My Time in the Mountains

[Sally Talfourd]

For nine months, I lived on rise of a mountain near to Cao Bằng. The name of the mountain doesn’t really matter, but from the main bus terminal if you were to drive south-west for an hour, you’d be close to finding the house I stayed. There only two seasons – two types of weather, as best as I can remember: Hot and wet, and wet and hot. Sure, there was the occasional stretch of cold during winter (it can’t be avoided the higher the altitude), but for the most part if it wasn’t hot a sticky and wet, it was hot with torrential rain. At first, I found this difficult to adjust to, but as I got used to it, it all came to seem natural.

The house I’d come to find myself in was old and small, but the property was spacious every direction from the house. Long ago, this had likely been a rice farm in tree directions, with a plot directly out the front of the house for vegetables and anything else to sustain a family. Of course, that was all long gone. Left to its own devices it was a riot of tall grasses and green weeds, with a family of cats having made its home there long before I had. After the first time I had someone over to trim the grass, the cat family moved, and I never saw them again.

Back then, my life had come to a standstill. I was stuck. I was moving neither forwards nor backwards, just ending each day where I had started. Not physically, of course. I couldn’t explain it then, and I guess I still can’t. The cause and effect of how this all came about eluded even those close to me. Though I would end up returning to my life, a mouth agape sits between before my stay near to Cao Bằng and after.

Nine months. I had no notion of whether that was a long or short period of time to be broken off from one’s own life. Looking back, some years later, it seemed as though it had lasted forever. But then again, it passed by in an instant. My feelings on it change, depending on the day. It’s like when people take a photograph of something and they put a common object – say, an apple – alongside for scale. In my mind, that scale changes. Like, the objects and events are in a constant flux.

That’s not to say that all my memories are a haze of that time, with everything expanding and contracting at will. My life had become placid before I’d wanted to ‘get away’ – event if it was rational and well-adjusted. But in those nine months, things were different. It was a period of inexplicable chaos. Confusion. I now see that that part of my life was the exception, a time unlike any other in my life.

When I moved into that house, the first thing I did was buy cheap used furniture. There was no reason to furnish the home with anything more than the home itself was. The inside should match the outside. That meant taking a risk though. You see, there’s none of the types of second-hand, used items stores when you’re this far away from things. I had put word out through the distant family and friends I had in the region that I was looking for enough to make a house liveable. I didn’t need to mention money or the like – the assumption was built in. If a Việt kiều is nearby it’s treated as though an ATM has recently been installed.

By the end of the nine months, I’d end up leaving just about everything I’d filled the house with. There was simply no easy way to bring it with me. Also, I didn’t want any of it. Except for the lamp. Of all the bits and pieces I’d bought, this broken lamp had become the essence of my stay in the mountains. I thought I was being smart when I went to buy it. I asked the man selling it to test it out. It worked fine. He plugged it in, he pushed a switch, the light came on. To really test it, I started talking to the man - Nguyễn Huy Thiệp. We talked for another twenty minutes or so. The light stayed on all that time.

On my way out, at the front door, he held out his hand, quite naturally, and I took it without thinking. A firm handshake at the end concluded our business. What an unusual character, I thought. Friendly enough, not overly quiet. But it was as if he hadn’t said a single thing about himself. I couldn’t help but sense, deep within his smile as I walked away, a solitude that comes from a certain sort of secret.

Grasping the lamp, I walked the hour back to my temporary house. The sun was beating down, and it was early into my stay and so my body was still not used to the oppressive heat. Twice I stopped at roadside stall. At the first I had water and ate half a bag of bánh tráng trộn. Rather than insult the old lady, I thanked her and carried the salad home with no intention of finishing it. At the second stall, my body felt weak and heavy. From the shade, I could make out the winding path that trailed up the mountain. But before that, there was still two, three kilometres to go. I planted the lamp atop a low table and took a seat.

This time, I ordered a cà phê trứng and mixed chè. I prayed that the caffeine and the sugar would carry me the last distance.

While waiting, I inspected the lamp that had become the burden of this quest. It was probably stainless steel, looking at the state of it compared to its age and its locale. As I turned it around in my hands, I imagined it being the prized possession of the family the day it came home. New, mechanical-looking, something from a magazine. Compared to the very little most people around here had; this would have been something. Now it’s being sold off to occupy a space in a shack in the middle of no where, I thought to myself.

The second stop did me a world of good, and with the extra energy, I’d found my way home. The sun had peaked, cresting over the other side of my mountain. The light ebbed away, so the lamp found its first use. I plugged it in, I pushed a switch, but no light came on. I repeated the actions, and merely got the same results. No matter what I tried, the bulb failed. With a sigh, I left it there and retreated to the front terrace. Later in my stay, when the weather was good, I liked to sit on a barely-held-together lounge chair out on the terrace after dinner. If I had some one, I’d enjoy that too while I looked out at the darkening landscape. Slowly, glints and specks of yellow appeared through the valley.

After a meal, the exhaustion that the caffeine and sugar had kept at bay washed over me again. Exhausted, I found my bed. I cast a watchful eye at the lamp as I memorised the route from the light switch to my bed. I’d stubbed my toes twice in the first few days – any future injuries would now be laid at the foot of this broken lamp.

Sometimes in the middle of the night I’d hear a faint rustling sound from the roof above the bedroom. At first, I thought it might be the cat family, or mice, or some bird that had found its way into the attic. But the sound was clearly not that of a rodent’s feet scurrying around. Nor that of a slithering snake. It sounded more like paper being crumpled. Not loud enough to keep me from sleeping – or to wake me up once I’d started - but it did concern me that there was some unknown creature in the house. I figured it might be an animal that could cause some damage.

This night, the silence woke me. That happens sometimes: For some, a sudden noise will cut the silence, waking a person; for others, a sudden silence will cut through sounds. I’m generally a sound sleeper, and don’t wake up until the morning light wakes me. So having my sleep interrupted like that in the middle of the night was unusual.

I lay there in the darkness wondering why I’d awakened at this hour (whatever the hour was – all I knew was that the sun hadn’t risen yet). It was a typical, quiet night. The nearly full moon was a huge round mirror floating across the sky. I sat up and carefully listened. That’s when I realised something was different from usual. It was too quiet. The silence was too deep. Since the house was built in the mountains, after sunset the insects inevitably started their ear-splitting chirping, a chorus that went on until late at night. A genuinely piercing sound. But on this night, there wasn’t a single chirp. It was disconcerting.

Once awake, I found it hard to get back to sleep. After a while, I heard a sound I wasn’t used to. Or perhaps felt like I heard it. It was a very faint sound and if the insects had been chirping as loudly as they usually were, I probably never would have heard it. But the profound silence that reigned allowed it to reach me, though barely. I held my breath and strained my ears. It wasn’t the chirp of any insects.

It was that rustling from the roof above. Faint and delicate. I reached over to the broken lamp. I knew it was broken, but I still made effort to shed some light on the situation. Of course, I pressed the switch. Nothing, not even a flicker. With another sigh, I felt over the lamp in the hopes that – perhaps – there was a second switch I’d not seen. As my fingers hers ran over it, I wondered if this lamp was simply rejecting this home, or me. That it refused to be part of this misadventure and longed to return to that very peculiar man. Maybe it knew its place in the valley and world not function outside of where it needed to be.

It was a broken lamp, wherever it was not meant to be.

[Sally Talfourd]

Most evenings I would watch the dusk settle from the front terrace. Sometimes the oppressive heat would linger until the peak of night. But if it had been raining, a mist would rise as the last gasp of the sun gave out. The view from half-way up the rise never changed, not too did the sounds. Put-put-put of motorcycles, walking vendor calling out his wares, then the insects.

It was the perfect place to read, or to write., and I found myself – on occasion – doing one or the other. I’d managed to stow an armful of books in my rush to pack and would chip away at them (by the end of my stay, I’d read them all and a few twice). I had also thrown in paper, pens and pencils in the last second in the off-chance I needed to write or draw. It had been many years since I’d done either seriously, but maybe the escape would re-awaken something, I had thought to myself.

By the third week, I’d started writing letters to the people back home. I had over-estimated the reach of the Internet and so resorted to a long-lost tradition to keep everyone informed. The first few letters I wrote found their way into a firepit in the Winter months. Others I wrote and sent immediately (though they would still take two, three weeks to find their recipient). There were a handful I ended up keeping – letters I wrote to send but never did. Some were too mean, others had too much of my heart in them. One stood out, which has followed me since that escape.

--- // ---

Dear 

Please forgive me for not writing sooner. But try to understand. It took me a very long time before I was in any condition to write to you. I have started and stopped this letter at least ten times. Writing just seems too painful a process for me now.

Let me begin with a conclusion. I have decided to take some time away from the road. Officially, it's a leave of absence – then again, I sometimes think that I will never be back. This will no doubt come as a surprise to many people – yourself, included. However, I would be lying if I told you I hadn’t been thinking about escaping for a very long time. I tried a few times to mention it to you, but I could never make myself begin. I was afraid to say the words.

Promise me that you will try and not to get so worked up about this. Whatever happened … or didn't happen … in the end, it would have finished the same. This may not be the best way to put it, and I'm sorry if it hurts you or anyone else you show this to. What I am trying to say is: I don't want you to blame yourself for what happened with me. It is something I must take on myself. I had been putting this off for more than a year, and so I ended up making things very difficult for you. Then, one day, there was no way I could put it off any longer.

After I moved out of my flat in Seattle, I came to Vietnam. In between, I was seeing a doctor. He told me about a place in the hills would be perfect for me, and I'm thinking of spending a little time here. It's not a hospital or a retreat – far from it. I'll leave the details for another letter. What I need now is to rest my nerves in a quiet place cut off from the world.

I've thought a lot about you in that time. The more I've thought, the more I've come to feel that I was unfair to you. I probably should have been a better, fairer person when it came to the way I treated you. This may not be the most normal way to look at things, though. Women my age over-use the word "fair". The central question for them though is not whether something is fair but whether or not it's beautiful or will make them happy. And because questions of beauty, of happiness, have become such difficult and impossible propositions for me now, I find myself clinging instead to other standards - like, whether or not something is fair or honest or universally true.

However, I truly believe that I have not been fair to you in that I must have led you around in circles and hurt you deeply. But, please remember that in doing that I have led myself around in circles and hurt myself just as deeply as I did to you. It’s not an excuse or self- justification, but a statement of truth. If I have wounded you, it is not just your wound but mine too. Please try not to hate me for all this. I am a flawed human being - far more flawed than you realise. If you were to hate me, I would really go to pieces.

I feel grateful in my own way for the years of companionship you gave me. Please believe me when I say that much even if you believe nothing else I have written. You are not the one who hurt me. I hurt myself. This is truly how I feel.

For now, however, I am not prepared to see you. It's not that I don't want to see you: I'm simply not prepared for it mentally. The moment I feel ready, I will write to you. Perhaps then we can get to know each other better once again.

Goodbye.

--- // ---

I knew that if I'd sent that letter, I'd never be able to return. Return to my regular life, return to what I have returned to now. It would created a burden that no one needed to carry. The one thing I never wanted to be was a burden to anyone.

There were times I would pick up  these unsent letters and wonder what they were. Were they letters, of confessions? Just because they looked like a letter, were they actually one? A letter had a sender and a receiver. This was missing one half of its essence. I suppose, in that sense, so was I.

[Sally Talfourd]

As I said before, I'd hear a gentle rustling in the roof above my bed of a night. Not every night, but more regular that I would like. It had a regularity that suggested something was responsible for it. After the third time I'd heard it (maybe the end of the first week I'd made it to my escape), I decided to investigate.

In doing this, it was by total coincidence that I discovered the painting that would shape the next years of my life.

When I'd first arrived at the house, I'd done a thorough sweep: Where were the doors, the windows, the cut out. It was more a way to put my mind at rest. If i was going to be here for an extended amount of time, my mind would come to terms with it quicker if I at least mastered the layout. In all that mental mapping, I'd not once located the door to the attic. Traditionally, there's be a manhole in the roof and a signalling wooden ladder laying nearby on the floor. Not this house though. There was a door, hard to open after years of rain and warping and inactivity. Eventually though, it gave way to a set of stairs that ran up between what was now obviously a thicker wall. Not so thick that you would imagine a set of stairs was encased within (my shoulders brushed either side on the way up), but when you knew this you could notice it. 

I found the door in the back of a closet in one of the bedrooms (one I wasn't using). After battling with the door, flashlight in one hand, I took halting steps up. I wasn't necessarily scared of anything in particular, but knowing that the source of the noise was up this staircase that was behind a door that seemingly appeared only after I looked for it ... my mind was in somewhat of a state.

