The Trial of Fallen Angels (20 page)

26

B
ack at the party, my new colleagues—the many honorable and long-standing members of the bar of the High Court of Shemaya—were eager to celebrate my graduation and share stories of their first presentations. Disturbingly, they all related tales of trials terminated before a defense could be made, and what seemed like eternities spent trying the same soul over and over again to the same conclusion.

Constantin, for example, an older man with blackened teeth and scars on his face, told me he presented the soul of a police officer whose duty and pleasure it had been to torture prisoners into making confessions. “He was a singularly cruel man,” Constantin explained, “yet the Judge sees fit to end the presentation each day before I can inform the court of his fondness for abandoned animals found on the street, which he sheltered in his apartment.”

Another presenter, Allee, a pregnant teenager with swollen cheeks and hands, presented the soul of a young man who left his girlfriend after impregnating her. “He risked his life to save a child from a fire that swept through his neighbors’ house one day,” she said. “I try to bring it up in the Courtroom, but we never seem to get to it. I guess God doesn’t think it matters.”

I lost Luas and Nana in the crowd and continued on alone to a banquet table. Talking to the other presenters made me feel nervous and uneasy and I wanted to be left alone. After helping myself to some food, I drifted off toward a stone sculpture in the corner of the room that I hadn’t seen earlier. It was a perfectly smooth sphere as tall as me and resembled a globe of the earth. A miniature stone figurine of a woman with long hair and wearing a skirt stood on the surface of the sphere at the top with three miniature pairs of stone doors arrayed before her.

When I looked more closely at the figurine of the woman, the sculpture reconfigured itself, so that I was now seeing the three pairs of doors before me, as though I were now the figurine. Over the first pair of doors in front of me was a sign that said “Self,” over the second, a sign that said “Others,” and over the third, a sign that said “Spirit.” All three pairs of doors had mirrored surfaces, and I could see my reflection in all of them, but the left and right doors of each pair reflected different images of me.

The left doors displayed the image of me I had always wanted to see: taller, with more pronounced cheekbones, fuller breasts, and two complete arms. This Brek Cuttler was witty and sophisticated, a loving mother, brilliant lawyer, devoted daughter, exquisite lover, competitive tennis player, accomplished violinist, and wonderful chef. She was the perfect specimen of a woman, envied for having a perfect career, perfect body, perfect mind, perfect husband, perfect children, and perfect home.

The right door of each pair reflected a far less glamorous image. This Brek Cuttler was rounder and plainer, with a blemished face, thin lips, small breasts, limp hair, and no right arm. Yet she seemed nobler and less frantic than her twin reflected in the other doors. This Brek Cuttler defined herself by everything the other Brek Cuttler was not: comforting rather than competitive, spiritual rather than intellectual, forgiving rather than condescending, complimentary rather than complimented, trusted rather than feared. She was perfectly defenseless and, thus, perfectly indestructible, dependent upon everything and therefore perfectly independent.

“Love me,” pleaded the perfect Brek Cuttler reflected in the left doors of each of the three pairs with the signs above them. Behind her in the mirror assembled the trappings of her success—the awed glances of men and women, the beautiful clothes and home, the powerful friends and powerful titles, the luxurious vacations, the coveted invitations, the ruthless victories. Her peculiar little twin reflected in the right doors of each of the three pairs said only, “I am.” Behind her assembled the trappings of her freedom—represented by the universe itself, from the smallest gnat to the brightest star, each perfect in its own way, and in its own time.

The magical sculpture divided my miniature avatar into three, and each of us stepped forward to make our choices between the three pairs of doors. We were greeted at the thresholds by parents, teachers, and friends: to the left they all pointed, and through the left doors we went, finding behind them three more sets of doors requiring the same choices. Receiving the same guidance, to the left we went, and to the left again, again, and again, as we had been taught and raised, eventually choosing on our own. The sculpture rotated slowly, like a boulder being pushed uphill, the doors opening and closing.

