Nemesis

by Joan Sutcliffe

I am holding a stone in my hand, polished to perfection, like the Sanskrit language is polished in its declensions. Striations of peach tones sparkle as the sun catches the glint of coral pink, and a hint of blue swirls by the edge where the rock was pried away from its moorings. 

A little old man dropped it. He was a strange figure, club-footed and hump-backed, and I chased after him to give it back, but kept losing sight of him in the busy street. Then, unfortunately, he disappeared completely into the crowds milling toward the subway steps. If I follow the people down, I thought, I might still reach him. Too late, alas, he was not on the platform! Returning to the street, maybe I should have looked more diligently, but there was definitely no sign of him whatsoever. It was as though he had evaporated into thin air. So it turned out I had truly lost him. 

It is a precious stone, I am sure. Its beauty is exquisite, the intricate blush of rosy hue seems to duel with the aquatic blue. Now and then a sharp stab of sapphire bursts through momentarily like a chip of ice-cold anger, then is gone as suddenly. 

What should I have done? Should I really have kept it? There was suddenly a moment when I wanted to possess it more than anything else on earth. Perhaps it was always intended to be mine? I seemed to think it was crying out to belong to me, and everything in me desired to hold on to it.

Although I know that to be covetous is to fall into one of the seven deadly sins, the days are passing and this priceless gem is still with me, sitting on the desk as I write. Its loveliness increases with each hour stretching long and languid in enjoyment. Sometimes it looks like the late afternoon sky as it spreads over the heath before sunset, haunting in its loneliness, and then an inexplicable ache of sadness comes over me.

There are nights when I cannot sleep, and so I take the piece of rock and place it on my forehead. Often it calms the active mind, and a sweet prolonged rest follows. But there are occasions too when something shadowy but indiscernible disturbs my psyche and muscular spasms send me into chaotic dreams where I struggle to breathe and wander through dark corridors where gaunt animals lurk in sinister corners. Then I wake up gasping with a sense of dread as though caught in an unholy crime.

But when I look at the smooth surface of the shining stone next morning, with the delicious flush of frosty pink almost merging into the teal background like the approaching light of dawn, I immediately forget the nighttime discomforts and rejoice in my good fortune.

Yet, a rather unsettling incident from earlier this week is constantly coming to mind, and will not let go of me. When I was returning home alone from morning coffee with a friend I had the firm conviction that someone was following me, and it was not just a physical sensation. There was a knowing that shook the very roots of my being. I crossed the street to take the shortcut that leads through the park, and halfway across the road I distinctly felt warm breath on my neck. Whirling round to see who it was so close behind, I was shocked to discover there was no one there, in fact no person walking on the street at all. Stunned, I stopped still in my tracks for several seconds.

Suddenly a jarring squeal of brakes brought a large van to a shattering full stop almost on my toes. A furious red face hurled out of the open window an abusive string of violent epithets.

“You bloody idiot! Are you insane? You could have caused a terrible accident.”

As the passenger of a posh red car behind, which had nearly smashed into the back, got out and glared, the van driver continued to yell, the blood vessels in his neck pulsating dangerously:

“Fools like you should be banned from the streets. You are a menace to your fellow citizens.”

Trembling I left the scene for the quiet of the park. The little path leads into a hard-packed trail that continues along an area of dense vegetation. Maples, birch and poplar invade the path which winds its way through a maze of trees. Wild flowers straggle the edges and birds perch on rotting stumps. Although I knew I was by myself wending my way along the trail, I was also aware that there was still an invisible presence with me, an ominous sort of presence. I could hear heavy breathing following me, a horrid rasping sound almost touching my shoulders, but of course on turning I could again see no one. 

My fear intensified as the sound of footsteps behind me was unmistakeable, an uneven lumbering tread, as though someone were dragging a cumbersome burden. Then I saw the crow, staring unblinkingly straight at me. Something of tremendous meaning in the piercing gaze transfixed me, but I have not yet been able to interpret the shamanic message.

As I came out into the clearing to mount the steps back to the street, the bright sun was warm and welcoming. Then, suddenly, a shadow fell across the pavement enveloping me in its fold though for the life of me I could not discover its source. It lifted again, as suddenly and as completely, but the returning sunlight could not dispel my disquiet.

That night I held my beautiful rock against my heart, as the yellow eyes of the crow haunted my sleep.

In the days that followed this traumatic experience the crow appeared several more times in my dreams. On one occasion the bird took on a human face, the beak metamorphosing into a sharp hooked nose above a long pointed chin, the two almost meeting. The amber coloured eyes were narrow and cunning, their focussed expression pure evil, and I woke up in a cold sweat with my heart palpitating in uncontrollable frenzy. 

Since then I have tried unsuccessfully to analyze  these night visions. Seeking out Jung’s philosophy of archetypes, I have turned the crows into ravens and recalled the mythology of Odin, the ancient Scandinavian god with his two raven messengers. In the old legends it was said that Odin could shapeshift himself into the big black bird. But Odin was a kindly god of justice; he could not be the owner of that cruel face. But, were the messenger birds trying to give me a warning?

