Butterfly's Dream

By Marian C. Ghilea

“Once upon a time, I dreamed I was a butterfly.”
This is how Chuang Tzu’s famous anecdote begins. It is a short parable about the relativity of perception, written more than two thousand years ago. Many of us have experienced similar situations and wondered at times if we could tell dreams from reality. “Butterfly’s Dream” expands Chuang Tzu’s story into a surreal quest of adventure, romance, and self-discovery at the end of the 18th century. Despite the fantasy-like atmosphere, the novel accurately follows the laws of physics and would best fit into the “hard sci-fi” category.
Alberto is the second lieutenant on Excelsior, a military brig involved mostly on sea-patrolling missions. He has a keen interest in science and a mind inclined towards exploration and introspection. Most of his sailing trips are uneventful, with his ship transporting troops and ammunition to various locations managed by the navy.
But things are about to change. When the ship encounters a magnetic storm, the crew members find themselves sailing in uncharted waters. The next day, Excelsior casts anchor at the pier of a mysterious city that doesn’t seem to be located on Earth. Soon, Alberto becomes involved in complex events that make him question the surrounding reality and even his sanity. The fabulous world he gets to explore looks nothing like the world from his space and time. And what are space and time, after all?
In this place so different from Earth, Alberto meets Nivit, a beautiful and accomplished physician, and falls in love with her. Soon, they are swept into an unexpected journey of adventure and self-discovery that carries them through stranger and stranger realms and realities.
Can the rational mind defy the irrational? Can love defend against extreme weather and death? Does time always flow in the same direction? What is real? What is a dream?
A mirror reflecting itself. What would it show?
A mirror reflecting another mirror. What would it see?
Look inside the mirror, open the door, step onto the path stretching beyond its surface, and you might find out.
Are you ready?
If you enjoy reading this story, I have a favor to ask: Please write a review about it and recommend it to your friends! But only if you like it!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Marian C. Ghilea
• Release date: Sep 2, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463921890

Marian C. Ghilea

Marian Constantin Ghilea is a physicist (PhD. from University of Rochester) with research work in the fields of nuclear fusion, computational physics, particle physics, and exoplanets. Besides science and literature, he is also actively involved in martial arts, music, and the study of cultures and languages from around the world.

Book preview

BUTTERFLY’S DREAM

a novel by

Marian C. Ghilea

BDLogo

Copyright © 2018-2023 by Marian C. Ghilea

Cover art & design by Marian C. Ghilea

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright holder except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents portrayed in it are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or places is entirely coincidental.

Published by Marian C. Ghilea at Smashwords

Dedicated to all my dear friends, wherever they are

…and to Akiko

To a Dragon

White dragon, you inspire me to write.

I love the way you soar, fly, and explore;

When entering my weary thoughts at night,

You make me dream about that splendid shore.

I wanted to compare you to a distant thunder,

But you are more mysterious, reserved, and strange.

Mist floats over the seas that fall asunder

When autumn has the same bright color change.

You fill my heart with falling stars and spells

That sprout from shiny scales and burning eyes;

In melodies of flutes and silver bells,

My zest for you is bright, like a sunrise.

In the enchanting light of the Blue Moon,

Remember to come back to my world soon.

Overture

I am not here to provide answers but to show you some of the questions that define our world. An answer might often be a destination, but the question is the journey towards it. Go on, embark on the journey, and discover the destination yourself.

Elessyos of Miletus (c. 615 — c. 520 BC)

Here it is, the Universe everywhere around you and inside you, with no explanation, no instructions for use. Now, what are you going to do? If the overture describing the beginning looks too complicated, go to the prologue of its evolution. If even that seems too slow for your eyes, move to alpha and continue through the whole alphabet until omega looms above you, for time is circular, and you can always come back.

Seraphios (c. 605 — c. 513 BC) — Dialogues at the Edge of Time

---

Beginning.

Breathe in.

To be.

Being.

Light.

Thinking.

Concepts.

Breathe out.

Breathing.

Breathing again, in and out.

Ideas. Words. Communication.

Breathe in, breathe out. Start the transmission of data.

I don’t remember being born. I doubt anyone does. Still, foggy memories from the beginning of my existence are stored somewhere, deep inside my brain. Most times, these memories stay hidden. However, once in a while, they surface to my conscious side, haunting my thoughts.

When I became part of this world as an identifiable entity, I was little more than a pack of instincts and incompletely developed organs. Not fully separated from its virtual state, my mind was taking shape out of nothingness and transforming into something-ness.

