And When Shall We Three Meet Again?
Prologue
We dig.
If I am ever so fortunate to be allowed to leave, the ever-inquisitive world will no doubt ask me what I did for all these long years in prison. How does a convict spend their day, they will ask. And I will tell them:
We dig.
A convict sentenced to a twenty-year sentence of hard labor can do a powerful lot of digging. In my 12 years on the chain gang, we have dug every possible manner of hole. Post holes for fences. Ditches for highway drainage. Trenches for sewer lines. Soil aeration. Wells. Foundations.
We dig. All day. Every day. We come to know the varied character of the ground, its forms and feelings. After all, we are born to tread upon it, until such time as we are prepared to return to it, to dwell within it. The earth is all we know, and considering our present circumstance, all we need to know.
But even though this unbreakable monotony of shovels and barrows and swinging picks feels eternal, there is still hope. This is not one frozen moment in time. We do not languish; we crawl forward, one mound of dirt at a time, toward the distant light of freedom. And when we reach it, we can at last make good on the vow we have all uttered more than once: to never dig another hole as long as we live.
I would like to tell you I remember every hole I ever dug, but that would be a straight-up lie. There have been so many--hundreds? thousands?--they are all one in my mind.
All except the One. The One I remember. The One I will always remember.
Every prison has some reward for good behavior. Depending on its population, inmates might receive additional privileges during meals, or in the exercise yard. Some prisons established programs with dog trainers, where inmates would learn the basic techniques, then be given a puppy to raise--hoping, of course, that this would lead to an interest outside of crime, thus furthering the process of Rehabilitation.
Our reward was the Braw Pond Archeological Dig.
It must have been some official's idea of a truly hilarious joke: the diggers could earn time away from their pickaxes in the ditches and foundations, exchanging them for dental picks and toothbrushes alongside the local college students.
I never saw the humor in it myself, but I won't deny there was always a definite feeling of relief to see my name on the Braw Pond list.
Of course, it stands to reason that we make the best discoveries by accident. How often do we ever really find what we're looking for? It's when we stop looking and open ourselves up to the whim and whimsy of the universe that those treasured secrets are revealed.
And, oh, Mother, was it ever a treasure.
The short version: I was lugging another bucket of "clean" dirt away from the dig site to the dump pile when the ground gave way beneath me. No one had known anything about a building ever having been on that spot, but I had clearly found its cellar. Evidently, while the whisper-soft footfalls of scrawny collegiate types were OK, my burly convict's body was more than that unseen ancient structure could bear.
It wasn't much of a drop--just enough be break my ankle (another blessing--that meant transfer to the hospital ward, and no digging until the break was healed). And that break meant no one was paying close enough attention (how could they, with me screaming bloody murder, and half of the day's students body-checking each other to get a look into my discovery, hopes of a doctoral thesis dancing in their eyes?) to notice the neat bundle of letters I'd slipped out of the demolished fragments of the small wooden chest upon which I'd landed, into the pocket of my coveralls.
It took quite a bit of planning to keep them safe--lifting anything from the site--expecially the tools--was instant disqualification from ever being allowed back. But I couldn't deny them--they were calling me... They wanted me to take them, to open them and read them again, to breathe life back into them--and back into their writers, departed from this earth so long ago.
I was more than willing to do that. After 12 years, they were something so much more substantial than another empty hole. And the story....
It was exactly the story a 20-year chain-gang digger needed to hear, to reassure me that even I will emerge from the dirt and darkness one day.
We dig.
If I am ever so fortunate to be allowed to leave, the ever-inquisitive world will no doubt ask me what I did for all these long years in prison. How does a convict spend their day, they will ask. And I will tell them:
We dig.
A convict sentenced to a twenty-year sentence of hard labor can do a powerful lot of digging. In my 12 years on the chain gang, we have dug every possible manner of hole. Post holes for fences. Ditches for highway drainage. Trenches for sewer lines. Soil aeration. Wells. Foundations.