This morning to lighten the heavy melancholia that seems to dampen my mood and cloud my clarity these days, I am holding my smooth ball of rock up to the deep red sunrise like a goddess performing a ritual. Cool to the touch and almost ethereal to the sight as the rays seem to break into a rainbow spectrum around it, I want to make it my talisman, my protector against the forces of darkness. Speaking the words of an archaic hymn sung by Celtic priestesses since the dawn of civilization, I intone repeatedly mantra after mantra.

Suddenly in my mind’s eye I see the crow. Crow, little raven, trickster of the old stories told by the campfires at night, mischief maker and bird of thievery. Crow, related to the magpie known as the stealer of bright objects, precious glittering things pilfered without conscience and stored in its nest.

Is that what I have done? As if in answer to my question, a shadow is inexplicably forming a dark outline on the white wall facing the brilliant sunlight. It is the stunted shape of a gnome with ungainly foot, stooped over back and profile of Punch.

With a tug of my heart, I now know what I must do. Though I don’t know where to find that little hunch-backed dwarf of a man, at least I must take his jewel back to the place where I found it, and hope he will retrace his steps some day and somehow manage to retrieve it. 

This task, however, has not been as simple as imagined. The days are passing and I cannot get rid of this ill-fated possession. What was once a much coveted “objet d’art” to me has now become a burdensome weight of oppression. Three times I have walked down that same street. On the first occasion, when I reached the exact spot where I had earlier picked it up, I slightly bent a knee and surreptitiously dropped the stone. After only a few steps forward I felt a light tap on my shoulder and a female voice said, “My dear, you dropped this.” On turning round, the object was placed back in my hand. 

Twice more in succession the same thing occurred. The second time on the street I thought I saw that same little humpbacked figure walking ahead. Happily I chased after him, but when I caught up with him, it was a kindly cheerful face that turned and replied, “Oh no, sweetie, that is not mine, but thank you anyway.”

The third time was more ugly, the same kind of delusionary figure, but a nasty snarling voice, “Keep your rubbish to yourself.”

I have taken the trail in the park, accompanied again by the heavy breathing hot on my neck, this time oozing a foul smell overwhelming my nostrils. Again there was the dragging sound of clumping footsteps bearing a limp. Of course there was no human being within sight, but a brainwave told me to lay down the rock on that path, which injunction I obeyed.

Can you imagine my terror when later that night I found that same object, untouched, unharmed, lying on my bedside table?

Time and again I have returned to that path through the maples and birches, the limping drag has grown louder, the breath more fetid, and I have carefully placed the stone each time. My horror intensifies a million fold when on every occasion without fail I discover it back by my bed as though it had never left.

The days come and go. Now, at last I am rid of the stone. It is lying at the bottom of Lake Ontario. My cousin and I went out in his sailboat. It was a glorious day, the sun on our arms turning our skin as brown as fresh tilled earth, wind blowing through our hair lifting our spirits as we sang the favourite folk songs of our childhood. I felt lighter than I had in months, a careless freedom about just being alive beneath a cloudless blue sky. A friendly gull was calling out overhead. He was white, not sombre black like a crow. He was swooping and soaring and riding the air, not staring with piercing focus as though to bleed the conscience of its guilt.

But, oh, how short lived that abandonment! There was a dark blob on the shoreline, and my psychic senses were already preparing me. I knew what it was! Or rather who it was! 

We dodged him at the mouth of the Humber River, but he was waiting at the front door when I got home. A little man of stunted growth, with a lame foot and a big lump on his back, his facial peculiarities reminding me of a Punch and Judy show. But those idiosyncrasies of appearance did not render him lovable, as they could in a more warm hearted character. There was a hardness in his eyes, something very sinister and frightening. 

“You have something that belongs to me,” his tone was menacing.

“Not anymore,” I replied, “I lost it overboard on the lake.”

“You will return it to me, or I will haunt you to the pits of hell.” There was a cruel taunting note in his clipped and deliberate pronunciation.

“I tried to give it back to you many times,” I ventured. “Where were you then? Why did you not come forward? You knew. You followed me all the time.”

He let out a stream of obscenities, as I entered my house and slammed the door in his face.

That night I was filled with a terrible dread. I sensed I was not alone. There was an ugly presence, invisible, but a powerful evil force, its aura suffocating the astral element of the house with poisonous fumes.

Suddenly as I walked by the mirror I caught his reflection in the glass standing where my own reflection should have appeared. I could see no physical form, but there was a definite image of him in the mirror. It was exactly as he had looked when the crow metamorphosed in my dream, the expression in his eyes exuding naked hatred.

Desperate with fear I grabbed the nearest weapon at hand, the sturdy handle of a broken axe, and with full force I smashed the mirror, splattering it into a myriad of tiny shards of glass. Immediately the atmosphere lifted free of the ominous presence. 

He is gone, the stone is gone, the crow is gone. They have not returned, even as I write today.

But I can never get rid of the feeling that I have committed a terrible crime. It is with me every minute. My conscience will not rest. I am always thinking that I stole a precious jewel and killed a man. I know that one day someone will come and punish me. Karma nemesis has me in its grip.

Bio

Originally from Yorkshire, growing up in the untamed countryside of the Bronte's where she enjoyed the romantic literature of that period, particularly that which gave voice to the restless spirit seeking the mysteries of its own source. This led her into the field of eastern philosophy and mysticism, and for many years she has been a keen student of Theosophy, as introduced to the West by H.P. Blavatsky.