At some point, the local fabric of space-time began to suffer dynamic changes, like an ocean during a powerful storm. Lines of universe were splitting into thin filaments. Fragments of void were evolving into dots. The dots were transforming into circles. The circles were growing into spheres. The spheres were expanding to four-dimensional hyper-spheres.

The transformation continued at an accelerated pace. The expansion became faster and faster until it reached a predefined boundary. Then it stopped. Here I began orbiting around a sphere of energy, remaining in metastable equilibrium. Growing turned into sending. Sending developed into receiving. Receiving a body, a mind. Acquiring senses to perceive the world…

As soon as my senses came to life, I could see, I could hear, I could smell, I could touch, I could taste. I could interact with far-away objects and with objects within my reach. The surrounding Universe became alive with shapes and colors, like a giant benevolent dragon who breathed in unison with me. From that moment on, time began to pour restlessly from outside — into my mind, and from inside — out of my body.

Events after events started to flow around me and through me. Months and years piled up, mirroring my continuous development, my slow but incessant change. I was transformed, programmed by other beings to communicate, to learn, and to use my newly discovered creative powers. However, my first clear feelings of self-awareness only came after I had spent several years in this new form. They appeared when I was already becoming human.

Being alive. Existing. Manifesting in this material space and time. Being guided…

Soon after our existences begin, those who have previously descended into this realm of manifestations are the individuals who set our newly born minds and memories onto the trajectories of their choice. They were shaped, in turn, by those who arrived before them, who were themselves modeled by their predecessors. This chain of cause and effect goes back in time for a tremendous number of generations. It keeps alive what we call civilization.

During our early years of life, we are always a reflection of others. We mix their characteristics in various proportions, especially those belonging to our parents while being raised by them, as it happens in most instances. Only when our age reaches more than a decade, we really begin to expand our minds and take a path of our own. Yet, this personal path is rarely different from the one imprinted into our brains at the beginning of our existence. We could call this factor civilization conditioning. And we shall never be completely free from it.

Hence, our freedom of expression and evolution is only apparent. Our progress is always limited by our roots, by the foundation of our society. At the most basic level of awareness and reasoning, we can never reprogram ourselves. If something unexpected comes at us, if we are suddenly thrown into an entirely different universe, we shall likely perceive this new place only from our subjective cultural perspective.

And so, a first question arises from these facts: Who are we? Of course, it can be followed by many more, such as: Where do we come from? Where shall our journeys take us when our lives end? How much of what we are is ourselves? Why are we us and not others? Why are we stuck inside a single body and have to live a particular, unique existence?

Answers to such inquiries don’t come easy, if at all. But do we really need them? And then, what happens if somehow these heavy chains of civilization conditioning break into pieces and set us free?

Let’s explore this hallway and see what follows. Open that door, please. Yes, that door on the left. Press the handle gently and walk inside. Take the path that awaits you there and let that universe unfold around your life in its majestic, unpredictable way.

There are no promises for answers, but perhaps at the end of the journey you will see yourself and your reflections from an entirely different angle.

And if you can’t find the mirrors right away, don’t worry: they will bloom in front of you sooner or later. Mirror after mirror after mirror is going to touch your face until you won’t know anymore which one is your reflection and which one is your true self.

A mirror reflecting itself. What would it show?

♣

The pleasant rays of the autumnal Sun are sieving in through a circular window from above. They look like drops from a delicate celestial waterfall, filling the room with golden light. Prints of buildings, landscapes, or portraits, all placed neatly in thin frames, cover the gray plastered walls everywhere I look. Sounds of steps and conversations in low tones resonate and combine in frequencies overlapping around my standing body. People are coming in or moving out towards the other rooms of the art gallery. It is a continuous flow of costumes, dresses, and voices.

Why am I here? What am I doing in this place? Where is this building located, anyway? I feel as if I have been suddenly planted, like a sapling, at the edge of this hall. As if I have just materialized out of the void onto this spot.

Seconds later, fuzzy memories come back, shaking my senses with a vigorous gentleness. I remember the announcement about the exhibition. I read it the other day in a newspaper. It was about an extensive Escher collection, almost all his masterpieces in one place, open to the public from my city for a whole month. And here I am, in front of this lithograph from 1956, named Print Gallery.

The flow of people goes on unabated, left and right, forward and backward. It’s a never-ending swirl of footsteps and voices. Visitors pause for a few moments in front of a framed image, then move, almost in haste, to the next.

I keep looking at Print Gallery, hypnotized by its unusual composition. My eyes remain glued to the man displayed there. His eyes are gazing at the works filling a passageway. Through an insane twist of space, the framed image in front of him expands, enclosing the room, the building, the whole Universe. Unperturbed, he stares at the print he has become a part of. And now, I am that man. And I’m looking at the print from the print. And I have become part of this print myself.