We dig. All day. Every day. We come to know the varied character of the ground, its forms and feelings. After all, we are born to tread upon it, until such time as we are prepared to return to it, to dwell within it. The earth is all we know, and considering our present circumstance, all we need to know.
But even though this unbreakable monotony of shovels and barrows and swinging picks feels eternal, there is still hope. This is not one frozen moment in time. We do not languish; we crawl forward, one mound of dirt at a time, toward the distant light of freedom. And when we reach it, we can at last make good on the vow we have all uttered more than once: to never dig another hole as long as we live.
I would like to tell you I remember every hole I ever dug, but that would be a straight-up lie. There have been so many--hundreds? thousands?--they are all one in my mind.
All except the One. The One I remember. The One I will always remember.
Every prison has some reward for good behavior. Depending on its population, inmates might receive additional privileges during meals, or in the exercise yard. Some prisons established programs with dog trainers, where inmates would learn the basic techniques, then be given a puppy to raise--hoping, of course, that this would lead to an interest outside of crime, thus furthering the process of Rehabilitation.
Our reward was the Braw Pond Archeological Dig.
It must have been some official's idea of a truly hilarious joke: the diggers could earn time away from their pickaxes in the ditches and foundations, exchanging them for dental picks and toothbrushes alongside the local college students.
I never saw the humor in it myself, but I won't deny there was always a definite feeling of relief to see my name on the Braw Pond list.
Of course, it stands to reason that we make the best discoveries by accident. How often do we ever really find what we're looking for? It's when we stop looking and open ourselves up to the whim and whimsy of the universe that those treasured secrets are revealed.
And, oh, Mother, was it ever a treasure.
The short version: I was lugging another bucket of "clean" dirt away from the dig site to the dump pile when the ground gave way beneath me. No one had known anything about a building ever having been on that spot, but I had clearly found its cellar. Evidently, while the whisper-soft footfalls of scrawny collegiate types were OK, my burly convict's body was more than that unseen ancient structure could bear.
It wasn't much of a drop--just enough be break my ankle (another blessing--that meant transfer to the hospital ward, and no digging until the break was healed). And that break meant no one was paying close enough attention (how could they, with me screaming bloody murder, and half of the day's students body-checking each other to get a look into my discovery, hopes of a doctoral thesis dancing in their eyes?) to notice the neat bundle of letters I'd slipped out of the demolished fragments of the small wooden chest upon which I'd landed, into the pocket of my coveralls.
It took quite a bit of planning to keep them safe--lifting anything from the site--expecially the tools--was instant disqualification from ever being allowed back. But I couldn't deny them--they were calling me... They wanted me to take them, to open them and read them again, to breathe life back into them--and back into their writers, departed from this earth so long ago.
I was more than willing to do that. After 12 years, they were something so much more substantial than another empty hole. And the story....
It was exactly the story a 20-year chain-gang digger needed to hear, to reassure me that even I will emerge from the dirt and darkness one day.
Labels: Thalassa
posted by L Lazarow | 6:39 PM
17 Comments:
(Brendan's team-Aviva):
Dear Joseph,
I know you always tell me to be tough, but my guilty conscience is getting to me. I entered into your service with the full belief that I would be helping the cause; the most noble cause the world has seen. But I did not foresee the things that you intended to do, or intended me to do. And I wish I could just turn a blind eye to the unethical means which we use to achieve our desired ends, but I'm not like you in that way. I cannot ignore my conscience. Right from the start I should have seen it. The murder of Vladimir just went too far. And now you want me to commit the same crime against my old friend, Leon? He is not a threat; he resides literally on the other side of the world. Please do not make me do this--I beg you, just afford me this one favor. Remember, Joseph, I'm your friend.
