The Unpretenders - Chapter 9

In light of that evening's unexpected and thrilling events, I found Isobel's exuberance over our bed for the night to be a little misplaced. "But it's a four-poster," she enthused, as if that somehow justified her bouncing on it.

"Izzy," I said, trying to reason with her, "we've just been introduced to off-world technology, which most governments would go to war to acquire, and which poses fundamental questions about the nature of reality and what it means to be human... and you're excited over a stupid bed?"

"But it's a four-poster," she repeated, somewhat childishly. Perhaps she was still running on adrenaline.

For a moment I considered calling Julian back, and accepting his offer of separate bedrooms. However, as I wandered out onto the balcony I began to feel a tad exuberant myself. For the night sky looked truly resplendent; clearer and more intoxicating than I had ever seen it before. Whether it was due to the absence of light pollution, or something else, I couldn't say. But certainly there appeared to be many times more stars than I was used to seeing. And I couldn't help but wonder whether Shanala Five was in orbit around one of them.

Our bedroom, like the Intronium, was on the top floor, and I knew that by morning it would provide a splendid view of Julian's estate. I contented myself, in the meantime, with some tantalising glimpses afforded me by the light of a half-moon.

The air was rather crisp, however, and so it wasn't long before I went back inside. Isobel had gotten into bed, in my absence, and was now sporting a silly grin on her face. "I fee like a princess," she promptly divulged.

"Yes, and you look like one," I assured her. "You should consider letting your hair down more often."

After performing my everyday ablutions, in a not so everyday bathroom, I joined Isobel in her beloved four-poster, which was admittedly the most elegant looking bed I had ever seen. Dark, ornately turned wood; sumptuous white drapes. It certainly wouldn't have looked out of place in a children's fairy tale. Under the circumstances, therefore, it seemed appropriate that we should be ending our day in it.

Sleep had to wait, however, for there was suddenly an unexpected knock at the door. "Come in," I said, realising that it could only be Julian.

Isobel looked concerned. "I think I locked it."

"Well, unlock it," I told her. "You're closer than I am."

Julian then confirmed that it was, indeed, locked.

"Hurry up," I urged.

"But I haven't got a top on," she whined.

"Who cares? You have the chest of a ten-year-old boy."

Isobel then hopped out of bed and trotted across the floor in her panties. "Sorry about that," she said, opening the door.

Julian appeared with a silver tray in his hands. "I thought you girls might enjoy some cocoa."

"Sure," I chirped. "I love cocoa."

He then placed the tray on a nearby cabinet and began to pour from a fancy silver chocolate pot.

"What are those white things?" I asked, pointing to a little bonbon dish.

"Mini marshmallows," he replied, "for sprinkling on top."

Isobel had folded her arms, meanwhile, and was standing around looking terribly vulnerable and self-conscious. Having known her for so long, however, I suspected that it was actually little more than a ploy to elicit a reaction from Julian, primarily concerning her emaciated appearance.

She waited for a few moments longer, and then moved closer to her target. But when no reaction came, or appeared to be forthcoming, she apparently decided to anticipate one of her own, and respond accordingly. "I know, I'm a bag of bones," she said, dropping her arms and sucking in her tummy. Not very subtle, I thought to myself.

"I wasn't going to say anything," he assured her.

"I know. You're too much of a gentleman."

Julian shook his head. "It's not that."

"No? What is it then?"

"Simply that I've seen a lot worse."

"Oh, come on! Worse than me? I doubt it. Look, you could use my ribs as a frickin xylophone."

Julian smiled and handed her a mug of steaming chocolate, which she carefully returned to bed with. Drawing up a nearby chair, he then sat down beside us and began to explain what he meant.

"Those who come here," he said, "those who have somehow managed to find this place, are not happy people. They are desperate. They are suffering. Many are close to suicide. And yet they're not seeking oblivion. They simply want to leave this world, this reality, for somewhere else - anywhere else! Like yourselves, for example; ready and willing to boldly go, because you know that whatever exists out there has to be better than what exists down here, on Earth. Well, believe me, it takes that level of commitment to get my attention. I'm not interested in people who are merely flirting with the idea of liberation, or who have some pseudo-spiritual attainment in mind. Those kinds of people will find a place for themselves in the New Age movement, or at the feet of some charismatic guru. No. I am only interested in those who know, deep down, that it's time to leave, one way or another, and never return. So yes, to answer your question, I have indeed seen the extremes of human pain and suffering. And, sadly, it doesn't shock me any more."

"Those who come here," said Isobel, quoting him. "What exactly is this place?"

"Well, if I had to put up a neon sign, it would probably say Exit. But that word doesn't necessarily imply what you think it does."

"And the others, the ones who've been liberated. Can we meet them?"

"In time."

Isobel slurped her cocoa. "I want to become one of them, Julian; and I want you to teach me how."

"There's nothing to become," he reminded her, "and there's nothing to learn. Only by unlearning that which you've been taught and conditioned by is it possible to know and be that which you already are. This is the only signpost you need. All other signposts, no matter how glitzy or colourful they may be, can only ever point you in the wrong direction."

Julian then got up off his chair and opened an old trunk at the foot of the bed. After rummaging around in it for a while, he eventually produced a couple of plastic masks. "Here," he said, tossing them over. "What do you make of these?"

"Kind of creepy looking," said Isobel, "good for Halloween though."

The masks were brilliant white in colour, androgynous, emotionless, and certainly 'kind of creepy looking'.

"Have either of you ever seen them worn in public?" he asked.

"Maybe," I replied, trying to recall. "Why?"

"Because if you have actually seen someone wearing one of these, then you have also seen someone who isn't wearing a mask."

"I don't understand."

"The point is, there's only one place these masks originate, and that's right here."

"Ah. So what's their significance then?"

"Well, they have a number of different functions and symbolic meanings, Sophie. On a practical level, they allow us to identify ourselves - at public gatherings, for example. You see, we're more than just kindred, more than just family. We know ourselves as One. Not 'one' in the sense of having a common belief or shared goal, but actually One in the ultimate sense."

"What about the colour, is that significant?"

"White. The colour from which all other colours emerge. White is infinite possibility; infinite diversity. One, after all, does not imply sameness. And neither do the masks."

"So what actually are they implying then?"

"Firstly, that one understands the nature of the game, the masquerade. The mask is being worn consciously, after all, rather than unconsciously. You see, the human face itself is the real mask, so to cover it in this way is, symbolically, to remove it. Secondly, the lack of emotion indicates that one has cut their strings, and can no longer be manipulated or puppeted around by the world of form. In other words, that one is no longer in a reactive or conditioned relationship with content. And lastly, of course, androgyny demonstrates one's recognition of wholeness beyond the illusion of gender. For the One is neither male nor female."

At this point Isobel decided to put hers on. "Can we wear them in public?" she asked, her voice muffled by the plastic.

"Consider these masks as an invitation," he suggested. "An invitation to earn the right to wear them in public."