The gift of Freedom

“A man is a god in ruins. When men are innocent, life shall be longer, and shall pass into the immortal, as gently as we awake from dreams.”

― Ralph Waldo Emerson

Gently a ginger man tapped the inside of his shoes with his big toes, nodding as he held his umbrella with a steadfast hand. Uls was his given name, having deep thoughts as he looked at the crossroad giving a calm look of disposition. It was not so much the sense of going in the wrong direction, nay Uls felt, but more a sense of feeling incomplete. He perceived a lacking of connection with his higher self. Now wasn’t the time yet. As he stood there in contemplation, Uls took his time and waited for his own thoughts to conclude, feeling not bothered by any of those busy people around him. They kept clear of his trench coat that flapped in the upcoming wind, dancing with the heavenly promise of rain.

‘Er… Scuse me, but…’ a thin faced man with clear blue eyes started. Uls turned to face him, the scruffy starting of his red beard confronting a clean-shaven face. It could have been the start of a riot, a mob fight or an outright classic standoff.

    ‘Yes…?’ Uls answered with a tone of voice that sounded well honed, rich in dark undertones and drained in vanilla honey; suitable for whiskey commercials.

    ‘Sir… We’re running a partition against the city plans to change the business contract with the Guinness brewery for the sign opposite to O’Connell bridge?’ the shaven man summed up as he must have done so numerous times before.

    Uls blinked. ‘What...? Are they planning?’ he managed.

    ‘To give the advert space to Heineken, can yer fecking believe it? It’s an outrage, that’s what, we got our man up there on the council but all they see is punts, y’ know? No bleeding sense of culture, that’s wot. Who but the damned pikey foreigners even drink this gutter water?’ Uls tried to respond but the petitioner continued with more verve: ‘…And I tell you what, it’s a bloody overtake, let me tell you, we should have never joined that damned European Union, that’s how I feel you know, but now there is no reverse and if that Euro is coming it will give us an even higher inflation rate already as tis, mark my words. But what do I know, I only work in a shoe shop, well anyways… Can we count on ye?’ He ended with the undeniable Irish lilt of a Dubliner and held up paper and pen.

Bearing his most sincere stature, Uls put his umbrella between his legs, slowly took the pen and tried to give him the worthiest signature he ever composed. The day seemed to demand it from him.

    ‘That’s our man. Grand. Well thanks a million and if you ever need new shoes come and see me at Margaret’s Shoe Heaven in Henry Street, that’s the packed shopping street squaring O’Connell Street, we’re open every day till eight and I’ll give you a fair discount too. Take care!’ The petitioner took off leaving Uls in a different state then before. Why had he signed that partition? What was in it for him? Somehow he felt as if something was taken from him, and a deeper feeling said that he was separated from the world. It kept on talking in his head. Dreamlike he noticed the wind again and held the umbrella tight in his hand. It felt like a hold in a collapsing world.

Overwrought with dreamy thoughts in his head Uls slowly stepped into the fading world of shopping people. His heart smothered in emotions of agitation and unwanted distraction. Quickening his pace he fell in line with a pair of young schoolgirls discussing last night out in blaring voices and wide gestures. As he broke rudely through their company and pushed them aside their idle chatter collapsed in impolite questions and loud Irish cursing. Looking aside he found himself briefly looking at his own broken reflection in the window glass before it broke apart into the sharp ugly faces of fat senior tourists sauntering to the same corner. Before anything he crossed the street and took a sprint to dodge the oncoming traffic. As he pushed through lines of waiting people he decided he could do with some company. And some drinks. And some fecking brand new brown shoes, he added and managed to put a smile on his own face.

Randolph Carter dreamed. Again. Memory merged with reality. His consciousness had endured so much and yet survived; and now far from his empty body, sensations that could be one or the other overwhelmed Randolph’s mind. Yes, he knew he was only lying in a cheap hotel bed in downtown Dublin, twisting and turning in his own sweat. And yet Randolph experienced his primal self being entombed for all eternity in a dreamlike state. Again. If life was a book he would flip through to the next chapter right now. The realisation of a prodigious weight upon his chest came to his conscious, and Randolph recognised sleep paralysis strangling him slowly. After many years this dreadful memory unfolded again to his mind’s eye, a memory that burned into his being from so long ago and yet, the memory itself challenged that very thought.

It had been an eternity. Forever and a day. Endless time. All those had passed and still time had ticked on. Randolph Carter looked back to this memory with alien eyes. Imprisonment. He couldn’t move. Locked inside a body. In a sarcophagus of strange metal. For eternity. Waiting till time itself would break apart. Oh the undying horror of it! He could only think, contemplate, ponder, ask, consider, wonder, hate or love but without his facial expressions: all of his muscles were frozen in this dire state that begged all senses.

    The weight on his chest increased, and Randolph thought he could hear the curses of the Karabasan, when this memory dream lingered to an end. A tormenting Mara stampeded on his chest and wedged free a piece of the memory from his wretched mind. The Machine. Through the slit of the metal sarcophagus Randolph looked, stared, gazed, gaped, gawked, eyed, peered and goggled at the strange workings of an alien Machine. The flashing of its lights and displays sent of lone thoughts, awaiting till his end would come. Or was this only a dream?

Randolph awoke abruptly and took a long deep breath. Free! That dreadful memory again! It came unforeseen, and brought grave matters of the cosmos back to this drifting state. Where was he going? Taken aback, Randolph lay on a bed sheet wet with his sweat, sucking in deep breaths of precious life. He felt despair returning, which he thought he had abandoned long ago, together with this dreadful memory and its haunting call of duty. And still, as always he had a choice, one he had taken before and yet… It all came back to him.