Halfway up  the walls no longer provided me any cover. I timidly stuck my head up and looked around. The attic was bigger than I’d thought, and dark. A small amount of sunlight filtered in through the small vent holes on either side. I shone the flashlight around but didn’t see anything. At least nothing was moving. I took the plunge and dashed up the last few steps into the attic.

The place smelled dusty, but not enough to bother me. The attic was seemingly well ventilated as there wasn’t altogether that much dust on the floor. Several thick beams hung low, but as long as I avoided them with deft ducking and weaving I could walk around fine. I edged forward, checking both vents for the noise. Both were covered with screens so no animals could get in, but the screen on the north vent had a gap in it. Something might have knocked against it and ripped it. Or else an animal had intentionally ripped the wire to get inside (for what reason I would not know). Either way, the opening was large enough for a smallish animal to easily scramble in.

Then, with a fright, I spotted the culprit I’d been hearing those occasional nights. Silently settled on top of a beam in the dark was a small owl, a silhouette of white cut against the darkness. I later found out it was an Oriental bay-owl - Phodilus badius. Its eyes were closed, I guessed sleeping. I switched off my flashlight and stood away to silently observe without frightening it. I’d never seen an owl up close before. It was a beautiful creature: A pale face amongst the abandonment of the attic.

I assumed that the owl rested here during the day, then at night as darkness set I would escape out through the vent hole I'd seen at the northern end to hunt for rodents and other prey in the mountains and the nearby growth. The sound of it going in and out must have been what I heard. No harm done to either of us. And, having an owl share my attic also meant I needed less worry for mice and snakes. Leaving it be would be the best course of action, I thought to myself. And, the more I watched the more I felt a closeness to this little owl: We were both borrowing this house and sharing it. Escaping in it. I resolved to let it have the run of the attic; I would have the middle. Who would have beneath both of us, underground? Who knows.

I stayed a bit more, enjoying my time observing it, then started to tiptoe back where I’d come from. And that’s when I discovered the large wrapped package near the entrance.

[Sally Talfourd]

One look told me that the package was a wrapped-up painting. About three feet in height and five feet in length, it was wrapped tightly in brown paper you use to wrap a box for overseas shipping. It had neat string tied several times around it. Nothing else was in the attic, only the faint sunlight filtering in from the vent holes, the Oriental bay-owl on top of a beam, and the wrapped painting propped up against a wall. The combination felt magical, somehow.

I gingerly lifted the package. It wasn’t heavy; the same weight of a painting set in a simple frame I expected. The wrapping paper was slightly dusty. It must have been placed here, out of anyone’s sight, quite some time ago. A simple paper tag was attached tightly with wire to the simple string and in black ballpoint ink was written ‘La folie’. The writing had been done by a very careful hand. Most likely this was the title of the painting.

Naturally, I had no clue why this painting would be hidden in the attic. I considered what I should do. Obviously, the correct thing to do would be to leave it where it was. It wasn’t mine, but it was certainly someone else’s. I assumed it had been hidden long ago from the local authorities. How long, I couldn’t say. But even my cursory knowledge of history could put together a story: A French-named painting in the Northern provinces of a once French colony, later turned Communist which sought to turn out all vestiges of colonial rule. Perhaps it had been here, in hiding, for protection. That being the case, I thought I shouldn’t do anything uncalled for, and should let it continue to silently share the attic with the owl. I should just leave it be.

That made the most sense, but still I couldn’t suppress the curiosity surging up inside. The words in (what appeared to be) the title - ‘La folie’ - grabbed me. What kind of painting could it be? And why was this painting alone in the attic?

With the package under one arm and the flashlight under the other hand, I gave a small wave to the owl huddled on the beam, then clambered down the stairs quietly. I was less worried of the scene than when I entered, but I couldn’t shake a knowing weight for having intruded into this space. By the end of those narrow stairs, as I closed the door I’d never seen before, I couldn't shake off the feeling that something important had been waiting for me up there.

My eyes adjusted to the light. When all was as near to normal as could be, I placed the large bundle wrapped in cloth on the bed. The dust and whatnot that hung from loose threads didn’t bother me – this was a spare bedroom after all, and I wasn’t must likely to sleep in here after the whole encounter with the door anyway. I’d best check each closet now for more doors too, I thought to myself.

I didn’t unwrap the painting right away. I left it leaning up against the wall in that spare room for several days. Sometimes I would walk past the room and it would catch my eye and I would lean on the doorframe and look at it, still wrapped, my mind conjuring all sorts of images. I’d managed to obtain a translation of what was on the tag after one visit to the marketplace I went for fruit.

‘La folie’ – Madness.

On those occasions, I would find myself gazing vaguely at it. It was hard to decide whether I should unwrap it or leave it be. I mean, it did belong to somebody else after all. No matter the positive spin I could try and put on it, I didn’t have the right to unwrap it. If I wanted to, and with some effort, I could try to get permission from the acquaintance who had led me to this house. But even then - I’m not sure why, but I didn’t feel like letting anyone know that the painting existed. I felt like it was something personal, just between me and that owl. I can’t explain why but that’s how I felt at the time.

I stared at the painting (my assumption, of course, that it was actually a painting) - wrapped in brown paper and tied tightly with string - so hard I must have burned a hole in it. And, after running the next step through my mind over and over again, I finally decided to unwrap it. It was no contest: my curiosity won out over any sense of etiquette or common sense.

I just had to see what was inside. I don’t care what anyone says, I told myself. I approached the bundle, my heart racing with anticipation. I brought over scissors, cut the tightly bound string, and peeled away the brown wrapping paper. I took my time, and did it carefully, in case I needed to rewrap it again later on. I unthreaded the tag that read ‘La folie’ and placed it gently to the side. Many years later, I think that there should have been a warning sign at the very least on the other side of that tag.

Underneath the layers of wrapping paper was a painting in a simple frame, wrapped in a soft white cloth like bleached cotton. I gently lifted off that cloth, as carefully as if I were removing the bandages from a burn victim.

[Sally Talfourd]

What was revealed under the white cloth was Romantic Symbolism (it was only later I could attached those words to the painting – I didn’t know that immediately). A type of side-on portrait. I stood it up on a shelf, stood back a bit, and studied it.

It was old, no doubt about it. Clearly done in a traditional style and classical technique, with bold use of dark, muted colours cut with the white of flesh and lace. The painting depicted a woman - richly dressed in the fashions of the 19th century, the clothes and hairstyles of that age. But the painting startled me nonetheless in that the woman was semi-reclined and cradling a marotte.

The colours were faded, and the frame was worn, but the image was striking. I saw a woman, in a flowing dress, surrounded by a swirl of darkness and bold brushstrokes. The painting intrigued me in those first moments then days then years. It had a sense of mystery and secrets hidden within. From that day on, I knew that I had to uncover its hidden meaning, to understand the secrets that it held.

As I stood before the painting, La folie, I couldn't shake off the feeling that it was alive. I couldn't look away, it had captured my attention entirely. The more I looked at this woman’s face, a tear frozen in time as it rolled down the join where the nose meets the cheek, I knew this was a person obviously hiding something. The woman seemed to be staring with a knowing gaze.

I can’t tell you how long I stood there, taking it all in. The brushstrokes, the colours: They all seemed to be moving, reaching out to me, inviting me to enter their world. My eyes were locked on the striking image of this woman and the marotte, her fluid dress, surrounded by a swirl of vibrancy.

The longer I looked, the more I felt as if the painting was pouring into my mind, possessing my thoughts and emotions. In those early days, I couldn’t name the force behind the image. It was only in days of contemplation away from the painting that I found the right word: Magic. It was magic that lived within the painting, reaching out to me to escape.

Over time, the intrigue gave way to a sense of wonder and awe mixed with a hint of fear. On different days, I would sit and look up at the painting. Other days, I would stand eye-to-eye with it. On occasion, I would stand on the bed to look down on it. Each time, the painting revealed new secrets and truths that I wasn't meant to know.

As I said, I don’t know how long I stood there that first time. Certainly the sun hadn’t set when that hold was broken, but certainly time had passed. A tea I had made earlier was cold when I eventually returned to it. The hold that painting had on me then wasn’t malevolent, nor was it evil. It was a connection – that’s the best way I could describe it. That in that moment I had held hands with something that wanted to hold my hand. And, as easily as something had taken my hand – as gently and as calmly it had begun – so too did it end. That something – The Magic – hadn’t wanted a victim. It had wanted a friend, a companion. And, like a first introduction or a first date, it had started then continued then finished.

Many more would come, but that first was completed. For a few weeks I just silently stared at that painting. With it in front of me, I couldn’t bring myself to do anything else. I barely even felt like eating. I’d grab whatever vegetables were in the fridge, dip them in mayo, and chew on that, or else heat up a can of whatever I had on hand. When the sun set, I’d have a glass of wine. But none of this was out of desperation. It all came from the same place in my mind that (I felt) affection came from.

A veil lifted, I pursed my bottom lip, feigning a critical judgement of the painting. However, with no audience it amounted to a thought unspoken. I returned to my tea – cold. Disappointed, I took it to the terrace and poured over the rail. It was still warm outside and I moved to the part of the terrace that was out of the shade and licked by the light. With closed eyes, I raised my face to the sun, soaking in the warmth. Only, it seemed to have the opposite effect. I only realised now how warm – hot even – I was. At least inside, I was already at my limits. A sweat started to break out, small beads at first along the frame of my forehead. I seemed to have all the warmth I needed.

Summer was winding down when the call came in from my manager. It had been a while since anyone had called me. The summer heat still lingered during those days, though when the sun set the air in the mountains was chilly. The cacophony of the summer cicadas was slowly fading away, but now a chorus of other insects had taken their place. Unlike when I lived in the city, I was surrounded by nature now and one season freely ate away at portions of the preceding one.

To start, we brought each other up to date, though there wasn’t much to tell on my end. I told him about how I filled the house, the broken lamp, the insects. I made a point to say nothing about the painting though.

“How’s your recouperation coming along?” he asked.

“Slowly but surely,” I said. This was a lie, of course. It was more than four months since I’d moved here, and I wasn’t sure if I’d made any progress at all.

“Glad to hear it,” he said. “I’d like to see how you’re doing sometime. Maybe there’s something I can do to help out? Or maybe I could come and visit?”

“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t think now’s the right time.”

Then he told me why he’d called. “I have a request. Are you sure you’re not willing to do one more match? What do you think?”

[Sally Talfourd]

About five days (maybe a week) after I drew that painting down from the attic, I awoke in the early hours of the morning. In my bedroom, the darkness had begun to relent but I couldn’t tell if it was due to a full moon or a rising sun. The light seemed to have a waxing quality – neither silver nor yellow.

When I awoke, the faceless man was there before me. He was seated on the chair across from the bed, staring straight at me. When I say he was faceless, it is not to say he had no head, nor that he had no face at all but rather his face was obscured by the dark. Over the course of our subsequent encounters and discussions, I would sometimes think I could make out a mask over the face – but I could never be sure.

The man was tall, and he was well dressed in a formal suit. His face-that-wasn’t-a-face was half hidden by a wide-brimmed black hat, and he had on a long, equally dark coat.

“I came here to talk,” the faceless man said, after he’d made sure I was fully awake. His voice was low, toneless, flat. “To talk about Magic.”

“Magic?” I asked. My voice, too, was toneless and flat. In that first meeting I could neither tell if I was terrified into submission or feeling so safe and secure that I opened to him immediately. Still to this day I am unsure.

“Yes, I brought it with me,” he said, and held out his right hand. In his hand—which was extremely long—he held a small marotte, the kind I had seen in the painting. He dropped it in the space between my chest and the edge of the bed, where it landed with a silent thud.

“I’m giving you this back. You probably need it. This little thing will be the token that protects you, and more. In exchange, I want you to take my name.”

I was perplexed. “I already have a name. Two names, in fact. But what do you mean ‘give it back’? I’ve never seen this before.”

My throat was parched.

“Two names? Do you mean Sally and Seon-yeong?” The faceless man said. And then he laughed. At least, I think he did. That laugh-like voice was like the empty sound of wind blowing up from deep inside a cavern, “You have only one name to me, Miss Talfourd. Miss Kwon left long ago.”

He took off the hat that hid half of his face. Where the face should have been, there was nothing but more darkness, maybe the outline of a mask.

I sat up in the bed, drawing my knees up and the blanket over then. “Ok, if you insist. But you didn’t say anything about my other point. That I’ve never seen this thing before.”

I held up the marotte which caught the light.

“Yes, you have Sally,” he said.

When he said this, I examined it closely. Try and I might, I couldn’t place it. I wasn’t even sure if I’d seen a marotte outside of that painting before. A museum, perhaps?

“I have never seen this in my life.”

Again, the empty sound of wind, “Perhaps you just don’t recognise it?”

