BOOK ONE
The Author and Psyche

CHAPTER 144
PSYCHE'S FATE

	Psyche fell asleep under the trees. She dreamed about idyllic days that she had forgotten about. She remembered the world as a more friendly place, and she saw herself as a different person. Once, her eyes had truly been windows to her soul, and her heart had rushed into physical expression; her soul and her heart and her body had been in perfect agreement. But now she had lost that sense of self-possession, and how she longed for the past! She remembered when a look into her heart would reveal her meaning, but now it revealed only doubt. There had been a time when her soul had extended itself, reaching beyond its limits to her known purpose—and when her body had kept all of her within it, like the envelope holding the desperate letter, as if the two were the same . . .

***
 
	This was terrible. I couldn't write any more. How could I write that final chapter, and let Psyche throw it all away?
	I dropped the pen on the sheet of paper and just cried, wishing this nightmare would end. I watched the sea thrash against my little island; the waves reached out of the ocean's body like fists, yet the rocks on the shoreline shattered the fists and turned back the passion. Now, the whole world was unbalanced, insane. My nightmare would continue for at least a little longer. I had fallen for a girl, and I couldn't forget her. I mustn't forget her. Her only life was within me; if I were to abandon her memory, and live only for myself, how could she survive? She was merely a character I had created, and that was nothing . . . yet she was everything to me. I could not explain my love nor defend it—yet neither could I deny it; I had created her within me, separate but together.
	Beside the clean paper on which I wrote sat an old volume with a cracked spine and loose pages; this volume was entitled "Nature". I have learned to hate this book. It was a rule book and a book of magic. It allowed me to create great wonders, but wonders beyond my control. With it I had created Psyche's world, a perfect world without fear or hate. Once she had been happy there, caring for everything within it, for she knew that all she could see and touch was a gift of love from me. Her world became my world, and we discovered it together. Our lives had been stitched together without a seam. My thoughts were her experiences, and we were bonded by a voice and a consciousness extending between myself here on the island and her in another world; this voice spoke through the point of my pen, and this consciousness bounced off a wonderful phrase and dived into our hearts. The image of a flower would form in my mind, and I would write to her of it; she would have smiled, for at that time, we had shared the same knowledge of beauty. I would have composed a rainbow or a sunset for her, in her world, evidencing that she was not alone. We made each other real.
	But that world we had created, though once bright and shining in our eyes, had abruptly betrayed us—or we, by abandoning faith, had betrayed our love. How could we have let it happen? Or did we even have a choice?
	At that moment of treachery, I had only gazed out upon the sea, when thoughts of Nothingness had occurred to me. The objects of my intense attention had been the pen and the writings; I had imagined Psyche as having been conceived only by these. I thought that she was perhaps only an extension of me, with her soul so intertwined with mine that I could will her action as I could my arm—that I could will her emotions and desires with a movement of my pen, thus exposing my love for her as concealed vanity. This was a lie, I knew—but how could I be sure? She loved me, but not by choice, for loving me had been her purpose from the start; had she not been made to love me? I filled her gardens with flowers and her life with sunshine, but didn't I do all this with the knowledge (and not the hope) that she would smile? How could I have trust in her when I already had certainty?
	Lies! I had cried while burying my face in my hands, It's all a lie! Yet these were questions we needed to wrestle with. The spot on perfection is all consuming. I worried Psyche with my worry, and I challenged her to denounce the idea: the words that I wrote on paper and into her heart were, "You are alone"—words that Psyche chose to believe.
	I couldn't now dispose of the words as if they had never been written, for Psyche's belief in the words made them true; she had to find me in herself, and she had to choose to believe in me as I have chosen to believe in her, or we were both very much alone. Yet such a choice gained freedom from loneliness at the cost of her new found independence. Although written by my pen and through my hand, the story had become her story, as the penmanship now was drawn in her manner. I was now just a far off memory to her, and her dreams and passions died in the space between us. I was a doll to a little girl who has grown into a woman. The thought of me brought a smile to her lips, then resentment; she had hoped and trusted in a trickster—a figment of her imagination. She lived within a world suddenly untouched by me, moving further and still further away. That world was composed only of words and definitions—nothing more. I watched helplessly as she proved her autonomy and began to doubt mine.
	A man had surfaced from the writings, conceived of doubt and horror: He existed only on paper, for he was Psyche's creation, not mine. . .
 