Mikhail
Mikhail
I told you to be tough and I also told you to never ask questions. So, why do I find myself reading this letter? I don't mean to come off apathetic about your feelings but the last few weeks you have been walking on thin ice. Everything I have told you to do is for a reason and if you keep hesitating before every move you will throw off everything. I know of things you do not so it is... reasonable why you would have these feelings of doubt. But, I don't want hear of this anymore. Now, I'm off to handle my part of this business. I trust you'll do the same.
xJx
Dearest Joseph,
I insist that you cease from enabling Mikhail's delusional state of mind. Doctors have repeatedly warned my family and me about Mikhail's faltering stability and you, being his closest companion, friend since childhood, should understand the severity of your actions. My brother was condemned nearly two years ago and since then you have been replying to his paranoid letters as if you were a Cold War participant. What nonsense, you and I both know that the Cold War ended ages ago. By encouraging Mikhail's foolishness you are only making it harder for him to come to grips with reality. Again I implore you to stop at once and truly make an effort to regain my brother from his delirious state. You are his greatest and dearest friend, as you are a great friend to me and my family. Joseph, you have helped us so much in the past and we are deeply indebted to you. If it were not for your influence over judge Carish, my brother would be incarcerated for life. You, Joseph, who worked so hard to prevent Mikhail from rotting in jail, are the only one who can prevent him from rotting in that god awful institution.
With all my love and best regards,
Elizabeth
By Nick, discussed/edited with and by Charlotte
Dearest Elizabeth,
I understand that I have been writing again. I spent some time lost in that damned dementia I cannot seem to escape. I only hope I have not embarrassed you too greatly. I myself do not feel embarrassment anymore, as I gave up on dignity when I entered into this god forsaken place. To be quite honest, I've given up on life as well. I only hope to die hear without causing too much in of a stir in the lives of those who are truly good to me, as you are.
There was something odd about this last spell. It's probably just the mind of a crazy old man imagining things, but I was somewhat more lucid this time. Rather than slipping completely away, I was aware of my thoughts this time. I merely accepted them as truth. I felt lost in a fog, but compelled to act in a certain way... Bah! The Cold War, assassinations... absurdity! Anyway, I do not want to worry you, there was probably no real difference. They've just been giving me new drugs lately. Lots of new drugs. They could explain my lucid state.
I'm sorry Elizabeth, I do not mean to ramble and I certainly do not want to worry you. It seems my cognitive tongue is even more loquacious than my deranged one. Anyway, I must be off, that insufferable new nurse is handing out medication again. Hopefully she'll give me a more agreeable dose this time. I swear to you, Edgar had the right idea, finally kicking the bucket shortly after her arrival.
I will try to restrain myself from further embarrassment in the future. Best wishes to you and your husband.
With love,
Brother Mikhail
(BRENDAN BAUMGARDNER)
The Waterloo Lake Institution
To whom it may concern:
I have been receiving mail from my brother, Mikhail. He seems to be improving, yet I feel something is still amiss. In his last note he mentioned new medicines in large quantities. I would feel better if I were informed of changes in his medication from an authority rather than he himself AFTER he has been subjected to them. This was the previous agreement. He also made suggestions of overdosing, a problem which is very severe considering his history.
I hope to be better informed in the future and that this will be closely monitered.
Sincerely,
Elizabeth N. Collins
To be forwarded to head of medical review board
These entries are strictly confidential. The federal branch for biomedical advancement has asked us to administer a drug currently named TH9 to male patients above the age of 18. TH9 is not FDA approved and therefore any mention of the drug is prohibited and will result in expulsion from the institution.
Dr. Steven’s entry 247001 dated 2/7
on a medical and psychological evaluation of Mr. Mikhail Collins
Mikhail’s body does not show any signs of producing anti-bodies to the newly prescribed TH9. The drug has successfully recoded DNA strands located in numerous muscle and epithelial cells. As predicted the drug has increased the regeneration and growth of cells tenfold. Mr. Collins’s tests show that muscle mass has increased by nearly 15% and the time it taken for skin regeneration is now only four days. We started administering the drug to Mikhail over two weeks ago and all side effects are within normal parameters.