For a brief second the marotte changed. It looked for only a moment as though it were a small plastic penguin, the kind you often see attached to a cell phone strap as a good-luck charm. In that instant, a hundred memories came flooding back – from the time I was gifted the charm by a fan at my first wrestling show to the time I gave it away at the airport on the way to this very place to the last fan who had seen me. That charm had been with me for a very long time.

And then, in an instant, it was a marotte again.

I rested back against the head of the bed, examining what was in my hand. But I had no idea where to begin, or how to get started trying to figure this out. After all, a rush of memories was nothing compared to a strange man sitting across from me in my bedroom.

“We’d better hurry,” the faceless man said. “I can’t stay here for long.”

My heart was beating dully inside my chest. I didn’t have much time, he said. I had to hurry. But hurry for what?

“To ask any questions you have,” He said, though I had asked nothing, “And to accept my gift again.”

My fingers holding the marotte just hung there in mid-air, immobilized. It was as though everything from my wrist down into my hand were numb. There was no way I could say no to him. I stared at the man.

“What would I do with this? Also, I have nothing to give in return. It is rude to not give …”

“You have more to give than you realise,” the man without a face said a little while later. From his faceless mouth, he let out a deep breath, like pale fog hovering over a river. “And you will have more to give later.”

I looked once more at the marotte. My hand refused to respond, or maybe I was sending both a message to let go and hold on and the messages cancelled one-another out. There was a familiarity to it though. I felt as though I had held this thing before. Still, the whole situation was strange enough.

“Do you have any other questions?”

“Many,” I said, unable to laugh at the absurdity of the moment. Did I have any questions!?

The man put his black hat back on, once again hiding half of his face. “One day I’ll visit you again. We can continue this discussion. Until then, I’ll keep this marotte.”

Then he vanished. Like a mist suddenly blown away by a freshening breeze, he vanished into thin air. All that remained was the unoccupied chair. The marotte was gone too.

It all seemed like a short dream. But I knew very well that it wasn’t. If this was a dream, I thought, then the world that I’m living in itself must all be a dream. The more he visited in those months in the mountain, the more I realised this was true and real.

[Sally Talfourd]

When my manager called a second time, there was a slight urgency to his questioning.

"So have you given it any more thought? A return match?"

It had been three days since we last spoke, and three days since the visit from the faceless man and his marotte. The timing of those two events was what had stuck with me more than the surrealism of it all. My manager called to entice me back to my former career and that very night I'd been visited by someone offering Magic and illusions. I felt that coincidence was more than just that.

"No, not altogether that much," I lied to him. I had given some thought to it, but not in a sense or context that he would understand.

"Just so you know, the fee they are offering is unbelievable."

"Unbelievable?"

"It’s amazing."

"How amazing?"

He told me the figure. I nearly let out a gasp of surprise. "There have got to be a lot of other people besides me who can make a comeback worth that much," I replied calmly.

"There aren’t all that many, really, though there are a few besides you who are still fairly decent and can pull in a crowd."

"Then you should ask them. With a fee like that anybody would jump at the chance."

"The thing is, the other party - this company - specifically asked for you. That’s their condition. No one else will do."

I shifted the phone to my left hand and scratched behind my right ear.

My manager went on. "This owner ... maybe they are just a booker? Whatever they are, the person saw several of your last few matches was very impressed. He felt that the vitality in your matches can’t easily be found elsewhere.”

"I don’t get it. How could anyone see any of my matches for the past year and want me on their show? Maybe earlier, but my last run was far short of my best."

"I really don’t know the details," he said, sounding perplexed. "I’m just passing along what the other party told me. I told him up front that you were no longer wrestling. I said you seemed pretty firm about it, and even if I asked you you’d most likely turn him down. But he wouldn’t give up. That’s when this figure came up."

I mulled over the offer. Honestly, it was a tempting amount. And I felt a bit of pride that someone saw that much value in my wrestling—even if it was work I’d done half mechanically for money by the end of my career. But the thing was, I’d sworn I’d never wrestle again. I couldn’t reverse my decision just because somebody was willing to shell out a pile of money.

"Why is he being so generous?" I asked.

"There are still some companies and people who have so much money they don’t know what to do with it. I agree this is all a little unconventional. But it’s hard to complain about the fee."

"I’m with you there—hard to complain about the fee," I agreed.

"It’s all up to you. It’s not like you’re being asked to sell your soul or anything. You’re a very skilled wrestler, and they’re counting on that skill."

"I feel like a retired hit man in the mob," I said. "Like I’m being asked to whack one more target."

"What sort of person would I be wrestling? Who would my opponent be?” I asked.

"Actually, I don’t know."

"You don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman?"

"I don’t. I haven’t heard a thing about the sex or age or name. At this point your opponent is a totally faceless one. That owner or booker only spoke about an opponent, without saying much more than that they existed.”

"Do you think it’s legit?"

"I don’t see anything suspect about it. The person I was speaking to works at a reputable firm and said they’ll transfer an advance as soon as you accept."

Phone in hand, I sighed. "This is kind of sudden, and I don’t think I can give you an answer right away. I need time to think."

"Understood. Think about it as long as you need."

I thanked him and hung up. I couldn’t think of anything else to do so I went to my bedroom, turned on the light, plunked myself down on the floor, and stared vaguely at La folie. After a while I started to get hungry and went to the kitchen, piled a plate with Ritz Crackers and ketchup, and went back to the studio. I dipped the crackers in the ketchup and munched them as I went back to staring at the painting. Nothing about that food tasted good. It was, if anything, pretty awful. But taste wasn’t the issue. Keeping hunger at bay for a while was the priority.

That’s how much the painting drew me in, from the overall composition to the small details. It truly held me captive. After a few weeks of exhaustive gazing at the painting, I ventured closer to it to inspect each detail. What most caught my attention was the expression on the face of the woman. At times she looked sad, other times at rest.

After I’d done this for a few days on-and-off, the thought struck me: maybe wrestling again wasn’t such a bad idea. I mean, I had nothing to lose. I was enjoying my time away, but I could always return to this after this one match. Even if I wasn’t too keen on the job, getting my body moving again wouldn’t be a bad thing. If I kept on like this, I might find myself unable to wrestle ever again. The fee, of course, was also pretty tempting. My living expenses at this point were minimal, but as it currently stood I had no income at all. So a sizable fee like the one I’d get from doing this match was, admittedly, very appealing.

I called my manager and told him that just this one time, I would take on the job. Naturally, he was happy to hear this.

"I guess that means I need to travel to wherever the show I'll be booked for is?" I said.

"No need to worry about that. The other party will schedule a show near you."

"In Vietnam?"

"That’s right."

"They know where I’m living?"

"Apparently. He - the man I spoke to - he even knows that you’re living in Cao Bằng."

This left me speechless. "That’s strange. Hardly anybody knows I’m living here. Especially that I’m in Cao Bằng."

"I didn’t know that either," my manager said, "Not until I spoke to this person."

"Then how does that person know?"

"I have no idea. But you can find out just about anything from the Internet these days. For people who know their way around it, privacy is a thing of the past. Anyway, when you meet the client, if there’s something you want to know, you can ask."

"I’ll do that," I said.

"All right, I’ll let them know, and get back to you," my manager said.

[Sally Talfourd]

My manager called a few more times before I met the mystery owner on Tuesday afternoon of the following week. I'd been assured that he would travel here, to me. I only agreed to that to see the absurdity and to test how 'in demand' I really was. No one in their right mind would travel to Cao Bằng unless they had to (including me).

On Tuesday morning I straightened up the house, picked some flowers from the garden and put them in vases, moved the La folie painting out of my bedroom and into the guest bedroom, and wrapped it up again in brown paper. I didn’t want anyone else seeing it.

At five past one p.m. a car drove up the slope to my house and parked in the driveway at the entrance. A heavy, brazen-sounding engine echoed, like some giant animal giving a satisfied purr from deep inside a cave. A high-powered engine. The engine shut off, and quiet again settled over the valley. The car was a silver Jaguar sports coupe. Sunlight from between the clouds reflected brightly off the long, brightly polished exterior. I’m not that into cars - never have been - so I don’t know which model this was, but my guess was that it was the latest model, the mileage in the four digits, the price twenty times what I paid for my last car. Not that this surprised me. The client was, after all, willing to pay such a huge fee to have me be on his next show. If he’d appeared at my door in a massive yacht, it wouldn’t have been surprising.

The person who got out of the car was a well-dressed middle-aged man. He had on dark-green sunglasses, a long-sleeved white cotton shirt (not simply white, but a pure white), and khaki chinos. His shoes were cream- colored deck shoes. He was probably a shade over six feet tall and would easily stand over me. His face had a nice, even tan. He gave off an overall fresh, clean feel. But what struck me most on this first encounter was his hair. Slightly curly and thick, it was white down to the last hair. Not gray or salt-and-pepper, but a pure white, like freshly fallen, virgin snow.

He got out of the car, closed the door (which made that special pleasant thunk expensive car doors make when you casually shut them), didn’t lock it but put the key in his trouser pocket, and strode toward my front door— all of which I watched from a gap in the curtains. The way he walked was quite lovely. Back straight, the necessary muscles all equally in play. I figured he must work out regularly, and pretty hard training at that. I stepped away from the window, sat in a chair in the living room, and waited for the inevitable knock. Once it came, I slowly walked to the door and opened it.

When I opened the door the man took off his sunglasses, slipped them into the breast pocket of his shirt, and without a word held out his hand. Half reflexively I held out my hand, too. He shook it. It was a firm handshake, the way Americans do it. A little too firm for me, not that it hurt or anything.

“My name is Lysander. It’s very nice to meet you,” the man said in a clear voice. The sort of tone a lecturer would make at the beginning of his talk to test the microphone and introduce himself at the same time.

“The pleasure’s mine,” I said. “Mr. Lysander?”

“No, sorry: Lysander is my first name,” He exuded an aura of excitement and charm.

"So, just Lysander?" I asked, wondering if I'd get his surname.

"That's fine, yes," He looked across the porch, briefly took in the view and the turned with a radiant smile that was impossible to ignore, "Do you might is I come in?"

“Please,” I said.

Lysander gave a small nod, removed his shoes, and stepped inside. I stood by the door, ready to close it and felt his energy sweeping by as he entered, announcing his arrival to my little house. His confident stride and the way he carried himself was charming, though I could sense a bit of tension. Like some large cat taken to a new place, each movement was careful and light, his eyes darting quickly around to take in his surroundings.

“A comfortable-looking place,” he said after sitting down on the sofa. His presence in that room - probably every room he'd ever entered - was commanding yet not overbearing. “Very relaxed and quiet.”

“Quiet it certainly is. But kind of inconvenient when you have to go shopping.”

“I would imagine for someone in your field it’s an ideal environment,” Lysander's eyes sparkled with genuine enthusiasm.

I sat down in the chair across from him, "I hope it wasn't too difficult to get here?"

I knew it had been. It was impossible the it wasn't. Not even a limitless bank account could have made it any easier. Lysander - if he was put out - showed no signs.

"I'd never had the opportunity to come here, so it was as exciting and it was intriguing."

“But how did you know I was living here?” I asked, quickly twisting the conversation to address my larger concern.

He looked puzzled. He wasn’t really fazed, just displaying a puzzled look. Not that his expression seemed contrived. He’d simply wanted to throw in a pause before responding.

“One aspect of my job is gathering all kinds of information,” he said. “That’s the sort of business I’m in.”

“Wrestling promotions?” I couldn't connect the dots. Wy would a promoter or owner put a premium on knowing things? On information?

“That’s right. Or more precisely, that’s also one aspect of my work.”

“But hardly anyone knows yet that I’m living here.”

Lysander smiled. “Saying hardly anyone knows means, paradoxically, that there are some who do.”

Lysander went back to the sofa in the living room, and I sat down again across from him.

“Do you mind if I ask a question?” I finally ventured.

“Ask away,” he said, beaming.

[Sally Talfourd]

“Is there some connection between me walking away from wrestling and you seeking me out?”

A slight look of confusion came over him. And when he looked confused, several tiny wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes. Charming wrinkles. His features, viewed individually, were all quite attractive—the eyes almond shaped and slightly deep set, the forehead noble and broad, the eyebrows thick and nicely defined, the nose thin and a nice size. Eyes, eyebrows, and nose that perfectly fit his smallish face. His face was a bit small, yet too broad in a way, and from a purely aesthetic viewpoint was a little imbalanced. The vertical and horizontal were out of sync, though this disparity wasn’t necessarily a defect. It’s what gave his face its distinctiveness, since it was this imbalance that conversely gave the viewer a sense of calm. If his features had been too perfectly symmetrical people might have felt a bit of antipathy, or wariness, toward him. But as it was, his ever-so-slightly unbalanced features had a calming effect on anyone meeting him for the first time. They broadcast, in a friendly way, ‘It’s all good, not to worry. I’m not a bad person. I don’t plan to do anything bad to you.’

