fall, or winter.)

  For many weeks now, he had been waiting in that other country for protests to start here. Many radical groups were preparing a march to demand that civil liberties be secured and that concentrations of political power be dismantled. It was meant to start on the nation’s great day of celebration.

  “What do you think, how many people will join the march?” he asked me over the phone.

  “Well, I really couldn’t say,” I answered. “Maybe fifty, maybe a hundred.”

  “If it’s a hundred, the government will fall. You’ll see, that’s what will happen,” Kurt assured me.

  So what if it did, I thought. Even if it fell, how much would change? I would go on living just the same, minding my own business and lost in my own thoughts, reading the Voynich manuscript, listening to the Heretics, coughing, drinking gallons and gallons of water and tea.

  “So much will change,” Kurt went on. “A new era is dawning. Even those of conventional talent and average intellect are beginning to sense it.”

  He often spoke of conventional talents, people who were competent enough, but who lacked a deeper intuition and analytical mindset and who he felt a subtle contempt towards. No doubt I fell into that category, though he deigned to enlighten me patiently enough.

  Kurt was impatient to board the ferry to home. He planned to take part in the protest, to see the triumphant march, to witness this momentous event in the history of his former homeland. But the day came and went. I had promised to meet Kurt at the square. The ship had landed at the eastern harbor early that morning. I waited and waited, but there was no sign of Kurt. There was no sign of the march either, but the chill wind blew a crumpled paper to my feet. I picked it up—I wasn’t sure why—and was taken aback. It was a flyer for the protest I was waiting for. It said that the march would start an hour later than I had told Kurt. I was cold and sorry for my mistake. It began snowing, and I remembered Andersen’s The Snow Queen, as I always do when it snows. I remembered the splinter in Kai’s eye that made him so evil.

  It was cold, and I ducked into a café on a side street to warm myself up with a couple of cups of bergamot-flavored tea.

  When I stepped back out onto the street, I heard singing from another square and saw the light from torches. A march was just arriving there, but not the one Kurt and I were waiting for. This was no protest, but a ceremonious procession. The participants were singing of swords and shields, castles, and safety in a time of trials and danger. How could I have forgotten that this procession, traditional and patriotic, was also scheduled for today? How slowly and respectably they walked, torches spitting sparks into the wind, how upright, beautiful, and expensively dressed.

  There was a man walking near the middle of the procession who stood almost a head taller than the others. He wore a yellowed student cap, under which I thought I saw familiar, spiteful features, a protruding jaw, and swollen cheeks. Could it be him, the trepanist? I thought I could even make out his gravelly voice among the other singers. The last time I’d seen him, he had been dressed completely differently and had been wearing a yellow hardware store cap. This man was carrying a briefcase, and I couldn’t help but wonder whether he had a double-handled Black & Decker with him.

  I turned away. I didn’t want him to recognize me. The street I was standing on connected one square to the other. On my right, I heard patriotic hymns, on my left, the barking of dogs. Preparations were underway for the protest, the provocation. Riot fences had already been put up. Police patrols and police cars, silent helmeted men and well-trained canine units, awaited the marchers while snowflakes coated the square in silver.

  At the end of the street, I could already see banners, balloons, and signs. Finally, the sounds of chanting, running steps, and a musical racket were carried on the wind. The march looked more like a cheerful carnival than a protest. Banners waved and bounced to the beat of bongo drums as they approached the square. Whistles hurried from block to block. Under the smoke-gray, frozen sky, over the black and gray and white of the streets, girls danced like a row of flowers, dressed in reds and greens. A boy with blue hair was banging on a plastic canister. An old woman was carrying a threadbare umbrella. The words SOCIAL SECURITY had been painted on it.

  From a flimsy stage erected in the middle of the square, I heard the words, “A century of violent history is oppressing us like an evil ghost. The only ideology that remains is buying low and selling high. We need a return to sense, but when has sense ever commanded human history? Will we ever learn to control our actions? Will we ever learn to recognize the evil consequences of our good intentions?”

