ne of the proudest moments of Miriam Rowe’s life was when Augustine Emory came to observe.
Augustine was a tall woman with a commanding presence. She walked into the house and sent an arch, controlling stare around the room. Her companion, a stout middle-aged woman, seemed almost absent by comparison. Miriam warranted only a glance from Augustine. Her gaze settled on Charlotte.
“Well,” she said, standing over the child. “So this is the girl we have heard so much about. Stand up straight and look me in the eye.”
Charlotte put her shoulders back and arched her eyebrows. Augustine put her hands on Charlotte’s cheeks and tilted the girl’s head up. The older woman’s silver rings impressed themselves into Charlotte’s cheeks.
“Yes,” said Augustine. “Your aura is quite strong. Hmmm.”
She turned the girl’s head to the left and then to the right.
“Oh!” she said, sounding quite surprised, and removed her hands from the girl. She fluttered her fingers in the air above Charlotte’s right shoulder.
“Strong ectoplasmic emanations,” she said. She turned around and, for the first time, faced her companion. “Can you see?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” said the other woman slowly. “I sense something—”
“You are a sensitive, my dear, no matter how you fight it,” said Augustine. “You just need to let go and reach out.”
“Oh, I know,” said the woman. “I’m certain I saw something.”
“You are a sensitive, my dear,” said Augustine again.
“Yes, Mrs. Carlisle,” said Miriam to the woman. “That is Nanette. She is with Charlotte, always.”
“Ah, the spirit guide,” said Augustine. “Well, if I am to observe, we shall need something to observe.”
The four females retired into a small parlor.
As they entered, Professor Charles Rowe turned toward them. He stood in front of a fireplace, idly poking the smoldering logs.
“Mrs. Carlisle,” he said, resting the poker against the fireplace. “I am so glad to see you. I truly believe that the path of the Lord is leading you to this venture.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Carlisle, rather breathlessly.
Professor Rowe turned to Augustine. “And you, of course, are Augustine Emory.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Rowe,” Augustine remarked. “It is seldom that we meet a man of science who can truly keep an open mind.”
“Science is nothing but an opening of the mind.”
“Indeed,” said Augustine. “Will you participate in the séance?”
“No,” he said. “I, like you, am an observer. Will you have a seat with me?”
The two settled into a pair of wing-backed chairs in the corner of the room. Miriam turned off all lights but the low fire burning in the fireplace and ushered Mrs. Carlisle and Charlotte to seats at a small, round table.
“Place your hands on the table,” said Miriam, and followed her own actions to her words.
“Mrs. Carlisle, if you will close your eyes. I want you to concentrate on the problem that is foremost in your mind. Just let your mind drift through the problem, and visualize freely. You will see in your mind’s eye visions of people who are important to you, visions of places and things. Do not stop to think about these visions. Just let them come to you, flow through you. Be at peace, be silent, be content. This is a safe place. This is a warm and comfortable place.”
There was a lengthy silence, and then Charlotte let out a small groan, or perhaps it was a sigh.
Miriam opened her eyes, and looked critically at her daughter.
“You may open your eyes, Mrs. Carlisle.”
Mrs. Carlisle opened her eyes and blinked in the firelight.
“She is in a trance,” said Miriam.
The girl’s mouth opened and a low moan, more distinct, came out of it.
“What does it mean?” asked Mrs. Carlisle.
“Sometimes it takes her this way,” said Miriam. “There is trouble communicating, trouble coming through the barriers between the planes.”
“Oh!” said Mrs. Carlisle.
“We will try automatic writing,” said Miriam. “She is deep in a trance state. The difficulty is bringing the communications she is experiencing into this world, for us to interpret.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Carlisle.
Miriam quietly transferred a nearby sheet of paper to the table, and placed it under Charlotte’s hand. Charlotte was unresponsive, neither moving her head nor her hands as the paper slid underneath them.
Miriam took her daughter’s hand in her own, and placed a planchette in it, cupping the limp fingers around it. Charlotte allowed her hand to be manipulated.
“Nanette,” said Miriam, “are you with us?”
There was no response from the girl.