***

CHAPTER 98
ALONE

 	Life—I must never hide it, Psyche silently promised. In her hands she held a pebble, which had been washed ashore by an unquiet sea. Probing it desperately for signs of life while kneeling under the early evening moonlight, she felt an urgency settling within her bosom. The stone held no humour. What spirit that it did own was expressed absolutely and without sympathy: Outward from the motionless, artless object cried Nothingness. In a world so complete as hers had always been, how could that spirit have meaning? Where is its heart? she wondered, And can it feel?
	Psyche touched her leg—touched it gently—if only for assurance that she herself was alive. Then her concentration shifted over her body in a succession of rapid motions and pauses; for the first time, she was truly frightened. She shut her eyes, hiding the starlit night and the piercing strength of the rising moon, as she fought unexpected feelings of loneliness and fear.
	Her thoughts of that stone had set off the mood. An idea had abducted her from her comfortable and confident home, leaving her to walk a long road of discovery. The tears in her eyes were not of her familiar delight—they were of a sudden knowledge of pain.
	Upon opening her eyes, a leaf came into view, as it fell from a tree and touched the ground among others. A tremor began within and then shook her throughout. How hopeless ... and how cold would that tree be without leaves! she thought. And what of the leaf, decaying on the ground, disembodied and torn from its center?
	A bird flew high overhead—she found no beauty in his flight. A puppy that she had often petted and cared for brushed against her—only by that fear that possessed her did she refrain from kicking him away.
	The grounds by the ocean were familiar but unwelcoming; yet, even on that night so melancholy, she strolled there under the dominating moon. Never before had she felt so small beneath the tall trees, nor had she noticed the aching caused by stepping on rough surfaces. Colors gradually faded into shades of grey, as night demanded. She settled to rest her feet and consider.
	A hand then fell on her shoulder. She was not surprised; she merely examined it, as if it were what she had expected to see. Her own hands were enfolded and settled against her legs, but she could scarcely confuse this hand on her shoulder for one of hers: Her hands were warm; the foreign one was not. She was not at all surprised ... yet was shaken to the bone.
	Standing high over her was a man in silhouette, clothed in the blackness of the hour. The crickets' song was all that could be heard; and the spectral chill at her shoulder and in the near-autumn breeze affected her image of him who stood before her.
	From his unseen lips sounded her name. She shivered, for his voice was more frigid than either the moist earth on which she was settled or even his touch.
	"I see you are alone here, " he imparted.
	"But I'm happy as I am."
	"You are alone, and your tears tell me you are not happy."
	"I'm afraid!" she cried, "I'm afraid you're right!"
	"You hate me. I can see it."
	"No, " she responded, uncertain that she spoke the truth.
	But she knew that it was a lie when he touched her, wiping her tears away. She could only shed more. How can I hate him? she thought, He cares and is understanding. Although she felt a need for him, his presence unsettled her.
	He gathered her to him—her head against his chest and his coldness. His touch was sure but without care. She would not let that matter. He was with her. He could help her. And with him, she would never need to face herself. She held to him tightly, ready to believe anything he might tell her.
 
***
 	The story flowed out from my hand, and the cold and shadowy man was a character in that story, as Psyche was. But this man wasn't my creation—he was Psyche's, and I watched helplessly as my pen described a personality conceived and quickened in the womb of Psyche's feverish and lonely mind. I now only entered the story when Psyche called on me; otherwise, the narrative was inspired by her and her beliefs. This man had become everything that I had feared myself to be, while he also showed the strength and stability that I had lost and that Psyche needed. He took control of her life, because he had no life without her, but he did not love her. He filled the emptiness in her life with a new emptiness. He held her heart captive and hidden, because he knew of the power that the heart possesses. I only remained quiet because while fear was controlling her heart and mind, she wouldn't believe in anything I could show her. Every day, she walked by beautiful roses without noticing them, she looked away as a duck waddled up to her, and she donned shoes to keep even the sand from caressing her toes; her new, cold eyes saw through me (though I was always right there with her, wherever she might look). She could only see, now, what death revealed, and she was blinded even to her own life.
	She came to believe many lies: The man with whom she stayed convinced her that he was alive, yet how could he have life apart from me, the author? Whatever heart she saw in him was only within her imagination and was dependant upon the contents of a chapter—or did Psyche somehow possess the power to create life independent of me? But one thing was for certain, and it distinguished Psyche's creation of this man from my creation of her: I had created Psyche out of love; she created the man from her fear. My love for her could not live in her heart with that fear—that vision of being hopelessly limited --, just as this man she dreamed of could never overcome the limitations of the written words and desperate feelings that defined him. His life was her death, and his company was her seclusion.
	When I had touched Psyche with life, I had wanted for her to recreate an image of me within her. We were different bodies with different thoughts, yet we had housed the same heart. We were opposites, yet were the same. That had been the entire mystery: We had loved each other because we shared a common source. And we had lived in such a union for what had seemed to be forever, until we had allowed doubt to come between us and had allowed our knowledge to contain our hearts. 
	But in the end, the past was just a happy memory, and I would have to abandon the book to the dark chambers of the island. If by then she would choose to return to me, my life would ensure hers, and we could begin anew; our love could flower again, and it would be greater than before—maybe not a perfect love, but mature and wiser. But should she rather be with the man, the tale would end with her in his world; that world repelled me, just as it drew her in; it was a world of Nothingness.
	Psyche! I shouted over the turbulent ocean to ears that were dead to my voice, You are not alone!
 
