The Boundless Sublime (14 page)

Fox thought so too. I could see it when he looked at me, drinking in the depths of my gaze. Fox was strong, and powerful, and good. If Fox believed in me, and Zosimon believed in me … then maybe I could too. Maybe I could forgive myself.

‘You carry a great sadness with you,’ said Zosimon. ‘It pulls you down into darkness.’

The black tide. He knew. He could see it.

‘Tell me.’

So I did. The words spilled out of me like grains of rice being poured from a sack, and with each grain I felt lighter and more able to move. I told him about Anton and Dad and the funeral. I told him about Mum crumbling into grey ash. I told him about Aunty Cath’s fingernails, and the paint smears on Minah’s jeans. I told him about how Fox found me in the darkness, and brought me back into the light.

But I didn’t tell him everything about Fox. About how he made my shrivelled cold heart pump and swell again. About how he was all I saw, all I thought of. About how the
thought of him made me writhe in my bed at night, damp with longing.

‘Tell me, Ruby. In your heart of hearts, what is it that you want?’

I remembered Fox asking me the same question. I wanted Anton to be alive. I wanted my dad to not be in jail. I wanted my mother to be a functioning human being. I wanted to wake up and learn that the last six months had been a dream. I wanted to see Fox. No, I wanted more than that. I wanted to crawl inside Fox and wrap myself up in him.

I shifted my position a little. ‘I want to know that my brother’s death wasn’t for nothing.’

A wave of sadness passed over Zosimon’s face, and he looked down at his folded hands. ‘Then I’m afraid I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘Anton’s death
was
for nothing. It was senseless, and meaningless. I can’t tell you that he’s at peace now. I can’t tell you he’s in a better place. He isn’t. He’s just dead. There’s no after. No peace. He was a beautiful, shining little life, and now he is extinguished.’

I wanted to put my hands over my ears, to block Zosimon’s words out. But I didn’t, because I knew he was right. He wasn’t offering journals or amber beads or self-help books. He wasn’t asking me to channel my grief into art, or spouting nonsense about
healing
and
inner peace
. He was speaking the simple truth, and hearing it was exhilarating, like plunging headlong into an ice-cold ocean wave.

Zosimon reached out for my hands, grasping them in his with a soft, firm touch. He angled his head to catch my eyeline, and I found myself utterly unable to look away.

‘Your brother died because your father has a disease,’ he said, his voice calm and quiet. ‘You did nothing wrong. Any sense of guilt that you may have is false, and has been implanted in you by your parents, who don’t want to take
any of that responsibility on themselves. You are a child. They are your parents. It was
their
responsibility to care for Anton, not yours. Your father is a toxicant, poisoned with alcohol. He is a slave to it, body and mind. It binds him, just as it binds so many millions of toxicants on this planet. He is weak, and he doesn’t deserve to be your daddy.’

I remembered taking a drag from Ali’s cigarette. ‘I’m weak too,’ I whispered.

Zosimon smiled gently and shook his head. ‘If you were weak, you wouldn’t be here. You tower above them, Ruby. You are perfect.’

I knew he was trying to win me over, but a part of me wanted to believe him.

I heard a jangling noise outside the room, as though someone was walking up and down the corridors ringing a bell.

Zosimon stood and walked to the desk, where there was a metal pitcher and a glass tumbler. With ceremonial slowness, he filled the tumbler with water from the pitcher, and returned to me, holding the tumbler in both hands.

‘This elutriation is a rebirth. A clean slate. It will cleanse your actuality of the past. It will burn away the aphotic darkness that binds you, and remake you, a fresh sublimate. But it is only the start of the sublimation technic. You must elutriate your mind and your body, and it is a long road. It will not be easy. But I promise you, if you trust me, you will triumph. You will be strong, powerful, boundless. You will be sublime.’

He handed me the tumbler, and I lifted it to my lips. The water was warm, and tasted sour and eggy. I screwed up my nose and had a momentary flash of panic, remembering Minah’s warnings of drugs and poison. What had I done?

‘Don’t worry,’ said Zosimon. ‘It’s just purified rainwater, with a little sulphur.’