“Nanette,” said Miriam again, “please let us know if you are here.”
Slowly, achingly, Charlotte’s hand began to move across the paper. This movement was accompanied by another low groan, as if her hand were a swollen and creaking door sliding with difficulty across the floor.
The planchette made a large and wobbling circle on the paper.
“Good,” said Miriam. “Good. Nanette, is that you?”
The planchette moved again, this time with slightly more fluidity.
It gathered strength as it began moving in circles, larger and larger, until they spiraled over the whole paper. Miriam quietly slipped a new sheet of paper underneath the moving pencil as the paper became covered. The instrument made two small loops and then stopped.
“Nanette,” Miriam repeated, “is that you?”
The planchette jumped, sputtered, and wrote: “yes.”
“Welcome, Nanette,” Miriam said. She turned to Mrs. Carlisle. “Do you have any questions that you wish to ask?”
Before Mrs. Carlisle could answer, the planchette flew from Charlotte’s hand and clattered noisily across the room. Charlotte let out a piercing scream.
“Nanette! Nanette!” she called. “Nan—” She cut off and fell mute. When she spoke again, her voice was changed. “The little people follow you but you will never see them. How will you ever know for sure, if they are there?”
“Who is that? Who are we speaking to?” asked Miriam. The voice droned on, not answering or responding.
“They mean you no harm, they carry no hate, but they are not capable of love. They nip at your brains while you sleep and cause you to dream.”
Mrs. Carlisle yelped.
“Hush, my dear,” said Miriam. “We are interrupted by a confused spirit.”
“They’re jolly and funny, laughing little children, with a mind toward pleasure and joy. They will trick you and tease you, and bite off your toes. They will trip you to watch you fall, and as you lie there, your back broken, they will laugh their deep and hearty laughter, rolling through their fat, fleshy tummies, filled with live meat they ate in their sleep. They never kill—but they feed off of you just the same.”
“Nanette,” said Miriam. “Nanette, can you get through?”
Mrs. Carlisle was pale and drawn.
“They love life and hate pain, and they live forever—at least, so far. I don’t know if they have womenfolk and raise children, but I cannot imagine them naked and making love. If they did, it would be silly and blasphemous, no passion, so depth. Perhaps only lust. I cannot imagine, either, them caring for children with their selfish ways.”
Charlotte’s father had taken out a notebook and was swiftly transcribing this message.
“The little people live in the green blooming countryside, laughing their deep jolly laugh. You will never see them. No one sees them. They are spry and jolly and fast. They eat dreams and spit them out like chewing gum, choking up nightmares and morning dew. And they will eat you. But they bear you no malice, nor love, and they own no hate, nor souls.”
She stopped speaking.
“Nanette?” asked Miriam. “Are you with us?”
“Oui,” said Charlotte, in another voice. “I am here.”
“What was that?” asked Mrs. Carlisle.
“I am sorry, it is a break. We are not here anymore. It is good. Ask what you will.”
“I—,” began Mrs. Carlisle.
“There is someone here to speak with you,” interrupted Charlotte. “Mary,” she said in another voice, low and difficult to discern. “Mary,” she repeated.
“Mother? Oh, Mother, is that you?” asked Mrs. Carlisle.
After Mrs. Carlisle had left, Augustine Emory asked to speak with Charlotte alone.
Miriam Rowe looked uncomfortably at the woman and said, “I don’t know.”
Charles Rowe said, “Leave them be alone together, Miriam. What is going to happen?”
“You do see my daughter’s talents?” asked Miriam.
“Oh, I do see her talents,” said Augustine. “And I would like to discuss them with her.”
This calmed Miriam somewhat, and after a bit of hemming, the two parents left the room.
“Well, sit down, Charlotte,” said Augustine.
“Thank you,” said Charlotte, politely.
The two sat for a moment without speaking. “You are a fraud,” said Charlotte.
“Yes, dear, I know,” said Augustine, “That was quite a little show you put on for Mrs. Carlisle yourself.”
“A show?” asked Charlotte.