What do you think of this work? It looks intriguing, doesn’t it? strikes a voice at my right.

Pulled out of this dazzling vision, I slowly turn my head and find a slender, middle-aged man of medium height standing next to me. He is wearing a dark-orange robe, his head is neatly shaved, and his face displays a peaceful smile. A Buddhist monk. Well, why wouldn’t a monk be interested in art, too? However, my instinct tells me he isn’t here by chance. His question sounds beyond casual. It certainly has a deeper meaning.

I take a deep breath and do my best to articulate my thoughts as clearly as I can, murmuring in a low tone:

I have to admit: I’m fascinated by it. The image seems to blur the distinction between what’s inside and what’s outside us.

His gray eyes look at me intensely. I feel as if they could drill my skull and read my thoughts. Yet, the peace and friendliness surrounding them can only come from someone who has reached a high spiritual level. This monk is someone who apparently wants to help me with something. But with what? And why?

My memory still has gaps. I can’t recall well the past few days or, as a matter of fact, anything preceding this moment. I don’t remember how I got into this room and in front of this print. Perhaps this stranger has come to help me figure out what’s going on.

You’re right, the monk says. Escher has brilliantly caught the fact that the ego is an illusion, that what’s inside our head cannot be fully separated from what’s outside our skin. Not that he was the first to do so. However, he has shown it in an intuitive and easy-to-understand manner.

I feel like inside a classroom where I’m a student and he is the teacher. As soon as the stranger goes quiet, an idea begins to germinate in my brain. The whole scene looks like it’s happening in a dream. Like I have dreamed of it before. The situation and the dialog seem somewhat rehearsed, artificial. As if we were two mediocre actors playing their roles on an invisible stage.

I wait for my heartbeats to calm down, then I say:

My memory is blurred. I can’t remember what’s happened to me recently. I’ve got the impression you aren’t here by chance. Have you come to help me, to guide me somewhere?

The monk stares straight into my eyes with a grave expression, nodding in silence. Time seems to flow slower now. The air has turned viscous.

I breathe evenly, trying to keep my flux of thoughts under control. Then I turn my gaze towards the artwork. It’s still there, unchanged. Yet, something else, hard to define, is different now. I don’t know where my past is rooted, but I’m somehow aware of my future. As if everything has suddenly begun to flow in the opposite direction, from tomorrow towards yesterday. Unaware of how this information has filled my thoughts, I know there’s a path in front of me, a path onto which I have to step soon. Very soon, probably in less than a minute.

We both continue to look at the print like we’re holding a vigil in front of it. I feel as if Maurits Cornelis Escher himself is standing now behind us, gazing intently at his creation. However, why am I going through this strange scenario? What are these preparations for? What kind of trip is waiting for me? Or, perhaps, it has already begun?

I wanted to make sure you’re taking the proper path, the stranger in the dark-orange robe says. Your journey is going to begin here, right in front of this work of art. Don’t strain yourself too hard to understand everything at once. Understanding will come eventually, gradually, in time.

Who are you? I ask, turning my gaze towards him.

I plan to follow up with a few more questions, but the monk has vanished. There is no trace of him. Perhaps he was only a product of my imagination? Startled, I turn my eyes back to the distorted landscape from the frame in front of me. And again, I am the man from the print, looking at the print. Space is curling around me, wrapping my body like a dark veil. When I turn my head once more towards the hall, I feel I’m both inside and outside the frame. It is a most unusual sensation, and it makes me dizzy.

I think I’m going to faint and prepare to embrace the hard marble floor in my fall. Yet, my knees somehow manage to stay steady. I remain standing. The art gallery is fading away. A few seconds later, I suddenly get comfortable, lying in a bed placed under a domed ceiling. The new room is bathed in diffuse blue light. The walls display a pleasant, refreshing blue.

Let the story begin! a man’s voice commands.

I fail to see him. The room looks empty.

Let it begin! Bon voyage et bonne chance! an invisible chorus replies.

A flash of light envelops me for a split second. Then I seem to materialize in a different location.

The bed and the room are gone. I’m aware of floating inside a liquid bubble, but my eyes are closing by themselves with overwhelming strength. Unable to react in any way, I’m falling into a deep dormant state. For a short time, I can still hear voices speaking loud and clear inside my brain:

Black! I think the recipient is sufficiently relaxed.

Gray! Body and mind are adjusting to the intermediary environment.

Red! Gradually increase the output up to half.

Orange! The readings of the body parameters are within the norm.

Yellow! Open the gate towards the new environment.

Green! Continue to increase the output to the maximum.

Blue! The gate towards the new environment is active.