The pointed, largish tips of his ears were slightly visible through his neatly trimmed hair. They conveyed a sense of freshness, of vigour, reminding me of spry little mushrooms in a forest, peeking out from among the fallen leaves on an autumn morning, just after it had rained. His mouth was broad, the thin lips neatly closed in a line, diligently prepared to, at any moment, break into a smile.

One could call him handsome. And he was. Yet his features rejected that sort of casual description, neatly circumventing it. His face was too lively, its movements too subtle to simply abide by that label. The expressions that rose on his features weren’t calculated, but looked more like they’d arisen naturally, spontaneously. If they weren’t, then he was quite the actor. But I got the impression that wasn’t the case.

When I observe the face of a person I’ve met for the first time, from habit I sense all sorts of things. In most cases there’s no tangible basis for how I feel. It’s nothing more than intuition. But that’s what helps me as a portrait artist—that simple intuition.

“The answer is yes, and no,” Lysander said. His hands on his knees were wide open, palms up. He turned them over.

I said nothing, waiting for his next words.

“I am always looking for the best talent, for the best performers,” Lysander went on. “No, not looking, exactly. It’s more like I’m interested. Especially when it’s someone I realise I probably can’t get.”

It’s a little too coincidental, I thought, but didn’t say anything. Maybe he had been trying to book me for a long time and had been secretly observing me? I kept that thought to myself. I mean, what possible reason could he have to observe a wrestler like me?

“When I learned that you had exiled yourself from the wrestling business,” Lysander continued, “I made it my mission to find out why you’d walked away from it all. At first I accepted what I could find on the internet. But I wasn’t satisfied, so I spoke to your manager.”

That had me puzzled. “You spoke to my manager?”

“What was his name? Shane?” Lysander sat forward on the sofa, “I first tried to see in person to ask him you whereabouts. He proved harder to find that you, in the end. Eventually I gave up trying to find him and called him. I have to say, finding his phone number wasn’t altogether easy either. Anyway, when we first spoke, he was happy to hear me out but his answer was resolute. ‘Sally is finished, she’s done.’ It seemed like it was, truly, the end. And maybe most people would have given up. But I refused. If anything, it only made me more determined. I got a strange sensation when I was told ‘no’. I called again and again, and each time I got a different reason as to why you weren’t willing to wrestle for me. In the end, it’s like I couldn’t tell which reasons were real anymore.”

I was silent.

“I suppose in the end I assumed I would win through sheer repetition; that Shane would just pass on my message in the end out of desperation that I would go away if he had a definite answer from you,” he said, and smiled. His mouth spread wide, the tips of his ears quivered ever so slightly. “There are times when I don’t want to. Take no for an answer. Hopefully my monetary compensation suggests as much?”

“That fee is a little too much,” I said.

“Price is always relative, determined by supply and demand. Those are basic market principles. If I want to buy something and you don’t want to sell it, the price goes up. And in the opposite case, the price goes down.”

“I understand, but is it really necessary for you to go to all that length to have me wrestle one match? Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but having me in a match isn’t really something a promoter needs. That’s plenty of better talent out there these days.”

“True enough. You’re not the greatest in the ring anymore. But I’m curious about what sort of match you’d give me if I were able to work with you. I want to find that out. You could think of it another way, namely that I’m putting a price on my own curiosity.”

“And your curiosity doesn’t come cheap.”

He smiled happily. “The purer the curiosity is, the stronger it is. And the more money it takes to satisfy it.”

[Sally Talfourd]

“Would you care for some coffee?” I asked.

“That would be nice.”

“I made it a little while ago in the coffee maker. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine. I’ll take it black if you don’t mind.”

I went into the kitchen, poured coffee into two plain and simple cups, then carried them back out. Lysander hadn’t moved at all.

“Did you buy that down at the markets,” Lysander casually asked as he took the cup with both hands. I didn’t know what he’d referred to, and so he softly gestured with his coffee.

Turning, I found the La folie painting (I assumed it was it, behind the brown paper wrapping it) leaning against the wall by the door. Part of me was shocked as I was sure I’d left it in the guest bedroom. And why hadn’t I noticed it when I’d met Lysander at the door?

“It’s a painting, isn’t it?” Lysander kept on, just before taking a sip.

“Yes. Yes, it’s a painting,” I managed to stutter a response as I sat down, hoping to move the conversation on, “Do you often go abroad?” I asked.

“Sometimes for work I do,” he said. As if a thought occurred to him, he remained silent. I surmised that he didn’t want to talk specifics about his job.

The conversation meandered between a hundred different topics. And, if I was asked to recount even the most interesting parts a day later I would not have been able to. It seemed as though time sped up and slowed, and that I heard everything this Lysander had to say and, yet, heard nothing. I was unsure if was that half my mind was turned to the painting unexpectedly being part of this meeting, of if there was some trick being played on me.

“So, what do you think?” Lysander asked, looking me right in the eye.

The question caught me off-guard.

“Did I pass the test? Will you take part in my show?”

“I’m not testing you. We’re just getting together for a talk.”

“But before you agree to perform, you always meet and talk with the client. I heard that if you don’t like the person, you won’t wrestle for them.”

I glanced over toward the terrace. A large crow had settled on the railing, but as if sensing my gaze, he spread his glossy wings and took off.

“I guess that’s possible. Probable even. But fortunately I haven’t met anyone I don’t like yet.”

“I hope I’m not the first,” Lysander said with a smile. His eyes, though, weren’t smiling. He was serious.

“Don’t worry. I would be more than pleased to appear on your show.”

“That’s wonderful,” he said. He paused. “This is kind of selfish of me, but I have a little request myself.”

I looked straight at him again. “What kind of request?”

“If possible, I’d like you to wrestle in your Elena mask. I mean, if you want to wrestle in your standard appearance, that’s fine. If it’s the difference between appearing and not appearing, I can understand. But if you are happy to work with me to try out a different approach, I’d welcome that.”

Memories came flooding back of a moment in her career nearly forgotten to time. Five year ago? More or less, in San Diego, I had walked to the ring – a mystery in all ways. My ‘name’ for the time was Elena to hide my true identity from a Legion who would have done worse had they known my true identity. For those weeks and months I haunted our opponents in a dazzling pink and purple suit and mask, a love heart over the face. With my partner ‘Reno’, we’d struck fear in anyone who cross us. But that was long, long ago.

“The Elena mask?”

“Like I said, it’s is entirely up to you. Appear as you would like. But I would greatly appreciate Elena in the ring. I think we could really surprise a lot of people.”

“So you’re saying that, I could appear as whoever I want, but you’d prefer to book me as Elena?”

“I leave it all up to you.”

“And you’ll be fine either way?”

“As long as you have no objections to what you are doing.”

Of course I had none. If anything, once Lysander had proposed his Elena idea, I came to prefer that. The thought had never occurred to me. I mulled all this over before replying.

“Lysander, I’m grateful to you for leaving the decision in my hands. But honestly I’m still not even sure I want to get in the ring as anyone. You have to understand, I’ve come hiding here for a reason.”

Lysander held both hands wide. “Of course. Do what you think is best. But I have just one last question: If you came here for a reason, maybe this offer is the reason?”

Initially I thought Lysander completely misunderstood what I was saying. But later that night, his reading of the situation kept me awake.

“One other thing,” I asked, “I’d want to know who you plan to put me against before I agree. Do you think that’ll be possible?”

“I can. I was the one, after all, who asked that you appear for me. I hope you didn’t think I had no one to complete the match.”

“Who is it?”

Lysander laughed and quietly shook his head. When he did so, his pure white hair softly shook, like a winter prairie blowing in the wind, “I’ll be happy to tell you when it’s the last thing you have to decide.”

He smiled, the lines at his eyes deepening. A very clean, open smile. But that can’t be all, I thought. There was something hidden inside him. A secret locked away in a small box and buried deep down in the ground. Buried a long time ago, with soft green grass now growing above it. And the only person in the world who knew the location of the box was Lysander. I couldn’t help but sense, deep within his smile, a solitude that comes from a certain sort of secret.

We talked for another twenty minutes or so. On his way out, at the front door, he once more held out his hand, quite naturally, and I took it without thinking. A firm handshake at the beginning and end of an encounter seemed to be Lysander’s way of doing things. He slipped on his sunglasses, took the car keys from his pocket, boarded the silver Jaguar (which looked like some well-trained, slick, oversized animal), and gracefully eased down the slope, as I watched from the window. I went out on the terrace and gazed across the valley.

What an unusual character, I thought. Friendly enough, not overly quiet. But it was as if he hadn’t said a single thing about himself. The most I’d learned was that he was a wrestling promoter, knew about my career, and frequently travelled abroad. Beyond that, though, I knew very little. Whether or not he had a family, how old he was, where he was from originally, how long he’d been in the wrestling business. He hadn’t even told me his surname.

And why be so insistent on me wrestling for him? And as Elena? I’d like to think it was because I had talent, something obvious to anyone who saw my past matches. Yet it was clear that this was not his sole motivation for booking me. It seemed true that matches I’d done had drawn his attention. That couldn’t be a complete lie. But I wasn’t naïve enough to accept everything he told me at face value.

So—what did this man, Lysander, want from me? What was his endgame? What sort of scenario had he prepared for me?

Even after we had talked, I still had no idea how to answer these questions. The mystery, in fact, had deepened. Why, for one thing, did he have such amazingly white hair? That kind of white wasn’t exactly normal. I recalled an Edgar Allan Poe short story in which a fisherman gets caught up in a massive whirlpool and his hair turns white overnight. Had Lysander experienced something just as terrifying?

I suddenly remembered the paining. How had it appeared? Mentally I retraced my steps in hiding it away in the guest bedroom. Had I forgotten another stage of preparing the house for Lysander wherein I took the painting to the sitting room? Surely not.

After the sun set, and twinkles of lights came on across the village. I sprawled out on the chair on the terrace and, sipping white wine, gazing at those lights. I was half expecting Lysander to walk out of the dusk, but he didn’t appear. But if he had, how should I have acted?

I figured that, in time, my questions would be answered. That’s about all I could expect.

[Sally Talfourd]

After my Wednesday-afternoon shopping, I stopped by an Internet café near the Linh Vu bus stop and did a Google search for the name Lysander. While there were many results, I came up empty-handed when I tried to attach ‘wrestling’ or ‘promoter’ to it. There were lots of online articles about a range of historical personalities, foremost the heroic Spartan. But there didn’t seem to be any information out there in the world about a Lysander in the wrestling world. Some statements he made that he took anonymity seriously seemed, indeed, to be the case. I was assuming, of course, that Lysander was his real name, but my gut told me he wouldn’t lie about something like that. And unless he had some compelling reason, it seemed to me that if he were to make up a phony name, he would choose one that was more common and didn’t stand out so much.

When I got back home I called my manager again. After chatting a bit I asked if he knew anything about the man named Lysander who I had ended up meeting. I described the smaller details that I had a vague memory of.

“Lysander?” My manager asked, “I wondered if it was his real name when I was told it. After all, a lot of people tell me one thing only to go on to tell you another. But he told me the name, and he told you the same name. So I’m guessing it’s real enough.”

We chatted some more.

“So did you two hit it off?”

I sighed loud enough that my manager would have heard it, “We sort of connected,” I said. “And I was wondering if you knew anything about him.”

“Did you check online?”

“I did a Google search but struck out.”

“How about Facebook or other social media?”

Again, I sighed, “I’ve tried to stay away from that since the incident.”

“Not to worry—I’ll check them for you. If I find anything, I’ll give you a call.”

“Thanks.”

There was rustling on the other end, as though my manager was getting comfortable, “It’s such an unusual name I’d think if you heard it once you wouldn’t forget it.”

I didn’t know what to say. On the other end of the phone it felt like
he was contemplating something.

“Did he tell you any booking plans he had? For you, I mean?” My manager was quick to get to the business end of things.

“Yes and no,” I settled in now, trying to get comfortable myself. It would either be a long explanation or an extremely short. Either way, comfort was necessary.

“And?”

“He wanted me to be Elena. He mentioned wrestling out here, in Asia, as well. Not Japan, and not an arena where people would be paying to see specks. But the opponent – that was the strange part.”

“Who is it?”

“He wouldn’t say unless I agreed to appear first.”

My manager scoffed, “What kind of deal is that?”

“It’s the only deal he made,” I sighed again, “I don’t know about this.”

“Let me look into it all a little more. At least we now know what he wants from you and what his grand idea is. The only thing we don’t know is who you would be in the ring against. I’ll make some calls and get back to you.

I hung up and then had a light meal. While I was eating lunch the next day, a call came in from my manager again.

