8
In this former saloon where the end of the world has begun, Ophelia Poole sits now in a chair, her zip-tied hands resting on the plank-top table built by Asher Optime. He sits across from her, in his role as the scourge of that disease known as humankind.
Still she does not weep, as if by denying him the satisfaction of her tears she can deny him power over her.
Soon she will learn that he can’t be denied.
The two windows that remain intact, glass frosted by decades of hard weather and dust, admit a feeble imitation of sunshine. Of what illumination there is, most comes from a Coleman gas lantern. With its bag-like wicks aglow, the pressure turned down, the lamp is less bright than it could be. In fact, Ophelia sports a summer tan, but here her face is moon pale, and her hair, which is actually golden, appears somewhat silvery, as if the subtly pulsing light is imposing a patina on her.
In the farther reaches of the large room, shadows gather like black-robed witnesses to an inquisition.
Twenty-eight-year-old Ophelia is a highly attractive woman whose twin sister, Octavia, was killed in a traffic accident when she was twenty-three. Having overcome blackest grief, Ophelia believes that she is virtuous and thinks she should “give back” to her community by serving as the counselor to a group of people who have recently lost loved ones. They meet the second Tuesday of every month at their church, for mutual support and light refreshments. Two nights previously, Ophelia made the mistake of being the last to leave the session, alone, just when Asher was trolling for a fifth person to serve as proof of his personal commitment to eradicate the horrid pestilence of humanity from this stressed planet.
She woke from a chloroform sleep the previous morning and found herself in this room, chained to the wall. In addition to drawing from her the story of her life, Asher has fed her three meals since then and escorted her to the outhouse, where he’s waited while she toileted. He is not cruel in his righteousness. The only thing he requires of her is to read the part of his manifesto that he has thus far written: fifty-two pages in his meticulous cursive. She’s read it all and wishes to discuss it.
She thinks he desires her feedback, but he does not. He only wants her to understand his purpose and her place in the magnificent task he has undertaken.
Now, as they face each other across the table, in the bleaching light of the gas lamp, Asher explains that during the conversation they are about to have, she must not chatter on. She must answer his questions as succinctly as possible. He will not tolerate an attempt to persuade him of anything, for he cannot be persuaded to believe anything but what he already knows to be true.
For her edification, Asher recounts his résumé: undergraduate degree from one Ivy League university, medical degree from another, the decision not to practice medicine. He speaks passionately about his lengthy internship with Xanthus Toller, guru of the Restoration Movement, and about the profound insights he gained from judicious experiments with mescaline and alkaloid psilocybin, which led him to the realization that not just animals and plants but indeed all matter is alive and aware.
She listens quietly, as she has been told to listen. However, Asher is the most observant and perceptive of men, and he can read her every thought in the smallest of facial expressions, in changes in her posture, and of course in her malachite-green eyes. She is afraid of him, thinks him insane, and so resists understanding the importance of her role in his great undertaking.
Her problem is that, even in her dire circumstances, Ophelia entertains hope. She doesn’t understand that hope is a worthless currency, the fool’s gold of the ignorant. Hope is like the blinders put on a dray horse to focus it on the way ahead. Hope prevents her from seeing the horrors of life to the left and right, horrors that may befall her at any moment; even worse, hope prevents her from seeing the meaninglessness of her own existence and the damage she does merely by being alive.
The purpose of this conversation is to take from her all hope, so that when he writes of her in his manifesto, she will serve as a convincing lesson to those who read his work and are moved to join the revolution.
“You’re a pretty girl. Do you know how very desirable you are?”
She indulges in rebellion. “I’m not a girl. I’m a grown woman.”
On the table lies a switchblade. He picks it up, presses the release button, and the blade springs forth. The softly pulsing light seems to transform the razor-edged length of steel into a blade of quicksilver.
“Do you understand how very desirable you are?” he asks again.
“Yes.”