Dr. Steven’s entry 247021 dated 3/6
on a medical and psychological evaluation of Mr. Mikhail Collins
After administering the TH9 for nearly two months to a Mr. Mikhail Collins, his body has started to show negative side effects. Admitted as a patient with a slight delusional complex, TH9 has advanced the deterioration of Mr. Collin’s mental state. Mikhail Collin’s was taken off the drug but the adverse effects do not appear to be diminishing. Since TH9 is not a hormone and physically alters the DNA make up in the individual cells it is not likely that the side effects. Against my will I have been informed to not only start Mikhail on TH9 again but to significantly increase his dosage so as to see the effects of a person on elevated levels of TH9.
Dr. Steven’s entry 247045 dated 6/21
on a medical and psychological evaluation of Mr. Mikhail Collins
It appears as if I’m stuck in some Frankenstein type experiment. TH9 has drastically increased Mr. Collin’s body mass, and when inflected with a wound the rate at which his skin regenerates is phenomenal. It appears as if the more drug in a person’s system the more cells that are effected allowing for an overall more rapid regeneration cell rate. As to be expected with an increase in TH9, Mikhail’s mental stability has all but completely deteriorated. Mr. Collin’s is often confused, angry, and isolated. We have now put him in an isolated maximum security cell because he is showing signs of severe anger and aggression towards his fellow inmates.
Dr. Steven’s private entry dated 6/21
The lack of ethical and moral consideration in this project has been troubling me profoundly. We are not only playing god, but we are ruining any chance of recovery for our patients. We are creating hulking brooding, unbelievably strong monsters.
I recently turned in my relocation request papers to Mr. Rundike; who did not seem all that pleased. How am I supposed to continually perform unethical tasks? Am I supposed to look away blindly from that oath I swore when I received my degree? In two weeks I should be untangled from this mess.
Nick Tuttle (it's 12:30 at night an i just read lord of the rings for 12 hours so excuse any major errors that probably riddle this entry, thanks.)
My Dearest Brother,
I am sorry you have had to wait so long for a response. I wrote the institution at once to discover more about the medicines they described. I was told only of a ludicrous coincidence that all of your roomates have passed away or disappeared within a week of residing with you.
I refuse to believe these lies. Mikhail, tell me yourself that they are not true! I am about to apply for you to be removed to another institution. These people obviously have no other exscuse for their lack of attendance than to blame it on the residents themselves.
Write soon with as many details as possible, so I may lodge the proper paperwork for you removal.
With love,
Your sister, Elizabeth
Sister,
I cannot begin to decribe the events of the recent past. More than half of the time I'm in this godforsaken place, I don't even know who I am or what I'm doing. I have developed strange qualities, and I no longer look like the average man I once was. My body seems superhuman; I know it sounds absurd, but I have no other way to explain it. I cut myself on some broken glass yesterday and my foot started gushing blood, but when I looked down a second later, it was as if I'd never been hurt.
I honestly don't know if this is due to my unstable mental health, or if these people are intentionally trying to harm me. I've never felt so alone or terrified in my life. I'm in desperate need of a visitor, of a familiar face. But it seems like everyone I come in contact with suddenly becomes a target for my anger and suffering. I'm trapped inside a room now, and the only people I see are the two nurses who come to give me that horrid medicine.
As for my roommates, I cannot tell you of their fate. The few times that I feel I'm in a secure state of mind, I spend writing to you so someone knows I haven't completely withered away. Everything else is a blur. One night I'd go to sleep, and the next morning my roommate would no longer be there. I will not let myself believe that I am responsible. Why would I do such a thing? I simply go to sleep and the next thing I know they are gone.