“It seems like there are a few people with the name Lysander in the promotional side of things – not just wrestling, but general advertisements and PR campaigns and the like,” My manage said, “Perhaps this Mr. Lysander isn’t a wrestling promoter, but more into spectacles and entertainment more broadly? I couldn’t find any information anywhere on a Lysander in and around wrestling companies. What’s his first name?”

“Lysander was his first name, he said. If what I saw and heard about his lifestyle is any indication, he must be doing pretty well for himself. That’s all I know. I don’t even know how old he is.”

“I see,” My manager said, “In that case, that might be the best you can do. Information is, after all, a product, and if you pay enough you can neatly cover your tracks.”

“You mean Lysander erased his footprints?”

“Could be. I spent a lot of time online, searching through sites, and didn’t get a single hit. It’s such an eye-catching name, yet there’s not a thing online. Which is all pretty strange. I know you’re a little naive when it comes to things like this, but for someone who is fairly active in society to completely block any information about themselves and have nothing at all get out on the web—that’s no mean feat. Even information on you, and on me, is out there and available. There’s information on me I didn’t even know. If that’s true for nobodies like us, you can imagine how much harder it is for some big shot to erase their digital presence. Like it or not, that’s the world we live in. What about you? Have you checked out the stuff that’s out there on you?”

“No, never. Just dealing with the fans in-person is enough.”

“You should keep it that way.”

“That’s the plan,” I told him.

One aspect of my job is gathering all kinds of information. That’s the sort of business I’m in. Those were Lysander’s own words. If he could get hold of information that easily he could probably erase it as well.

“Lysander said he had seen many of my matches,” I said.

“And?”

“And that’s why he wanted to book me. Not just because I was stepping away from the ring.”

“And?”

“And I think there’s some truth to that. That maybe he’s not just looking to cash in one a ‘return’. I thought that even more when he asked if I would wrestle as Elena. He wouldn’t even be able to cash in on my name,” I was more wondering out loud that telling my manager anything important.

“But you turned him down because he didn’t tell you your opponent. Correct?”

I was silent.

“Are you telling me you didn’t?” he asked.

“Actually, I didn’t turn him down. But I didn't agree yet.”

“How come?”

“What he was prepared to pay is pretty hefty, that’s why. I thought it might be okay to do one more match. Even if it’s as Elena and not Sally.”

“For the money?”

“That’s a big reason. I’m making hardly any money anymore, and I have to think about how I’m going to make a living. My expenses right now are minimal, but still, with one thing and another the money keeps flowing out.”

“Huh. So, how much is the fee?”

I named the amount. My manager let out a whistle.

“Wow,” he said. “That certainly makes it worth taking on. I bet you were surprised when you heard how much he’d pay?”

“Yeah, of course I was.”

I knew talking like this would make more sense to my manager than telling the whole truth. The whole truth was this: As soon as Lysander had left, I’d felt something inside me well up. It wasn’t so much a want to return to the ring, more to see what would happen if I did. The mystery of the opponent fed that too. And then there were the strange occurrences of late. The visit from the faceless man (if it was a visit and not a dream, as I was then becoming more convinced of as the days passed). The painting. The marotte and the penguin charm. In amongst that, I could see the face of the owl too. It all seemed connected in some way or another. And I felt then – and I would feel later – that the answers would come from taking part in this match that was being proposed.

“Don’t you have question about all this? You understand how exorbitant that fee is he’s offering, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“And just by chance it’s after you’ve disappeared from the wrestling world?.”

“Exactly.”

“‘By chance’ is putting it mildly.”

I didn’t say anything.

“There might be something else to it. Didn’t that cross your mind?” he asked.

“Sure, I thought about it. But what else there could be, I have no clue.”

“So you accepted the booking?”

“I didn’t yet. I thought I might answer him one way or the other the day after tomorrow.”

“Because the fee’s so good?”

“The fee’s a big part of it. But that’s not all. There are other reasons,” I said. “Honestly, I want to see how things are going to play out. I’m intrigued more than anything at the moment. I want to see with my own eyes why he’s willing to pay so much. And if there’re really other motives at work, I want to find out what they are.”

“I see,” My manager said, and paused. “Well, if there are any new developments, let me know. I’m intrigued.”

Our second phone call ended a little more abruptly than the first.

[Sally Talfourd]

Sean Emerson: Tonight has all been about legacies, Nick. The AsiaWorld–Arena has been witness to professional wrestling history.

Nick Morelli: We’ve had plenty of matches tonight that will define many careers.

Sean Emerson: And now, with the main event...we have two entities not seen in the ring for many, many years. Elena and WEAPON.3.

Nick Morelli: WEAPON.3 to be exact. The third incantation.

Sean Emerson: And while we might have once thought we knew the woman behind the mask, we can’t be sure this Elena is the one and the same.

Nick Morelli: This match is a long time in the making and it's happening right now!

Darcy Zephyr: The following contest is scheduled for one fall…

The lights die down, the crowd of fans enveloped in a darkness pierced just by a spotlight shining onto the stage. ‘Conquistador’ by Thirty Seconds to Mars kicks in across the PA, and the crowd jumping up to their feet with the guitar rift. They hang over the railings and stretch themselves just to get a better look. A spotlight opens up on the curtains.

Oh oh oh

Oh oh oh

This is a fight to the death, our holy war

A new romance, a trojan whore

We will, we will, we will rise again!

On cue, the fans break out into ‘Rise A-Gain! Rise A-Gain!’ chants as into a spotlight steps Elena. The fans’ cheers drown out the music for the moment. Elena runs her hand down the side of her mask, then points to the ring before she walks down. The spotlight follows Elena.

I am the, I am the best

She claimed and more

A battle scarred conquistador

We will, we will, we will rise again!

David Zinkus: Introducing first…weighing in at one hundred and forty-five pounds, SHE … IS … ELLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEENNNNNNNNNNNNNAAAAA!!!!!!!

This is a fight for our love, lust, hate, desire

We are the children of the great empire

We will, we will, we will rise again

Yeah!

At the edge of the ring, Elena rolls under the ropes then, on to her knees, then slowly lifts her head to stare out into the dark that still surrounds the crowd. She slowly reaches up for the rope, then pulls herself up slowly, this time the lights fading back in with her. Looking out at the crowd, she climbs up the turnbuckle and lets out an ear-piercing yell.

This is a fight to the death

This is a fight to the death

We will, we will, we will rise again!

We will, we will, we will rise again!

As her music fades out, Elena, slowly turns on the top rope and seats herself on the turnbuckle, waiting for her opponent.

Nick Morelli: Make no mistake. This is a very, very determined woman before us here tonight, despite the fact that this is the first time we’ve seen Elena in the ring since 2013.

Sean Emerson: Her attitude hasn’t definitely shifted. I think the Elena we have here is every bit the same as the one we had long, long ago.

The arena lights begin to dim except for one bright light at the entrance of the stage area while ‘Red Swan’ by Takeharu YOSHIKI feat. HYDE kicks in. The fans erupt at the drawing near of the match.

Like the scarlet night veiling the dark

You can hide your fear

Can lie, my dear

Keep dreaming

Spread your blood-stained wings

As the verse ends, we see one man stand in front of a row of blazing lights at the back of the stage leaving him a silhouette. Smoke begins to rise, clouding out our view of him further.

David Zinkus: And her opponent… weighing in at two hundred and twenty pounds…he is the Third Coming…HE…IS…WEAAAAAAAAPOOOOOONNNNNNNN. THHHHHHHHHHHHRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!

What's the lie? 

What's the truth? 

What to believe?

In my life

WEAPON.3 points to the ring, then shifts ever so slight to point to Elena before running down the ramp and sliding in then rolling and getting to his feet. The crowd starts to stir as the masked man takes a deep breath and climbs a turnbuckle to look out to the crowd and salute them before turning his attention to his surroundings, preparing himself for what is to come.

Like a fallen angel

Falling and driven by the winds of time 

Into the starry night

Like a Goddess, embrace me for eternity

Fly to heaven! 

Nick Morelli: WEAPON.3 has arrived!

Sean Emerson: And the question is whether WEAPON.3 can do what the previous two have failed to do. Remember, Elena is undefeated against the entity known as WEAPON. Going undefeated against WEAPON.1 and WEAPON.2. And we all know who the big names ended up being under those masks ...

The official does his business, the pat-down and the rule check. Then, with the formalities out of the way, he throws a hand at the timekeeper.

DING-DING!

Elena wears a grin on her face as the two walk up to the center of the ring, meeting WEAPON.3 who looks down at Elena. They stare down one another. It doesn’t take long for Elena to open her mouth, making her accusations about how much of a phony this WEAPON.3 is and how she plans on putting an end to 3 as she did 1 and 2. WEAPON.3, however, just stands there and takes it all in…that is until Elena’s right hand comes up swinging, smacking him right across the side of the head and forcing him to reel back, grabbing at his cheek. Elena looks pleased at her work as WEAPON.3 returns, stepping forward. However, this only earns him another slap to the face. As he reels back the second time, Elena’s trash talking seems to go another level with hand gestures and all, turning her back on WEAPON.3. The crowd’s reaction is mixed, some parts booing heavily while other sections of the AsiaWorld–Arena encourage her on.

Nick Morelli: We knew it would be a mixed bag here for Elena. Many will remember her take-no-prisoner approach and her vicious streak and where that took her. Others may remember her for her treachery and her selfishness.

Sean Emerson: Only thing that will matter Nick is if her hand gets raised after the 1-2-3 or not.

As Elena turns, the crowd goes insane as WEAPON.3 SPITS BLUE MIST RIGHT IN HER FACE!!!! Elena reels back, screaming and clawing at her mask in surprise and agony as WEAPON.3 quickly rolls into a schoolboy:

ONEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THREE------------------- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

Nick Morelli: OH MY GOD, THAT WAS CLOSE!

Sean Emerson: WEAPON.3 WITH THE BLUE MIST AND WE’RE ONE MINUTE INTO THIS MATCH!!!

The parts of the crowd roar in approval as WEAPON.3 wipes his mouth clean. Elena holds the bottom rope, her head sticking out and her screaming in Korean for somebody to throw some water on her face. One of the crew eventually does and Elena immediately begins to wipe away at her face and her mask, slowly but surely regaining her field of vision as WEAPON.3 stands front and centre in the ring. He stands there, waiting the same way he did at the beginning. As Elena finally regains her vision, she immediately stands up and turns around, glancing at WEAPON.3 with a look of intent. The crowd buzzes again as Elena darts forward and the two of them meet in the centre of the ring. The devolve into blow-for-blow, each left hand finding the back of the other’s neck as the two begin swinging forearms against each other’s skulls in rapid fashion, the crowd in the AsiaWorld–Arena roaring in their approval!

Nick Morelli: Oh, it is on right now at the centre of the ring! Neither is giving an inch on this war of forearms!

Sean Emerson: Good lord, these two are lucky this is a one-and-done show. They would be DEAD if they did this weekly!

The two continue to go at it with forearms until WEAPON.3 pulls Elena forward from his grip, smashing his knee onto her ribs, doubling her over. WEAPON.3 places Elena into a Muay Thai clutch and begins firing off a series of right and left knees towards Elena’s body and chin. While Elena does a good job in blocking them from getting through to begin, one good pull down on the clutch forces her guard to break just long enough to let a right knee sneak in and smash her onto the chin in the process as the crowd winces at the sound of it connecting. WEAPON.3 brings Elena from the clutch to tucking in her head under his legs, lifting her up in the air immediately and taking a pair of steps back and then turning towards the turnbuckle. He charges towards the turnbuckle, attempting to throw Elena right onto it but the crafty and speedy Elena slips from WEAPON.3’s grasp and lands right behind him. As he stops his momentum, Elena immediately nails WEAPON.3 with a high dropkick to the back of the head, sending him stumbling against the turnbuckle and hitting the top one headfirst. As he’s dazed, Elena grabs WEAPON.3 by the head and arm, not hesitating for a second as she nails him with a corkscrew neckbreaker.

Sean Emerson: Well, I guess WEAPON.3 just booked a one-way ticket to the DAAAAAAANGER ZONEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!

Nick Morelli: Hey Sean, um, are you supposed to be Kenny Loggins or something?

Taking control of the fight for the first time, Elena doesn’t hesitate taking it to WEAPON.3. She stomps his left arm many times before pressing her foot against it while wrenching it, forcing the referee to count her. She stops at the four, then pivots to a series of knee drops onto his arm before twisting on it. The ref is more forceful this time, pulling Elena away. WEAPON.3 begins to make his way to his feet but just as he does Elena brings both knees down to connect against WEAPON.3’s left arm as she falls to the mat with the double knee armbreaker. WEAPON.3’s right hand immediately grabs at his bicep, while Elena glances at the AsiaWorld–Arena crowd.

Nick Morelli: Elena’s been relentless with that series of vicious moves on WEAPON.3’s left arm.

