“Tell me about Claire,” Nate said matter of factly.
I told him about my angst and embarrassment over fighting the temptations of the flesh, but when I mentioned Claire, he hit at my point of maximum vulnerability.
But as he spoke her name, her image flashed into my mind—lovely dark tresses— transparent skin—violet eyes that bewitch me.
“She’s forty-two and teaches American Lit at St. Michael’s College at the University of Toronto. She’s one of the most gentle, gracious women I have ever met.”
“She sounds wonderful—definitely someone you’d be drawn to and find attractive.”
I nodded mutely.
“Is she—attractive?”
“She’s beautiful, if that’s what you mean—but she has inner beauty as well.”
“Hmm. No doubt. Have you slept with her?”
“No!” I said indignantly.
“Is that no, as in not yet, or no, we don’t have that sort of relationship?”
Again, he penetrated to the heart of the matter.
“I suppose it’s the former—no, as in we haven’t slept together yet.”
“But you probably will and you’re now unsure if you’re consorting with demons?”
“You make me sound like Faust.”
“Ah yes—Faust. Such a tragic hero.”
“Damn you, Nate—are you trying to help or condemn me?”
He shrugs. “Right now, I’d say neither. I’m trying to get at the facts—not run away from them or cover them up with theological fogging.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
He smiled good-naturedly. “Our ideas, Martin, are often the smokescreen for our wishes. I want you to think about that before I see next time.”
And just like that our session was over, with nothing resolved and an even deeper despair sweeping over me.
He’s an intriguing man, Nate Granger. Reminds me of the old Marlboro Man, riding tall in the saddle and his eyes see forever.
And yet, I’m not sure how far Nate’s eyes really penetrate though—maybe all the way to Indonesia and those limestone caves filled with flickering nightmares.
But maybe not…
And to tell the truth, I've been holding back. There’s something I haven’t told Nate—I wanted to, but lost my nerve.
All the time I was talking to him there was a shadowy form behind him, off to one side in the corner of the room.
At first I thought it was the changing pattern of light in the room. It is early December and begins to get dark around four in the afternoon—the very time of our appointment.
While he was talking though, something familiar began to niggle at my memory. Perhaps it was the way his office is designed, with architectural curves reminiscent of a cave.
I tried to concentrate on his words but the shadow play behind him drew my attention.
It began with distraction and quickly turned to obsession. I couldn’t take my eyes off one shadow in particular. It seemed distorted by the contours of the wall and took on an almost sculpted form.
In shape it appeared to be the outline of a very sensual woman, but as I stared at it, the shadows around the head began to coalesce into the shape of an owl.
The more I looked upon it, I felt it stare into my soul, and defile me.
An immense weight seemed to bear down heavily upon me—a despair that there was sinister, alien and yet powerfully seductive.
At that moment I realized I’d never be completely free.
But how do I explain this to a materialist and skeptic like Nate?
Would it do any good in the end, even if he believed me?
Oh, he might use a penlight flashlight to peer into my eyes—but could he see into my soul?
Maybe his examination light is like a retinoscope, illuming all the nerve pathways and projecting them on his office walls—but a lot of good that will do.
It won't dispel the dark forms that are there.
You see there’s something deeper and more ancient at play here—a primordial evil that’s more than the shadows Plato saw on his cave walls.
And in the end, maybe Nate may even conclude it’s a sham—that everything is rigged. My devils are only flickering shadows cast by the flames of desire.
He’s a good man, Nate Granger—but then again, he hasn’t stared into my Abyss.