You know me, Elizabeth. You know of my gentle spirit and my kind heart. Why would I seek to end someone's life? I have this deep, dark fear that somehow my mental ailment has led me to be responsible for such things, but everytime that fear arises I immediately discard it. For I truly believe that my heart is more powerful than my mind; no matter how demented my mind may be, my healthy heart would never allow it control.
You believe me, don't you sister? Please come see me, I don't know how much longer I can last in this place. I'm so confused, so helpless. I desperately miss you, and I gravely fear for the future.
Mikhail
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Note in hurried script that lies on the floor of the nurses locker room:
Alfred-
There are strange happenings in this institution that I did not agree to before transfer. Alfred, they are changing the patients! The poor wretches who find themselves here are being treated as laboratory animals. I don't know how long I can remain here, but I now know too much to leave. I believe the doctor has gone mad and will soon...(note cuts off here as though interrupted)
-----------------------------------
Elizabeth,
The only change in my routine since your visit has been the replacement of one of my nurses, the kinder one I'm afraid. It saddens me greatly to think of the possibilities as to the cause of this change. I may not be lucid for much, but of this fact I am aware: changes are not heartily welcomed here. This letter is unfortunately too brief for satisfaction, but I must leave so that I can take the bus to Braw Pond. Please continue to write sister for there are few things that lift my spirits now and to have one source of letters be stopped would be too much.
Your affectionate brother,
Mikhail
p.s. Here is an exerpt as promised from the ahem, letters I found...
"Dr Seward's Diary-
20 August- The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion. For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself: 'Now I can wait; now I can wait.' The attendant came to tell me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. he was still in the strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading- I might say, 'cringing'- softness."
These writings go on for quite some time, I will send more in the future, I have gone quite a bit ahead and am astounded at the revelations that they reveal. I feel a certain kinship to this patient Renfield who shares the same sort of feared residency.
This comment has been removed by the author.
(By Aviva)
Dear Joseph,
The plan is working nicely. Through his letters, it is apparent that Mikhail has been successfully convinced that he is delusional and is mentally unstable. In order to ensure the continutation of the regime, it is imperative the Mikhail remain in the Waterloo Lake institution. Most of the inmates are fortunately compliant, but I worry about my brother and the trouble he may cause. Perhaps it would be wise to double his dosages. Mikhail has always been strong of will and I thus am warning you that it may be a little hard to make him fully submit.
And I of course reiterate my support for this cause. And I hope the same for you. By turning these inmates, the enemies of the state, into superhuman machines that we can control and program, we shall inch closer and closer to greatness. And since what is dangerous about Mikhail is his memories, changing him with our little experiment is the perfect remedy and shall allow us to "selectively delete" those memories which otherwise would prove dangerous for the cause. Because of the top secret content of this letter, I shall deliver it personally to you. And as for letters sent through conventional mail to me, I suggest that we continue to forge them and not reveal the reality of the plan, in case Mikhail or another somewhow comes across or intercepts them.
Regards,
Elizabeth
Dear sister,
It's been awhile since I've last heard from you. It's gotten much worse and I need you to come get me at once. My mental state would be fine if it wasn't for this medicine. The best cure for me is an escape from this place. Please sister! The longer I stay in here the worse I will get.
My main doctor has even relocated and another nurse of mine has been changed. This former nurse, Melanie, was one of the few nurses that was actually sympathetic towards me. She told me that there were other commotions going on in this institution that upset her. I meant to ask her what she meant but she said she would be right back because she needed to get something from the locker room. She never returned.
Anyway, It's horrible here and I want out. I initially came her voluntarily but now I want to leave. How can they keep me if I came here on my own free will?..of course with your advice. Don't you think this has been enough?