***

CHAPTER 143
FACING THE TRUTH

	She could no longer live the way she had been living, and no longer did the world seem friendly to Psyche. She tired more easily, now, although that which she labored over was less difficult. The man she was living with taught her new ways that were more refined and exciting, yet she never felt the (aware, intimate, unbound) emotions she had once felt perpetually. Once her body had been trim (perhaps to the point of negligence) yet strong enough for the dance of life, and the small sorrows she had encountered were so far into her peripheral vision that she barely noticed them; however, what had once been pleasant sensations now were painful to her, as the wonder that had so dominated her senses gave way to suspicion.
	She confided what bothered her to the man, but he responded to her request for sympathy with scorn. Indeed, he had no sympathy to give, nor byhis very essence could he understand such a need or even its possible existence.
	That day she left him, hoping to leave a part of herself behind, as the realization of what she was becoming haunted her. Only the previous night had they together trapped the bunny Psyche had once loved, butchered and roasted it, rather than spending the time necessary to crack the nuts that grew near their hut. The flavour had been good; later, she cried until sleep and her first nightmare had descended upon her.
	The man had taught her of many things, but mostly his teachings had caused her pain. And whenever light had met his eyes, she saw empty laughter within.
	Now, above the trees and across the lake, the sun was falling in the sky. She hid from the light by stepping beyond a few bushes, ashamed to have its warmth upon her body. Once she had thought well of her person, as every curve about and sensation within had assumed significance. Now ...
	Its meaning was lost.

CHAPTER 144
PSYCHE'S FATE

	Psyche slept more comfortably that night. She had retired near the ocean, where her only shelter had been the trees; yet she was warm, for that night I came and carried her to a familiar cabin nearby. There was a fire set up there, as there had always been, and there was food and all the necessities for living. I covered her and remained at her side until she awoke at dawn.
	Her smile in response to my own affected me greatly. I touched her cheek (her smile faltered momentarily, as she shook in remembrance of another's touch—one that had hurt her), and, using words that could not hold my meaning, I exclaimed, "Psyche! Remember me! You saw me last night when you walked along the shore—we walked together! We admired the flowers in the garden; I showed them to you! When you slept, your dreams were of me!"
	She gazed up into my eyes in bewilderment, demanding, "But who are you?"
And I had no answer. How could I define myself through her ears when it was her heart I sought to touch? How do you tell someone that you were once everything to her? I held her to myself and kissed her with a warmth that the other man could not.
	She touched my cheek, as she glared up at me in anger and tenderness. "You didn't answer my question, " she said, though I have answered it many times.
	"Let me help you listen with your heart, Psyche. Don't hide from whom you are. In the end, what you believe yourself to be—what you want of yourself, and how you choose to see all things ... whether through your eyes alone, or with mine, will decide how you shall remain always."
	"I don't need your help!" she said with dignity, although her eyes said differently. The silence that followed proclaimed her willingness to listen. She did not move away, though she had that choice, yet neither did she return my kiss. Within her was a resistance to accept me; when she looked into my eyes, I almost felt that she was looking through me, as though I was not even there.
	I embraced her, seeking her warmth against my body and the softness of her hair against my cheek. For a moment, I felt our hearts merging to the same beat. For that moment, when I looked into her eyes, I saw a sparkle of (what is it?) her endearing beauty—we understood each other completely.
	But her arms, after an attempt to involve me, fell limply to her sides. She said with a voice full of tears the words that exploded between us. She asked the question that worried us both. "Are you real? Or am I dreaming?"
	Psyche found herself lying half-awake by the ocean, under the bare skeletons of trees. The sun was partially hidden beyond the clouds, which provided a cold mist; she was alone, and she cried aloud. Then she stood and chose a path. While embracing herself to keep warm, she headed for the only home she would believe in. The image of a person and a place—a possibility—receded quickly into the sealed chambers of her mind.

by Tooshoes (E.R.Gundel)