Suddenly the sculpture transformed itself back to the way it had been, a large sphere with me no longer part of it but standing by its side. Looking down upon its surface, I saw, as though viewing the earth from high altitude, a labyrinth of doors, paths, and choices crisscrossing the surface like so many rivers and highways.

A man’s voice, deep but gentle, came from my right, startling me: “A traveler who sets out in one direction eventually returns to the place of his beginning, seeing it again for the first time.”

I turned to find a strikingly exotic man standing beside me. He was thin and of middle height and middle age, shirtless and shoeless, with smooth, titian skin and dark, black eyes. He wore a rainbow-colored dhoti wrapped around his waist and legs in the style of a Hindu ascetic, and on his head was a skullcap made of small gold beads. His face was peaceful, unfathomable, like that of a Buddhist monk during meditation. He was beautiful.

“Oh, hello,” I said, trying to recover from the shock of his appearance. “I didn’t see you standing there . . .”

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said, “it’s very interesting, although a little disturbing.”

The sphere rotated, and my three virtual representatives disappeared around the far side.

“Time leads in only one direction from which there can be no deviation,” the man said. “But there can be many present moments, depending on the choices one makes.”

“How can there be many present moments?” I asked. “Isn’t there only one present?”

“Yes,” the man said, “but it contains everything that is possible. If any point on the surface where the figurine happens to stand represents the present moment, then stretching behind her from that point on the sphere is the past, and out in front of her lies the future. Now, suppose you were to draw a longitudinal line around the sphere from the present moment where she stands—like the equator on a globe. You would see that this line represents all possible places on the surface of the sphere where the traveler can stand and still be within the present moment. The doors represent the decisions she must make on where to stand along that line.”

I was confused. “If that’s what the sculptor was trying to say, I missed it,” I said.

“I don’t think that’s all he was trying to say,” the man replied. “We’ve accounted for only two dimensions of the sphere so far—time, represented by the rotation of the sphere, and place, represented by the surface of the sphere. We’ve described only a flat disk, I’m afraid—half a pancake.”

“I didn’t do well in geometry.”

The man smiled.

“There must be a third dimension giving volume to the sphere and meaning to the dimensions of time and place. The meridian line I mentioned, representing the present moment, doesn’t just float upon the surface. It also extends beneath the surface, through to the core of the sphere, giving the sphere its depth and shape. This dimension of depth represents the possible levels of understanding of the traveler at any given present moment—the levels of meaning of place and time. Her perception might be very basic and primitive, in which case her understanding of her time and place would be near the surface. Or she might possess a more complete understanding of her time and place and all its nuances, in which case her understanding would be very deep and near the core.

“Meaning is also a matter of choice, is it not? We may experience the same present reality in many different ways. Thus, although our traveler has no ability to choose her particular time—because that is determined by the rotation of the sphere—she has complete freedom to choose both her place in the present moment and its meaning and significance to her—her level of perception. In this way, she experiences reality in three dimensions from a potentially infinite number of locations along the line of the present moment, assigning to her reality a potentially infinite number of meanings corresponding to the depth of her perception.”

The man was talking way over my head. I was there to celebrate becoming a presenter, not to engage in a philosophical exegesis of time, space, and perception. I scanned the crowd for Luas and Nana and a polite way out of the conversation.

“My name is Gautama,” the man said, perceptively extending his left hand.

“Brek Cuttler,” I said, smiling sheepishly, embarrassed at having been caught looking for an exit.

One of the faceless attendants arrived to retrieve my empty plate.

“Yes, I know who you are,” Gautama said. “I hope I haven’t bored you. I myself am far more interested in the smaller steps along the journey, but standing back on occasion to glimpse the whole can be useful. For instance, it explains the presence of the postulants here among us right now, and our mutual inability to see each other because of our chosen levels of perception.”