Mikhail
(by Aviva)
Dear Mikhail,
Don't worry, the institution is the right place for you. Be strong, you can defeat this mental illness of yours. And I know it might be hard to endure your condition sometimes, but remember that I'm your sister, and you can always trust me to do the best for you. You're in good hands, dear brother. Listen to the doctors; be docile and comply with what they tell you. They can get your better and you'll be past all of it soon. You must surrender; surrender your will to these doctors who I know have your best interest in mind. I know you love being independent, and deep inside you may really feel that you are in the midst of the Soviet regime, but do not linger on these thoughts--brooding on them will only mean extended suffering for you. Please do this for me--I beg you, just this one favor. Remember, Mikhail, I'm your sister.
With Love,
Elizabeth
"All these letters are getting quite ridiculous and confusing", I think. "Who is this Mikhail. It seems as if each letter contains a plot twist". I put down the messages and let my brain sift through the tumultuous literary journey. Mental institutions, double crosses, mistaken identities, scientific conundrums and debacles; utter craziness. Utter madness and chaos.
It's odd to think that a place would make someone dig holes for twenty some odd years. Odd to think that I would be allowed to work on an archeological dig as a convicted felon. Odd to think I was arrested merely for jay walking.
The cafeteria lights shine red and Bernie, the life size panda, puts some sort of concoction on my plate. Tastes like dirt flavored with meat sauce but I eat it.
Why am I in a suit and tie?
These letters have been making me think, "What's going on in this place." I stand up and scream profanities. No one seems to listen.
It starts to rain as I'm escorted around the sunflower fields. Bizarre. I'm in black and white stripes and my hands are cuffed.
I see Mary and she looks so lovely. I see shooting stars colliding with one another exploding into showers of sparks.
The air feels so cool on my dry, prison-worn skin. The sky is a dark violet blue. Birds nest down for the night, crickets commence their orchestrations.
Oh, she runs to embrace me, getting closer. It feels like an eternity she's always getting closer, closer still.
Who is Mikhail. What is it with the cold war?
She's so near now only a couple more yards and these chains weigh so much.
Why would his sister lie to him like she did?
The sun is blazing hot and Mary seems unaffected. She goes to grab me.
It's all a dream.
I awake.
It's dark and the sheets are covered in sweat.
I can't make out the shapes in my room. Maybe a chair, some books on a shelf. Are those bars?
Nick
This comment has been removed by the author.
(by Aviva)
(Mikhail's journal)
Dear Journal,
The times that I believe I am in, in the midst of Stalin's regime, seem so real to me. And yet everyone around me assures me that I am delusional, but then refuse to tell me the real year out of fear of "scaring" me. I'm beginning to understand the plight of mental patients. Those who I before labeled insane I now commiserate with.
I've been looking through old pictures that I have of the early days of the regime. I've been told that I tore them out of a histroy book one night in a fierce fit, though I do not at all recall such an occurence. I remember being at Lenin's rallies, with my friend Leon Trotsky at his side; all of us cheering and merry with the thought of a new regime on the horizon. Though as I sadly look at the pictures, I realize perhaps all of these memories of mine ARE hallucinations conjured in the maladied mind of mine. I see the picture of Lenin's speech at Odessa (link to picture)...yet strangely my friend Trotsky is not at his side as I remember he was that day. Strange indeed. Perhaps Trotsky was also just a made-up figure in my delusional mind.
To trust myself, or to trust society? Should I be confident that the life and memories I am left with in my mind are true, or shall I trust what society tells me? Should I simply accept society's remedy for what it claims is my "sickness"? Or should I believe in my individual convictions and find out on my own whether my memories are truthful?
I feel I cannot rest peacefully until I discover for myself what is true and what is untrue. The doctors here which have represented this plagued society have tried consistently to force upon me their own version of reality. But the time has come for me to take priority in myself before the state.
Where will I go? I don't quite know. I do know, though, that I must escape from this prison and begin my journey to search for truth. Perhaps Trotsky is still in Mexico and I can find shelter with him. That is, if Joseph has not already had him executed. I don't even know what year it is.
~Mikhail.
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