“Show?” mimicked Augustine. “Yes,” she said, “you are not really very difficult to see through. Today, it is me coming to see you. Tomorrow it will be a scientist, a skeptic. They are out there, more of them every day. The best thing I can say about your technique, of course, is that it is difficult to prove what you are doing. The worst is that it can all be so easily explained, and not everyone is as gullible as Mrs. Carlisle.”
Augustine examined Charlotte’s face critically as the girl absorbed this information.
“I perceive,” said Augustine slowly, “that your parents—are true believers.”
Charlotte nodded. “They are true believers.”
“Good,” said Augustine. “That strengthens you. It lends you an aura of believability, their quality of sincerity. I see so many amateurs each year. They are all over the place, a dime a dozen, and most of them are strictly horrible. These amateurs are desperate to create something that cannot easily be explained away, so they spend their time elaborately generating ghostly raps and trumpets, in the most childish way possible. You, my dear, are a breath of fresh air.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte.
“You don’t talk much, do you?” asked Augustine.
“Children should be seen and not heard.”
At this, Augustine laughed. “We may arrange,” she said, “for you to be quite clearly heard. I do have a proposition for you, Charlotte. I will arrange to bring you under my tutelage. We will work together every day, and I will teach you the more sophisticated tricks of the trade.”
“Why?” asked Charlotte.
“Always astute,” said Augustine. “Always right to the point. Your parents will pay me, and it is a very safe and regular form of income. I am not a young woman, and you are security.”
“I see,” said Charlotte.
They were silent for a moment.
“And I must admit,” said Augustine, “a certain desire to pass along my knowledge—not to let it die with me.”
“Yes,” said Charlotte, and her face broke into a smile. “When can we begin?”
That night, as the family sat around the dinner table, they discussed the situation.
Miriam bubbled. “She was quite impressed. She could not help but perceive your raw, natural talents, Charlotte.”
Charlotte shoveled pork chops and mashed potatoes into her mouth.
“We have arranged for you to begin your training immediately. Augustine assures me that this will bring your talents to the next level and allow you to bridge the gap between our world and the spirit plane.”
Professor Rowe spoke. “In addition to your training with Augustine,” he said, “you will begin studying with me.”
Charlotte dropped her fork, and it clattered against her plate. She chewed and swallowed her mouth full of food.
“Isn’t that wonderful?” asked Miriam rhetorically.
“I have the utmost respect for Augustine,” said Professor Rowe, “and what she can teach you, but I do not want to narrow your mind. Specialization is both a great boon and the greatest danger to science. I want to assure that your outlook is broad enough to help you cross over into new ground, into areas that are as yet unexplored, the new frontiers of the human mind.”
Charlotte nodded slowly and picked up her fork.
“Nanette,” she said, “thinks that is a good idea.”
On some nights, the mirror was quiet, and on some nights it was noisy. At first, Charlotte thought that the things in the mirror were dreams, that she would lie in bed at night, fall asleep, and dream of things in the mirror. She did not remember falling asleep, but dreams could be that way. Sometimes she would remember what she saw with great clarity, almost unreal clarity, like something sharper than reality itself. Sometimes what she saw would remain obscure, mysterious, fleeting. Though in the beginning she woke with headaches, these subsided slowly over time. Slowly, the mirror came to be simply part of the rhythm of her life.
Years and years later—a lifetime later—so much later that the world seemed like a different world—Charlotte read a book that she had picked up on a whim in a bookstore. She saw it when she was looking for a copy of a biography that someone had written about her. It was strange and amusing that someone had pretended to know about her life, would write a whole book about it, a whole book that purported to say the truth. Charlotte knew better than to write a book about the truth.
When she got to the bookstore, though, she was distracted. Somehow, this other book spoke to her from the bookshelf, and she came away with it instead of the one she thought she had been searching for.
From the first page, she began nodding her head to herself, saying “yes,” and “yes,” and “yes.” It talked about strange loops—infinite loops that play back upon themselves, like a mirror reflected in a mirror. Strange, foreign loops that toy with themselves, interact with themselves, change themselves, become something different simply by being. “Yes,” she said, “yes, I know what a strange loop is.”
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