Sean Emerson: It isn’t out of the norm for her exploit body parts – people know how fluid Elena is in the ring and that she’s got grace when it comes to her speed, but she can break knees and arms just as easily with her arsenal.

WEAPON.3 stands back on his feet, but as he finds his vertical base, Elena kicks him in the shin, then the knees. WEAPON.3 goes down on one knee, and Elena runs at him, jumping on his leg and hitting him with an expertly placed Shining Wizard right onto WEAPON.3’s left arm. She doesn’t stop as he falls to the mat, following it with a kick to the head before going for a leg drop. WEAPON.3 sees it coming and somehow rolls out of the way, as Elena collides with the mat. But she’s quick to her feet. As WEAPON.3 attempts to get up again, Elena immediately takes him out with a running leg lariat. Still not satisfied, Elena lays a few elbows to WEAPON.3’s left bicep before bringing him up to a kneeling position by his head, having him in a cravate. She keeps her grip on him as her right leg swings with another kick to his arm before stepping back and swinging for the fences with a super kick…WHICH WEAPON.3 SOMEHOW CATCHES WITH ONE HAND! But Elena isn’t done, as she smiles and spins out of it, the back of her heel catching WEAPON.3 on the side of the head as she connects with the dragon whip.

Nick Morelli: Good lord, she’s trying to kick him one thousand different ways to hell.

Sean Emerson: This match is about a lot more than competition, Nick. They are fighting for their legacies!

Elena, at last, finally goes for a cover:

ONEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

THRE- WEAPON.3 gets the right shoulder up!

But Elena does the smart thing as she immediately moves her attention back to WEAPON.3’s left arm, bringing it up and smacking it against the mat…not one, not two, not three, not four, not five, but six times! She even gets to a point where she brings WEAPON.3’s own arm and smacks him with it much to part of the crowd’s chagrin. She basks in their negativity as she extends her arms out and looks at them, wiping her feet one after the other on the mat right behind WEAPON.3. As he attempts to get back to his feet, a sound kick to WEAPON.3’s arm follows suit from Elena, backing him into the ropes. We seem to finally have our first Irish whip of the match as Elena sends WEAPON.3 to the opposite ropes and as WEAPON.3 bounces off of them, Elena jumps into the air, legs closing around WEAPON.3’s neck as she uses the momentum to attempt a hurricanrana…but WEAPON.3 does not go for the ride!

Sean Emerson: Oh boy!

Nick Morelli: Elena’s caught! She got caught!

With one good arm, WEAPON.3 held on to Elena, who began resisting by throwing punches at the masked man’s face for good measure, keeping him from really doing much movement. In order to try and get herself away from the predicament, her hands begin digging right into the fabric of his mask, attempting to rip at it…and that seems to pull the trigger, as WEAPON.3 realises what is going on and roars as he takes off running towards the opposite side of the ring, managing to use his one good hand and his weight advantage on Elena to toss her from his shoulders with a one-handed power bomb, as the crowd roars at the impact of the back of Elena’s neck hitting against the turnbuckle. As she stumbles forward, WEAPON.3 immediately meets her a kesagiri chop…and another…and a third one for good measure, before spinning her around and grabbing on to her from behind, bringing her into a half-nelson before lifting her up over his head and suplexing her right into the mat!

Nick Morelli: Omnislash by WEAPON.3!

Sean Emerson: And to do this with one arm is all well and good, but WEAPON.3 can’t fight on just one arm alone.

Elena didn’t take too long to stand up as WEAPON.3 took deep breaths, holding on to his left bicep and squeezing it a few times to make sure he could still use the arm before charging Elena again and flooring her with a Shotei. And another one as she stood again. Elena eventually attempted to put a stop to it all with a kick…but WEAPON.3 catches it, brings Elena forward and attempts a Capture Suplex from the position. But Elena fights back with right hands directed straight at WEAPON.3’s left arm, eventually forcing him to step back and breaking the hold. Elena immediately grabs on to the left arm and attempts to spin it into a cross armbreaker but WEAPON.3 slips his left arm out and manages to bring her arms out, lifting her up with a scream and catching her with a tiger suplex. He keeps the bridge on it, as the referee slides in for the cover:

ONEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!

THRE- but Elena manages to kick out at the nick of time!

Nick Morelli: Tiger suplex and a close one for WEAPON.3 here.

Sean Emerson: But look at his arm, Nick. He’s still holding on to it!

The camera does show WEAPON.3 holding on to his left arm, as he attempts to smack it a few times for good measure, watching as Elena begins to return to her feet, the referee still checking up on her. As Elena gets up to a standing position, she notices the referee near her as WEAPON.3 comes charging in for her, shoving him out of the way as he jumps into the air, looking for the METEOR to end this…but instead, he gets a low blow for his troubles!

Sean Emerson: OOOOHOHOHOHO…

Nick Morelli: Elena just went downstairs and the referee never saw i- oh you have gotta be kidding me!

What Dick is referring to here is how as WEAPON.3 fell to the ground in agony, Elena quickly rolled him up, the referee dropping down to the mat and counting it!

ONEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

TWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The bell immediately rings as the crowd at AsiaWorld–Arena boos FERVENTLY while Elena jumps up from the mat, screaming in approval as she forces the referee to raise her hand moments later as ‘Conquistador’ by Thirty Seconds to Mars begins to play over the PA system!

David Zinkus: Ladies and gentlemen, your winner via pinfall, ELENA!!!!!!!!!

The boos continue as WEAPON.3 returns to a kneeling position…and gets kicked right in the face by Elena in the process, who is smiling from ear-to-ear as she begins nailing him with punches to the head, shoving the referee away yet again from her way when he tries to put a stop to it. Eventually, Elena grasps at the eyelids of the WEAPON.3 mask and she begins to stretch the fabric, screaming that it’s time to unveil the fraud to the world at large as WEAPON.3 brings his hands up, keeping her away from tearing into the fabric all that much, forcing her to stand back and stomp away at him sometimes to make him relent. The crowd’s boos grow stronger and stronger, as Elena gets herself caught in the moment, stepping to the ropes and screaming at them that it’s about time they knew who this false WEAPON really is and that it’s time to break him…

[Sally Talfourd]

Rain started falling early in the morning and stopped before ten. Slowly, the sun began to peek out. Moist wind from the sea slowly pushed the clouds off to the north of the Kowloon Peninsula. And at one p.m., on the dot, Lysander showed up at my hotel room. It was the day following Legacy Rising, and while I had rights to the room for a week (on the pretence of ‘recovery’), I had been expecting Lysander to arrive. Knowing where I was seemed like the kind of information he would gather as part of his job.

I showed him into the seating area and offered him a refreshment – whatever I had in the minibar. There was a touch of irony in that he’d end up paying for it anyway.

“I’m fine,” Lysander’s response was a touch more bland, flatter, than that first time I’d met him, “I wanted to just quickly stop by and see how you are? How are you feeling?”

I sat at an angle to Lysander. The chair was large enough that I could draw my legs up underneath me. Despite some throbs and dull aches, I was no worse than I usually was after a match, “I’m fine. Surprisingly fine. I’d have thought being away from the ring would have had more of an impact.”

Lysander let out a knowing ‘Hmmm’. At the time, I didn’t think much of it, though some days later I came to understand the disappointment in it.

“And the match? How did you feel it went?”

I hesitated. I felt that the match had been a resounding success. The crowds were alive, the finish went to me and not a single slip-up from WEAPON.3 or me. But I was never a good judge of my matches before, and I certainly didn’t have the perspective of a promoter.

“I suppose it did its job,” I looked away, trying to give as little away as possible.

“Perhaps.”

Again, in that moment I took ‘perhaps’ to be more a disappointment in the entertainment value. It was only years later I understood what Lysander has truly had as the purpose of that match.

“Were you disappointed?”

“That will depend.”

“On what?”

Lysander sat up and forward in his chair, bringing his hands together and intertwining his finger, “On many things to come.”

‘On many things to come’? I ran that line back through my mind. On what? How much money he makes? End of year reviews? On his next show its ticket sales? The pause grew between us.

“I’m sorry if you felt the match wasn’t worth your fee,” I had to make an effort to not stutter any of those words. I knew that I would next have to offer some – or all – of the fee back.

Before I could, Lysander brushed away any thought of that with his hand, “It’s not the fee. No, the money is not a factor. If you asked, I’d give you more even now. No, it’s more. I was hoping to see something in that match. Something from you.”

“Did you want a special move? Or a spot? I could have …”

Again, Lysander raised his hands, “No, not something physical. Not something we could touch.”

He sat back to level his eyes with mine. There was a something in his eyes. I saw it then, but I couldn’t tell you what it was. But if I ever saw it again – as I would years later – I would know it was the same thing.

“Yes, you see, it’s still not there.”

“What do you mean?” I was just as lost in his comments as I was at the start of our conversation.

His stare grew more intense.

“It’s not in there yet.”

I froze. I wondered if I’d said out loud what I’d been thinking about his eyes. No, I hadn’t – had I? But how did Lysander…

“I was hoping that I could recreate the conditions where I once saw it in you,” His head fell, though I remained unmoved, “Perhaps I was. Too early. Or too late. Either way, it didn’t happen.”

“Lysander, I’m a bit lost here. What are you…”

He stood up abruptly, as if spring-loaded and ready, “There’s nothing to understand. If you can’t grasp it now, then I know the timing isn’t right.”

He made for the door, leaving me in my chair. I was too shocked to move. Maybe it was fear? Or an oppressive confusion. Whatever it was, I didn’t make after Lysdander.

“Yes, too early. It’s too early, I’m sure. I hope.”

“Are you … are you going?”

“Yes, my business is done,” He stopped at the door, “You manager will already have the fee. Stay here as long as you want. The reservation was for one week, but stay longer if you like.”

“Will you come back?”

“Here?” Lysander looked around, “No, no need.”

“So, I won’t see you again?” I asked this, though it was more of a hopeful statement, “This is it?”

This encounter had been peculiar enough that I was happy to be left alone and to return to my house in Cao Bằng. This match, the training for it and what would come next had disturbed my peaceful routine. It was everything I’d been trying to get away from and yet somehow it came and found me again.

“No here, no. I’ll visit you later, when the time is right.”

“Time for what?”

Lysander had reached for the door now. It was ajar, and he was obviously keen to leave. He looked back one last time, “When you’re ready to talk. Talk about penguins and marottes. About what you have left to give. About Magic.”

I can’t remember seeing Lysander leave, but he must have. My mind felt like an old record with the needle skipping across track after track. Nothing made sense in that moment. Penguins? Marottes? Magic? It was all part of a conversation I’d had, but I couldn’t place it at the time.

It wouldn’t be until I was in my flight to Hanoi that I placed all of those things into the right conversation. The faceless man who had visited me in those early morning hours in Cao Bằng. It was right after I’d brought down the painting. There were times I remembered that visit and treated it as a dream. How could Lysander have known any of that? The penguin charm, sure: I had probably spoken about that in an interview long ago. And if he were a true fan he’d know about it. And Magic, well, I’d always been the Last Magician. But the marotte? That was from the painting, and the faceless man.

I hadn’t stayed long in that hotel after that visit. I believed Lysander when he said he wouldn’t visit me there again. Indeed, ‘Lysander’ never did visit me again. I never saw him and still have no idea who he was. My manager never could trace anything back to him either. And in the passing weeks and then months as I returned to my simple life in Cao Bằng, I started to forget him. I forgot what his voice sounded like, the ways he moved, and the peculiarities about him.

I even forgot his face.

[Sally Talfourd]

The Faceless Man visited me once more before I left the mountains. But there was a journey before that happened.

Upon returning from Hong Kong, I settled in reasonably quickly. The village - such that it was - hadn't noticed my absence. Nor did it seem to notice my presence once I went about my routines again. The first few nights were reasonably uneventful. The same fare for dinner after walking to and from the markets. The same wine and aperitifs. It was all a regular affair.

On the fifth day, I inspected the abnormalities I'd encountered. I climbed into the roof again, checking to see if my 'lodger' was still there (he or she was). I checked the painting and observed no changes. I checked all the nooks and crannies of the house to be sure no one had disturbed anything. 

On the fifth night though, the regular irregularities set in. 

I was awoken by something indistinguishable from the night's sounds. I had heard it sleeping, but once awake I couldn't. I reluctantly crawled out
of bed, and threw a light cardigan over my pajama top. I went to the kitchen, poured myself some Scotch, added a few ice cubes from the ice maker, and drank it. I went onto the terrace and gazed at the lights of the houses through the woods across the hills.