  I was happy to listen. The man made sense, but as I listened, I remembered that I had an article on the gruesome fate of Countess Cornelia di Bandi to finish. Kurt would manage without me, if he had even come.

  He called me in the evening.

  “Where were you?” I asked. ”Weren’t you able to come? I’m sorry I gave you the wrong time.”

  “I was there.”

  His voice boomed strong and deep, almost enraptured. “And it was so beautiful! How solemn and noble a procession!”

  His choice of words puzzled me. “Well,” I said, “I guess you could call it beautiful.”

  “And the torches!”

  “The torches?”

  “Such poise, such order!” he went on in his excitement. “Such a procession was a joy to see. The relationship of the young intelligentsia is still alive and organic here! This kind of activism is delightful.”

  Then I understood. He had gone to the wrong march, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him. He left the country that same evening, and the government failed to fall.

  The Otherkin

  Of all the groups of people I came across in my years at The New Anomalist, the most eccentric were without a doubt the Otherkin. Loogaroo was one of them. Actually, I really shouldn’t talk about a group of people. They call themselves Otherkin, because they don’t consider themselves to be human. They are a different species, of a different origin. Their souls—and I apologize for having to once again use this questionable and contentious word—are not human souls. They consider themselves other beings, who for some reason just happened to wind up living in human bodies.

  After I began using datura, I found it easier to relate to these kinds of stories and even these “people.” Some called themselves interdimensional beings. For whatever reason—so they claimed—they had been cast from their own world into the territory of Homo sapiens. There are many kinds of these interstitial residents: gryphons, dryads, therianthropes, sidhe, fairies, demons, gnomes, nymphs, vampires, etc. There are also shapeshifters that change form in different situations, sometimes against their will.

  Several of these beings had a close bond with a certain species of animal, such as lycanthropes with wolves. The soul of the animal is joined to their own. Others, like vampires and gnomes, have an affinity for darkness. They avoid daylight and are most lively at night.

  Loogaroo mentioned these beings to me during our second conversation. She had read my interview after all, and even made a couple of corrections. This meeting was much friendlier than the first.

  “Sometimes, switches occur while we sleep,” Loogaroo said.

  “Switches?”

  “People sometimes wake up as a different person than what they were when they went to sleep. They will have the memories, past, body language, expressions, and language of a different person. They might not only wake up a different person, but a different species, a changeling. Only the body looks the same as bef
ore.”

  Loogaroo said that many of the Otherkin come from other worlds, Elenari worlds.

  “Where are they?” I asked.

  “Some are underground. Many different peoples live there,” she claimed.

  “I remember hearing,” I said, “that an astronomer once claimed that the earth is hollow, like a Russian doll, and that there are many smaller, concentric earths within it.”

  “That’s exactly how it is,” she said. “Each circle is home to its own forms of life. Each sphere has its own atmosphere, which gives off a steady, permanent light. There is a solid core in the very center, like a nut, but much bigger, of course, about the size of Mercury.”

  “But all that,” I tried to say, “has been proven false long ago.”

  “Some Otherkin are from these smaller earths,” she continued, unfazed. “Then there are Otherkin that live in completely different dimensions, different universes. Humans rarely see these lands, though they are sometimes right next to us, strange universes just a few millimeters away. Sometimes a medicine can thrust a person into the wrong place, and sometimes people are kidnapped.

  “But those worlds are not for humans, humans should not seek them out,” Loogaroo said, non-human herself.

  She looked at me with an inquiring gaze, as if she suspected something or wanted to warn me. That day, I almost believed that she had turned seventy long ago.

  The Ghost of the City Office

  I’ve never had a more politically incorrect acquaintance than Emmi D. Despite her many virtues, Emmi D. was a social oaf, inflexible, intolerant, in a word, insufferable.

  Though the death of a contemporary and a classmate should never leave one indifferent, I was less affected by Emmi D’s death than I was by the episode that followed it.

  For twenty years, up to the day that she was hounded out, Emmi D. held a post in the city office. I don’t want to berate her colleagues, though, despite the fact that Emmi D. was a friend of sorts—with the emphasis on “of sorts”—and despite the fact that she performed her work without reproach.