I wondered if he could read minds. I finished the water and handed the glass to Zosimon, who smiled and put it on his desk.

‘All that remains is to find your name, and introduce you to your new brothers and sisters.’

‘But I already have a name.’

Zosimon sank back into his cushions and nodded gently, his face full of sympathy. ‘You do have a name,’ he said. ‘A name forced upon you. A name that chokes you and shackles you to the conventions of a toxicant society. Who is Ruby, anyway? Do you like her?’

I thought about it. I saw myself huddled on a milk crate in the Wasteland, coughing cigarette smoke and trying to impress Ali, while my phone vibrated in my bag. ‘No.’

‘Me neither,’ said Zosimon, with a dismissive shrug. I felt stung. Hadn’t he told me a few minutes ago that I was special? That I could be extraordinary?

‘Ruby isn’t who you
are
,’ said Zosimon, leaning forward, his face suddenly intense. ‘Deep inside. Haven’t you always felt that? Like you were playing a part? Hiding your true actuality away, because you were scared of what people might think?’

I thought everyone felt like that. I thought it was part of being human.

‘Set her free,’ said Zosimon, lowering his voice so I had to lean forward too. ‘Let that girl out of her cage. Leave plain old Ruby behind and let your true self shine.’

I swallowed and nodded. What was the worst that could happen? I’d stay for a day or two, realise that it wasn’t for me and go home. But wasn’t there a chance that Zosimon was right? If I really had been hiding my true self – my extraordinary self – away … didn’t I want to get to know her? That extraordinary girl?

‘Ruby?’ Zosimon was watching me, carefully.

I squared my shoulders. ‘There is no Ruby,’ I told him. ‘Not anymore.’

He smiled and rocked back and forth in a full-body nod. ‘Come outside,’ he said. ‘It’s Daddy’s Hour.’

The concrete courtyard was washed blue in early morning light. Everything was damp and silent, although beyond the walls of the Institute I could hear the rumble of traffic and the squealing of roller doors opening and machinery creaking into life. There were twenty or so people waiting for us, sitting cross-legged on the cold hard ground. They had their eyes closed as if they were meditating. I saw a fall of sandy hair and with a thrill realised it was Fox. Zosimon nudged me forward and indicated that I should sit at the front, between Stan and a woman I didn’t know. I hesitated, wanting to join Fox, but Zosimon was still gesturing to the ground in front of him, so I sank down, wincing at the achingly cold concrete through my thin linen trousers. Stan lifted his head, peeped at me, and gave me a friendly nudge. It was weird to see him so still – at the Red House he had always been in motion, bouncing up and down on the soles of his feet.

At the front of the group was a raised platform – once probably a large garden planter, now covered over with wooden boards and decorated with red and purple cushions. Zosimon stepped onto the platform and settled himself down, also cross-legged, on one of the cushions. I shifted uncomfortably, the chill seeping into my bones.

Zosimon took a deep breath, and, without opening their eyes, everyone started to sway back and forth. Left to right. I closed my eyes and swayed too, opening them a crack every now and then to check that I was still doing the right thing.

My breathing slowed, and after a while I didn’t notice how cold and hard the ground was, or the sick aching hunger in my belly, or the dryness in my mouth. I just breathed, and swayed, and was oddly calmed.

After a few minutes of this, Zosimon began to speak, his words washing over us like warm waves lapping at a sandy shore.

An image of Anton swam into my mind. He was maybe two years old, chubby and full of smiles. He’d found my hidden stash of Easter eggs and gobbled the lot. When I’d discovered him, he was smeared in chocolate with the most delighted grin on his little face. It was impossible to be mad at him. My calmness evaporated. How could I be better off without him?

I opened my eyes the tiniest crack to watch Zosimon as he swayed and spoke. His expression was calm, almost blank. I wondered if he recited these same words every day. If they ever changed. I wondered if he really believed it.

‘Awaken, my children,’ he said at last. ‘So I can tell you of my dream.’

There was a rustling as everyone opened their eyes and adjusted their positions so they could see Zosimon, who rested his hands on his crossed knees and gazed out at us with eerie calm. I resisted the temptation to turn around and look for Fox, glancing instead at Stan, who was staring straight ahead at Zosimon, waiting.