After a while I heard a sound I wasn’t used to. Or perhaps felt like I heard it. A very faint sound. If the insects had been chirping as loudly as usual I probably never would have caught it. But the profound silence that reigned allowed it to reach me, though barely. I held my breath and strained my ears. It wasn’t the chirp of any insects. Not a naturally occurring sound. It was the sound some implement or tool might make, a kind of jingling  sound. The sound a bell, or something close to it, might make.

There would be a pause, then the sound. A deep silence, then that sound ringing out a few times, then deep silence once more. As if someone were  patiently sending out an encoded message. But it wasn’t repeated at regular intervals. Sometimes the silence in between rings was longer, sometimes shorter. And it didn’t ring the same number of times. I couldn’t tell if their regularity was intentional or capricious. At any rate, it was such a faint sound that if I hadn’t focused and listened hard I wouldn’t have caught it. But once aware of it, in the deep silence of the middle of the night, with the moonlight so unnaturally bright, that unidentified sound irretrievably ate its way into my awareness.

I was flustered, wondering what it could be, then decided to just go  outside and see. I wanted to trace the source of that mysterious sound. Someone, somewhere, was ringing something or other. I’m not bold. But going out into the dark night alone then didn’t frighten me. Curiosity won out over my fears. And the weirdly bright moonlight might have encouraged me, too.

With an oversized flashlight in my hand, I unlocked the front door and stepped outside. A single light above the entrance threw out a yellowish  tint. A swarm of flying insects was drawn to that light. I stood there, ears  perked up, trying to see what direction that sound was coming from. It really did sound like a bell, but not an ordinary one. It had a deeper, dull, uneven ring. Maybe it was some special percussion instrument. But what was it, and why would someone be ringing it in the middle of the night?  The only residence in the vicinity was the house I was living in. If indeed  someone nearby was ringing that bell, it meant they were trespassing.

I looked around to see if anything could serve as a weapon. All I had in my hand was a long cylindrical flashlight. Better than nothing. I grasped the flashlight tightly and headed toward the sound.

I turned left from the front door, which led me to a small set of stone steps. I climbed up the seven steps and entered the woods that served as the backyard. I walked up the gentle upward-sloping path that cut through the trees, and before long came  to a clearing where there was a small shrine. The person who had shown me the house upon my arrive had said that the shrine had been there for a very long time. She didn’t know the origins of it, but in the mid-1950s when her client had purchased the house and land from an acquaintance, the shrine already existed. On top of a flat stone was a sanctuary with a simple triangular roof—or, more accurately, a small wooden box made to look like a sanctuary. It was about two feet high and a foot and a half wide. It had originally been painted, though by now the colour had mostly worn off, leaving one to imagine what it had once been. In the front was a small double door, and I had no idea what sort of offering was set up inside. I didn’t check, but probably there wasn’t anything enshrined inside. In front of the doors was an empty white ceramic pot. Rainwater had accumulated, then evaporated, over and over, leaving a number of dirty stained lines inside. I had left the shrine a s it was. Not bringing my hands together in prayer as I passed it on irregular walks, not  cleaning it, I had simply ignored it, leaving it to be swept by rain and wind. For me it wasn't a shrine, but just a plain, spare box.

I'd been told that local people in the past set up shrines in all kinds of places, much like the little Buddha statues you see next to roads in the countryside. This shrine blended naturally into the scenery in the woods, and when I went on  walks I often passed in front of it but never gave it much thought. I never  prayed to it, or made any offerings. First of all, I wasn't Buddhist. Second of all, I hadn't felt an invitation. And I didn’t feel anything significant about having that sort of thing on the property while I was living there. It was just part of the kind of scenery you’d find anywhere.

The bell-like sound seemed to be coming from near that shrine. Once I set foot in the woods, the tree branches above me blocked the moonlight and everything got suddenly darker. I carefully made my way forward,  lighting the path with the flashlight. The wind would occasionally pick up, as if remembering to blow, rustling the thin layer of leaves on the ground. The woods at night felt totally different from walking there in the daytime. The place was operating under the principles at work at night, and those  principles didn’t include me. That said, I didn’t feel particularly afraid.  Curiosity spurred me on. I felt compelled to locate where that strange sound was coming from. I tightly gripped the heavy cylindrical flashlight, its  weight calming me.

The horned owl might be in these woods somewhere, I thought. Hidden in the darkness on a branch, waiting for its prey. It would be nice if it were  nearby. In a way that owl was my friend. But I didn’t hear anything that sounded like the hooting of an owl. The night birds, like the insects, were keeping quiet.

[Sally Talfourd]

As I made my way forward, the bell-like sound became ever clearer. It continued to ring out intermittently, irregularly. The sound seemed to be coming from behind the little shrine. It sounded much closer, but was still muffled, like it was filtering out from deep inside a narrow cave. The silence between each ring had grown longer, and the number of rings was decreasing. As if the person ringing the bell had grown weak, become worn out.

The area around the shrine had been cleared and the moonlight shone beautifully on everything. Stepping silently, I walked over behind the shrine. There was a tall thicket of grass and, led by the sound, I pushed my way into the thicket. There I found a small mound of square stones casually piled up, a kind of burial mound. Though perhaps it was too small to be called that. At any rate, I had never noticed it was there before. I’d never gone behind the shrine, and even if I had, the mound was hidden in the midst of the pampas grass. You weren’t going to see it unless you had some reason to wade into the thicket.

I approached the mound and shone my flashlight directly upon it. The stones were old, but weren’t in their natural form, and had clearly been chiseled into squares. They had been carried up onto the mountain and piled up behind the shrine. The stones were of different sizes, most of them covered in moss. There wasn’t any visible writing or designs on them. There were twelve or thirteen stones altogether, by my count. In the past, the mound might have been taller and more orderly, but maybe an earthquake had made part of it crumble. The bell-like sound somehow seemed to be filtering out from the cracks between those stones.

I lightly rested my foot on top of the stones and searched for the source of that sound. But no matter how bright the moonlight, it was next to impossible to locate it in the dark of night. And what if I did happen to locate it? What then? I couldn’t lift these heavy stones myself. At any rate it seemed like someone below the stone mound was ringing the bell. I was sure of it. But who? It was at this point that an enigmatic fear began to well up inside me. Instinct told me not to get any closer to the source of that sound.

I left, and with the bell ringing behind me hurried back along the path through the woods. Moonlight filtering through the branches cast a suggestive mottled pattern on my body. I emerged from the woods, rushed down the seven stone steps, got back to the house, went inside, and locked the door. I walked to the kitchen, poured a half-glass of wine straight and gulped it down. I could finally breathe a sigh of relief. I refilled my glass and took it out to the terrace.

From the terrace I could hear the bell only faintly. If I hadn’t listened carefully I wouldn’t have been able to catch it. But the point was, the sound continued. The interval of silence between each ringing of the bell was definitely lengthening. I listened to that irregular repetition for some time.

What in the world lay beneath the stones of that mound? Was there a space there, and somebody locked inside who was ringing that bell, or whatever it was? Maybe it was a signal for help. But no matter how much I thought it over, I couldn’t think of a single plausible explanation.

I might have thought about it for a long time. Or maybe it was but a moment. I had no idea. My sense of time had vanished. Glass of wine in hand, I sank back into the lounge chair, shuffling back and forth in the maze of consciousness. And then it hit me. The bell had stopped. Everything was enveloped in a profound silence.

I stood up, went into the bedroom, and looked at the digital clock. It was 2:31 a.m. I didn’t know the precise time the bell had started ringing, but since it had been 1:45 when I woke up, I surmised the bell had gone on ringing for at least forty-five minutes. Soon after the mysterious sound ceased, the insects began chirping again, as if probing the new silence that had arisen. As if all the insects in the mountains had been patiently waiting for the sound of that bell to stop. Holding their breath, cautiously assessing the situation.

I went back to the kitchen, rinsed out my glass, then slipped back into bed. By this time the autumn insects were a lusty chirping chorus. I should have been too worked up to sleep, but the hit of wine did the trick and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. A long, deep sleep, bereft of dreams. When I woke again it was already bright outside the bedroom.

[Sally Talfourd]

Later that day, before ten a.m., I walked out again to the little shrine in the woods. I couldn’t hear that enigmatic sound, but I wanted to study the shrine and stone mound once more in the daylight. I found a stout oak walking stick in the umbrella stand and took that with me. It was a sunny, pleasant morning, the clear sunlight throwing the shadows of leaves across the ground. Birds with sharp bills flitted busily from one branch to another, squawking as they searched for fruit. Up above, a straight line of pitch-black crows was winging its way off somewhere.

The little shrine looked worn and shoddy in the daylight. Bathed in the bright, whitish light of the nearly full moon the shrine had looked deeply meaningful, even a bit ominous, yet now in the light of day it seemed like nothing more than a faded, forgotten-looking wooden box. I went behind the shrine, shouldered my way through the tall thicket of grass, and emerged in front of the stone mound. It seemed completely transformed from the night before. What I saw before me now were merely square moss-covered stones long abandoned in the mountains. In the moonlight it had appeared like part of ancient historical ruins, covered with a mythic slime. I stood on top of the mound and perked up my ears but couldn’t hear a thing. Other than the screech of insects and the occasional bird chirp, it was silent all around.

From far away came the crack that was loud enough to echo down the valley. Someone might be hunting birds in the mountains. Either way, the sound echoed with the feeling of the moment. The sky was high, the air slightly humid, and sounds carried well. I sat down on top of the stone mound and thought about the space that might exist beneath. Was someone really under there, ringing a bell, calling out for help? The image of someone locked up in a cramped dark space put me on edge.

After a light lunch I changed into training clothes (and by that I mean things I didn’t mind getting dirty if I went for a run), set off for a run. I’d managed to memorise a few routies of differing difficulty. From the house to the market was relatively flat even with the winding incline down the mountain. If I wanted to push myself, I could go through the woods and the undergrowth on a steeper descent and back up. And if I wanted to go for a longer time, I could continue past the markets on the main road that ran through Cao Bằng to Nà Cáp (or Gia Cung if you too the right turn at the one fork in the road). That day, I decided to go for time and ran through the markets.

That evening, when I stumbled in wearing far more dusk and sweat than I’d anticipated, I collapsed onto my bed. I had every intention of cleaning, eating and sleeping, but only sleep came.

In the middle of the night I suddenly shot awake again. The clock next to my bed read 1:46, almost exactly the same time as the night before. I sat up in bed, listening carefully in the dark. No insects chirping; it was silent all around. As if I were at the bottom of a deep sea. A repeat of the previous night. But now it was dark outside my window. That was the only difference from the night before. Thick clouds covered the sky, completely hiding the nearly full moon.

Everything was in total silence. No, that wasn’t entirely true. Of course, it wasn’t. That silence wasn’t total. When I held my breath and listened carefully, I could catch the faint sound of the bell wending its way past the deep silence. In the dark of night someone was ringing that bell-like object. As on the night before, it was a fragmented, intermittent sound. And now I knew exactly where the sound was coming from. From the woods, underneath that stone mound. There was no need to check it. What I didn’t know, though, was who was ringing that bell, and to what end? I got out of bed and padded out to the terrace.

There was no wind, but a fine rain had started to fall. An invisible silent rain wetting the ground. Lights were on down the valley. It was unusual to see the fine lights on this late at night. As the fine drizzle wet me, I gazed at those lights, listening to the faint tinkling of the bell.

The rain started to pick up and I went back inside, but couldn’t go back to sleep, so I sat on the sofa in the living room and turned the pages of a book I’d been reading. Not a particularly difficult book, but no matter how I focused nothing registered. I was merely tracing the words from one line to the next. Still, it was better than simply sitting there listening to the bell. It was too late to eat and too late to shower, and I guess I could have put on some music to drown out the sound, but I didn’t feel like it. I had to hear it. Because that was a sound directed at me. I understood that. And as long as I didn’t do something about it, it would no doubt go on ringing forever. Suffocating me every night, robbing me of a good night’s sleep.

I had to do something, I resolved to myself. Take some action to stop that sound. To do that, I first had to understand the meaning and purpose of that sound—of that signal that was being sent out. Why was somebody sending out from this mysterious place a signal to me every single night, and who was it? But I felt too choked, my mind too confused, for logical thought.

The bell stopped ringing at 2:29 a.m., almost the same time as the night before. Soon after the bell stopped the insects’ chirping returned. And as if nothing had happened, the night was once more filled with the clamour of nature’s chorus. Everything was a repeat of the previous night. I went back to bed and went to sleep listening to the insects. I felt confused and anxious, but like on the night before, I soon fell asleep. Plunged into a deep, dreamless sleep.

[Sally Talfourd]

The next day, on Wednesday morning it was drizzling off and on, but not hard enough to delay the work. It was a fine rain, and a hat or raincoat with a hood was enough. No need for an umbrella. As I looked out from the terrace, finishing a light breakfast, I was glad the weather had taken a turn. If the heat rolled in rather than the clouds, my plans to remove the stones at the back shrine might have been delayed.