“Maybe,” I said, beginning to understand a little of what he was saying. “But does it explain why every presentation in the Courtroom is terminated before a defense can be presented? I assume this has been your experience as well?”

“I’m not a presenter,” Gautama said. “I’m merely a sculptor . . . among other things.”

“You sculpted this?” I asked, embarrassed.

“Yes, but I see it has made you uncomfortable.”

“It’s a little intimidating,” I admitted.

“We’re not comfortable making choices,” Gautama replied. “We prefer others to make them for us. But choice is what makes everything run, you know. It is the energy that powers the universe. To create is simply to choose, to decide. Even the Ten Commandments are choices—ten choices each person must make at any instant in time that create who they are and who they will become, although they can be reduced to three, which is what I’ve tried to do here with my sphere.”

“Three?”

“Yes. The first four Commandments are simply choices about the Holy One, are they not? Will we acknowledge God—or Spirit, or Truth, whatever language you wish to use—or will we worship material things and settle for the impermanent world? Will we invoke the power of God, the creative force, to harm or destroy others, or will we love them as ourselves? Will we set aside time to appreciate Creation and Truth, or will we consume all our time in pursuit of finite ends? The remaining six Commandments concern choices about others and self. Murder, theft, adultery, the way one relates to one’s parents, family, and community—these reflect how one chooses to regard others. Whether one is envious, and whether one conceals the truth, are ultimately decisions about one’s self.”

“Interesting way of looking at it,” I said.

Gautama turned toward the crowd.

“Your understanding of this, my daughter, is essential, for these are the choices that must be presented in the Courtroom. From these choices alone is the Final Judgment rendered and eternity decided. The Judge is demanding and thorough. Some might even say the Judge is unforgiving.”

“But the presentations are never completed,” I said. “Some might say the Judge is unjust.”

“Ours is not to question such wisdom,” Gautama replied. “But you might ask yourself how many times the same choices must be presented before the story is accurately told.”

I considered this, and I considered Gautama. He was so very much unlike anybody else I had met in Shemaya. “Since I arrived here,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve met anybody, except my great-grandmother, who wasn’t a presenter. You said you are a sculptor, among other things. What things are those?”

“I help postulants recognize themselves and their choices. That is why my sphere is located here in the train station.”

We turned back to the sphere. “I still don’t understand the reflections on the door,” I said. “I saw two different versions of myself.”

“Are not all choices based in personal desires?” Gautama replied. “And are not all desires reflections of who we are or wish to become? We could distill the three choices presented here by the three pairs of doors into one, and conclude that all things in life turn upon choices concerning Creation itself. We could distill this even further and conclude that all things turn upon Creation’s choices about Creation itself. In other words, Brek, we are co-creators with God. At the highest level of reality on the sphere, at the pole from which we start and to which we will inevitably return, there is but one possible here and now. All the rest flows from it, and returns to it, in the course of Creation—in the course of making choices. We choose who we are or wish to become, but in the end we are only one thing, permanent and unchanging, no matter what choices we make. The journey around the sphere is a circle.”

Tim Shelly suddenly staggered up between Gautama and me, reeking of alcohol. His eyes were glazed over and his bow tie undone.

“Hey,
great rock
!” he said, pointing to the sphere and slurring his words. Then he placed his hand on my shoulder and slid it down my back inappropriately. “Go get somebody else, Gautama,” he said. “Brek’s mine.”

I stepped back from him, appalled.

“You seem to be enjoying the evening, my son,” Gautama replied, seemingly unbothered by the remark or Tim’s apparent drunken condition.

Tim grabbed me and tried to kiss me full on the lips.

“Tim, stop it!” I yelled, pushing him away. “What’s gotten into you?”

“What’s the matter, Brek? Too good for me?” he sneered.

“I believe it is time for you to go home, my son,” Gautama said.

“Why?” Tim said, “so you can have her?” He winked at Gautama and gave him a jab in the shoulder. “I’ve been watching you . . . I know you older spiritual guys still got it in you.”