‘I dreamed of a white alabaster temple, with a giant snake guarding the door. I took my knife and cut the snake’s skin from his flesh, and his flesh from his bones, and separated each bone from the other. Then I took the pieces and remade the serpent anew, and he granted me entry into the temple.’

Zosimon paused for effect, looking around at us.

‘Inside, a stream of pure water glittered like sunlight. Seated in the stream was a heavy-limbed man made of lead, bound in chains. He rose and bade me to follow him, deep into the heart of the temple. We climbed seven winding staircases, each with seven hundred steps. At the very summit, we stood over a pit of boiling fire.’

Stan swayed and nodded, as if he was imagining the stairs, the pit, the leaden man.

‘The man turned and tried to speak to me. But his eyes turned red, and filled with blood, which ran down his face in dark rivulets. His body convulsed and he began to vomit, casting up great chunks of meat and bone and blood, until all his flesh was gone, leaving behind a wizened little creature, white with age. This barely living thing, crying out in agony, clawed at his mortal body, and cast himself into the fiery pit. The flames blazed high and green, then died down to reveal the man’s shape, reborn. As he emerged from the flames and stood once more before me, I saw he was no longer a man of lead, or a man of flesh, but a man of pure gold.’

Zosimon frowned and his head sank down onto his chest. His breathing became steady and slow, and I wondered if he had fallen asleep. I stole a look at Stan, but he was still staring at Zosimon, entranced. Was I missing something?

My ankle itched, but I didn’t dare move to scratch it. We were all waiting for something. But what?

After several excruciating minutes, Zosimon’s chin jerked back up again. For a moment he looked confused, as if he wasn’t sure where he was.

‘You know …’ he said, trailing off and nodding vaguely.

My cheeks burned with embarrassment. He
had
fallen asleep! But nobody seemed to notice. Stan was just as mesmerised as before.

‘In 1918 I was working as a safety inspector at the Union Pacific Railroad in Omaha.’ I started – Zosimon’s voice had taken on a distinct American drawl. Again, nobody seemed to react.

‘It was my job to sign off every train as fit for service before it could leave the railyards. Every evening, a bunch of the guys from the yard would go to this little diner off the Interstate, and sometimes I’d go with them, although of course I’d never order anything. We’d sit in the third booth from the door, which had a great view of the Missouri River. And one of my buddies would always order the same thing: two cups of black coffee and a Reuben sandwich. A Reuben sandwich, if you don’t know, is served hot. It has corned beef, Swiss cheese and sauerkraut, grilled between slices of rye bread. He claimed it was the greatest sandwich in the whole world, and was always trying to get me to try one.’

Nineteen eighteen? Was this some kind of a joke? With the accent and everything? Nobody was laughing. Maybe it was some kind of parable. A metaphor.

‘One day, I was weak. It had been overcast for weeks, so I hadn’t been able to recharge from the sun. My buddy offered me a bite of his sandwich, and my resolve crumbled. I took a bite. A single bite. And it almost undid me. I lay awake all night thinking about it – the crunch of the toasted bread, the hot, sour sweetness of the Russian dressing. I was consumed, betrayed by my own body, the body I had striven to keep pure for hundreds of years. The next morning at work I couldn’t clear my head – I walked in an aphotic fog, my body vacillating between aching hunger and pounding nausea. Overnight I had become a toxicant. I felt polluted, filthy, heavy as if the blood in my veins had been replaced with molten lead. I couldn’t focus, and I couldn’t do my job. I signed off on a new passenger steam engine, bound for Tennessee. It had a mechanical fault – a simple one that I should have recognised. A few days later, that train collided head on with another train, killing one hundred and one people and injuring hundreds more. It was my fault. My weakness. That was the only time in the past seven hundred years that I allowed food or drink to pass my lips, and I pay for it every single day. The blood of those victims is on my hands. We must remain pure. We must elutriate ourselves of heaviness. We must all cast out the lead man that tethers our actuality, and become beings of pure gold.’