With the air cool and the rain light, I wound my way around the house and through to the back grass where there was a clearing with the shrine. As I surveyed the area, I planned to attack the larger square stones first, while my energy was high. They didn’t look anything heavier than the sorts of weights I’d use in a serious training session. I traced out a simple path to where I could stack them, then trampled down the thicket of grass surrounding the mound to make sure there was nothing to trip over.

I started with the one nearest to the top. Methodically I walked it over to the area I planned, then carefully walked my way back. The first was easy. The second too. Then, after some time, things changed. Each time one of the square stones was removed, my anxiety only deepened. It was like some dark secret that I’d hidden away for years was being revealed, layer by layer, by the powerful insistence of my own curiosity. The problem lay in the fact that even I didn’t know what secret I was hiding. Several times I felt I had to stop the operation. I wondered it mysterious things should always be left buried. I was seized by the urge to shout, “Let’s stop this! Put the stones back where they were.”

But of course, I couldn’t do that. The decision had been made and my work had begun. I couldn’t just stop at this point. My work continued, beyond my will.

Before noon I had moved all the stones that I had first seen. The ancient stones that had been piled in a jumble in a crumbling mound were now piled up in a neat, official-looking pyramid a little way away. Some part of me was proud of that effort, though a larger part of my mind was still consumed with that same anxiety. The fine drizzle silently fell on the pile. Even after removing all those stones, though, the ground hadn’t appeared. Below the stones lay more stone. Two long, large, and flat that had been methodically laid out there like a square stone flooring or a stone slab with a join or a gap running down the middle. The whole thing was about six feet on each side.

“I wonder why it’s like that,” I mused aloud, wondering if the owl was up in the branches, watching down over me, “I was sure that the stones were just piled up on top of the ground. But they weren’t. And there’s no way I can lift either of these.”

I stood there, looking, and waiting. I searched the outer edges of the stones, wondering if maybe there were a handle to tug at or a hinge to pivot on. I found neither. I scraped at the dirt around the edges too to see how deep the slab went, but stopped when I was at the depth of my palm and there was still no end in sight. Turning my attention to the join down the middle, I carefully stepped onto the stones then lay down on my front. The stones were cold and damp against my skin, the drizzle having continued. I pushed my face against the rock cheek-first and brought my eye to the join. If I was able to see through, it was total darkness.

Out of ideas for the present, I wandered back into the house. I had no plan, no next step. As I looked around the house, I’d hoped something would jump out at me and present itself as the solution. Absent mindedly, I wandered into the spare room, finding the painting from the attic leaning against the wall. It proved no help, though the room had a strange feel to it.

In the kitchen was where I found an idea. In a draw there was a collection of metal skewers of vary sizes. Taking a handful, I returned to the stones, laying down on them again, and tried to press through one or more of the skewers. The thinnest ones I could get through, but to no real discovery. I would insert them through the gap, and it went down pretty far. I got the sense through that there seemed to be an open space underneath the stone slab. But I was still unsure how deep it went. It must have been deep because one of the last ones slipped out the tips of my fingers and fell straight through in a silent descent.

Still at a loss, I went back to the house and had a light lunch. In the kitchen I threw together some simple noodles and a cup of coffee and went out on the terrace to eat as I watched the rain. At a loss, I figured I would need help on this one. Given that I was due to visit the markets to buy my supplies for the next week, I resolved to ask around as to whether anyone had some sort of machinery or construction equipment that might help.

I took a sip of coffee and wiped my mouth with a paper napkin. Two crows, cawing at each other, winged their way across the valley, undeterred by the rain. Wet by the rain, their wings would only grow a deeper black.

[Sally Talfourd]

The next day, at the markets, I found some local government official who seemed to be the only person in the valley who had access to the type of machinery I needed. His monopoly meant I would have to compensate him, the rate at which only increased the more I spoke. I wasn’t local, I hardly spoke the language, I usually lived in America and the worksite wasn’t conventional. Even with the favourable exchange rate, handing over the money hurt a little.

He agreed to – and then did – arrive at one o’clock in the afternoon the next day. It was overcast, and threatening to rain. But it hadn’t yet, and I hoped it would hold off until tomorrow. Otherwise, I expected more money would have to be found.

Arriving in a truck with a small backhoe on the bed, he drove around the house as close to the clearing as possible. Unable to get all the way there, I lamented as the backhoe churned up a track of pristine undergrowth to get to the shrine.

The man had brought a crew – four others, in fact. One drove and controlled the backhoe. Another did a lot of work around the stone slabs. Occasionally he would call to the youngest who stood off to the side, waiting for orders. The man who I’d met at the markets and who was clearly the guy in charge of all this alternated between squatting and leaning against a tree the whole time on his phone.

Feeling rather useless, once I knew that they all knew what I wanted (the stone slabs to be lifted away), I returned to my house for coffee.

I went back to the site in the woods just after one thirty. The crew had finished and were now having lunch. The workmen had put wedge-like metal implements in the gaps between the slabs, and the backhoe used a rope to pull them apart to make a wider gap. Then the workmen had attached ropes to the slab on the left, and the shovel hauled this up. It was time consuming, but now one stone slab had been moved off to the side.

No one seemed to mind when I walked over to the edge and looked in. There seemed to be a lattice-shaped lid underneath the slabs. Assessing the situation, I could tell that the second slab was going to have to be lifted off as well to get any answers. I silently smiled at the crew off in the shade as I walked back to the house.

Back in the house, I boiled water in a large pan, parboiled the tomatoes and removed the skins, cut them with a knife, removed the seeds, crushed them, put them in a large skillet, added garlic, and simmered it all with olive oil, let it cook well. I carefully removed any scum on the surface. Back when I was starting in wrestling and found myself on the road, I often made sauce like this. It takes time and effort, but basically, it’s an easy process. The plan was to use this sauce tonight with dinner.

In the background, maybe ten minutes later, I heard the engine of the backhoe start up again.

Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, the engine cut out.

Clouds still covered the sky, but it was lighter out now. The weather seemed to be steadily improving. I hurried up the steps and through the woods. Behind the little shrine the four men were standing around a hole, staring down into it. Nothing was moving, the woods strangely hushed.

The slabs had been neatly removed, exposing the hole below. The square lattice lid had been taken off too, and laid to one side. It was a thick, heavy-looking wooden cover. Old, but not rotted at all. After that the circular stone-lined room below was visible. It was under six feet in diameter, about eight feet deep, and was enclosed by a stone wall. The floor seemed to be dirt. Not a single blade of grass grew there. The stone room was completely empty. No one there calling for help, no body of a person long forgotten. Just a bell-like object lying on the ground. Actually, less like a bell than some ancient musical instrument with a stack of tiny cymbals. A wooden handle was attached, about six inches long. The foreman shone a floodlight down on it.

“Was this all that was in there?” I asked anyone who cared to understand English.

“Yes,” the man from the market said. “Like you asked. We only opened. We didn’t touch.”

“Strange,” I said to myself, “So there really wasn’t anything else at all?”

“Maybe a well?” the man from the market asked.

“Too big,” one of the workers replied, “And wall too good.”

I inched closer. That worker was right: The hole was too wide for a well, and the stone wall around it was elaborately constructed. It couldn’t have been easy to build. And besides, it was filled in and covered over. I decided that this had been built with some important purpose in mind to given the time and effort required.

“Can I go down?” I asked.

Anyone who understood had an unsure look. With a hard face, the man from the market said, “I go down first. Just in case. If good, you climb down.”

One of the workmen brought over a folding metal ladder from the truck, opened it up, and lowered it down. The man from the market put on his safety helmet and climbed down the eight feet to the dirt floor. He looked around him for a while. He gazed up, then shone his flashlight on the stone wall and the floor, closely checking everything. He carefully observed the bell-like object that lay on the dirt floor. He didn’t touch it, though, just observed it. He rubbed the soles of his work boots a few times against the dirt floor, kicking his heel against it. He took a few deep breaths, smelling the air. He was only in the hole for about five or six minutes, then slowly clambered up the ladder to ground level.

“Not dangerous. Air good. No bugs or holes. Ground is solid. You can go down,” he said.

[Sally Talfourd]

I stood there for a moment, plastic flashlight in hand. When I looked at the pile of stones now stacked up on another piece of ground, I couldn’t help but think, I should never have done this. I should have left them the way they were. On the other hand, though, the indisputable fact was that it was something I had to do. I couldn’t go on listening to that strange sound night after night.

The workers who had so diligently removed the stones and lid had started to pack up. The man from the market barked orders to two of the men to removed a large piece of flat board wood. With basic gestures, he suggested this wood be the lid to avoid anyone falling by accident. Acknowledging this was the last exchange we had and in no time they were driving back down the winding path up the mountain.

Still, I stood there at the edge of the hole - ancient and mysterious. It had all the hallmarks of being man-made, but there was an otherworldliness to it.

I shut my eyes and took a deep breath. In the midday air, I could clearly sense something within me changing. As if the structure of my body had unraveled, then was being recombined in a different way. But why here, and why now? Did meeting the enigmatic Sterling and taking his booking result in this sort of internal transformation? Or had uncovering the weird underground chamber, and being led there by the sound of the bell, acted as a stimulus to my spirit? Or was it that I’d merely reached an unrelated turning point in my life? No matter which explanation I went with, there didn’t seem to be any basis for it.

“It feels like this is just the beginning,” I muttered to myself.

Had I stepped into this beginning? At any rate, I’d been so worked up by the mystery of this pit that I’d literally forgotten the passage of time. When I looked up at the sky again, the sun was beginning to crest.

As I straightened up, the bell - now laying at the foot of the shrine - called to me silently. I picked it up and tried ringing it a couple of times. The familiar sound rang out clearly in the studio. The middle-of-the-night sound that made me anxious. Somehow, though, it didn’t frighten me anymore. I merely wondered why such an ancient bell could still make such a clear sound. Turning it over in my hands, I noted it probably didn't have any value. It didn't have any provenance, and wasn't some unique antique. I put the bell back where it had been - some poor attempt at reverence for it or its owner, then turned back to the pit.

You're nearly there. Just one step away, someone said.

I clearly heard that voice. Not a loud voice, but one that carried. Nothing vague about it. Not high, not low. And it sounded like it was right next to my ear.

I involuntarily gulped. I couldn’t see anyone else there, of course. The clear afternoon light filled the area, filtering through the canopy. Maybe I was just imagining things. Maybe it was my own voice I was hearing, a voice welling up from my unconscious. But what I’d heard sounded odd.

Just one step away.

Even unconsciously, I wouldn’t talk to myself like that. I took a deep breath and from where I was standing looked around. It must have just been my imagination.

Is it not obvious? someone now said. The voice was right beside my ear.

Obvious? I asked myself. What’s so obvious?

What you must discover, can you not see, is what in the hole, and what is not seen, someone said.

As before, a clear voice. A voice with no echo, like it was recorded in an anechoic chamber. Each sound clear as crystal. And like an embodied concept, it had no natural inflection. I looked around again. This time I walked the perimeter of the hole, scanning the dense woods. A voice from heaven? Or my own voice? Or the voice of some anonymous third party? Something was clearly wrong with my mind. Ever since I had started hearing that bell, I’d begun having doubts about whether my brain was functioning normally. With the bell, at least, the workers had seen it too when we unearthed it. My hearing was working fine. Okay, so what could this mysterious voice be?

What you must discover, can you not see, is what in the hole, and what is not seen. Sounded like a riddle. Like a wise bird deep in the forest showing lost children the way home. What is in the hole, and what is not?

After deliberating for what felt like hours, I knew what I had to do. I had to go down inside.

I climbed down the mental ladder the workers had left for me. The ladder creaked a bit with each step. When I got to the bottom I took the flashlight from my waistband, switched it on, and carefully checked my surroundings. I rubbed the stone wall, and pounded a fist against it. The wall was solidly made, and pretty intricate. Clearly it wasn't some well that had been filled in halfway. If it was a well, it would just be a lot of stones piled up on top of each other. And they wouldn’t have done such a meticulous job either. It must have been built for a specific purpose. And whatever that purpose was, the wall had been made so that someone inside couldn't easily climb out. There weren't any spaces to get a foothold. The hole was less than 9 feet deep, but scrambling out wouldn't be easy.

Not seeing anything of note, I sat on the ground. It was cold. I took to scanning that part of the wall in front of me. I tried to make out any feature of characteristic that could be a clue to answers that evaded me. Nothing. I tried scanning it with the torch too. Nothing again. My mind raced, thinking of other was of prying the secrets from the pit. My mind took me to a place of opposites.

"If light isn't helping me see, maybe dark will?" I muttered to myself. Maybe I would see what I can't see?

My eyes fell on the ladder, and resting on the edge the board of wood to act as a lid.