Purple! Disconnect the primary environment.

Crimson! Separate the recipient from the intermediary environment.

Violet! Stand by for ignition.

White! Ignition and lift off! The recipient has crossed to the other side!

Prologue

I cannot prevent myself from wondering about the new generations that shall sprout into this world millennia from now. What shall they think of us? Shall they see our accomplishments as simple and primitive? Shall they portray us as uneducated barbarians? Shall our beliefs seem to them just unsophisticated superstitions? Yet, are these things going to matter in the end? And, ultimately, is there any end at all? What if the flow of time is only an illusion generated by our minds?

Elessyos of Miletus

We are tempted to see our existence as composed of a single reality. This reality flows from the immutable past to the fluid future through a present thinner than a knife-edge. The general view is that only inside this almost infinitely thin slice of time we live, act, and are being acted on. However, our lives are operating in a more complicated physical world.

The space-time around us can be better described as a network of possible realities. These realities are entangled and intertwined like the threads of many yarn balls thrown away in random directions from the singularity that gave birth to our Universe. In some locations of this complex multidimensional maze, the notions of past and future lose their meaning and are sometimes interchangeable. Meanwhile, the almost infinitely thin present can expand significantly. In other words, one can say that when we are not happy with the future, we can change the past.

Kai Ishida — a precursor of the New Physics

---

Nothingness said to Somethingness: There is no universe right now, no space, no time, nothing to separate the whole from its parts or to distinguish between inside and outside. Even you don’t exist, except in my imagination. So, let’s change this state of things and build a beginning from where to spin a new story.

Somethingness replied: As soon as this thought came to your mind, you became me, and now it’s you who doesn’t exist anymore. No problem, I shall do what you have asked for, what I had asked for.

Hence, non-action became action, and non-being became being. From being, a beginning was born.

♣

In the beginning was the sound, and the sound was without form, and the sound was reigning supreme over the endless water. The sound became louder, generated vibrations, and expanded until it reached the water’s surface. Its touch changed the water, bringing into existence tiny ripples of resonance that spread in all directions. Soon, these ripples multiplied, grew, and evolved. Their shapes became stable. With them arrived new concepts, such as structure, complexity, and thought.

In the beginning, space was the only thing alive. Unbounded, undefined, unmeasurable. Space stretched, bent, and twisted until it closed onto itself. It rendered discontinuities that brought matter into existence as mass and energy, its two complementary sides. Then, from the random vibrations of the matter manifested as energy, the sound came into being.

In the beginning, there was no beginning because there was no time and space. From the singularity that did not exist and cannot be described, time and space appeared. Then, from time and space, everything else came forth. Everything is one, and one is everything.

In the beginning that did not exist, beyond anything the thought can conceive, beyond any beyond, in that beginning with no beginning, He was. Hence, everything started from Him and with Him. Yet He is only a name but not the real Him. The finger that points at the Moon is not the Moon. It’s just a finger.

And so, the flow of a story commences, entangled between pasts and futures, twisted by ripples of reality and illusion, washed by the incessantly changing waves of space and time. This flow starts shyly, more like a whisper, like a tiny mountain stream hidden under deep layers of ice and snow. However, it soon grows and expands, turning into a wide river. Before long, its deep waters pour, unstoppable, into the sea.

The sea itself is full of life and in continuous transformation. Its restless surface is periodically pulled towards the sky by the heat from the Sun, becoming clouds and returning, as rain, to the source. When this happens, the cycle is complete. The story folds over itself, returning to the origin.

In the beginning was the end…

A path is made by those walking on it.

Chuang Tzu (c. 369 — c. 286 BC)

Part 1:

Triangulum with Three Flashes of Lightning

The thoughts of Alberto Shimada, the second lieutenant of Excelsior

If you could be someone else, who would you like to become?

I think I’d like to change back into myself. As of late, I often sense that my life is confined to the shadow of someone else’s dreams.

Yet, being yourself can often be a challenge. I don’t even understand well what this means. Can you define the idea of self? Can you explain what the self is?

You have just asked me about imagining being someone else, and now you’re saying you don’t fathom the idea of self? Why has everything to be so confusing? I, the person here, thinking and talking, the one who is within this body should be me, the ego, the self.

Then, if the one within your body, seeing, hearing, talking, thinking is you, how can you say you’re under the impression of being someone else?

I might have been myself in the past, but at night, soon after I go to bed and fall asleep, I dream of other worlds and people. And sometimes, more often than I wish, I dream of being a different person. Then, when I wake up from my dream the next morning, how can I trust I’m still the one who went to sleep? Furthermore, if I’ve got lost along the way and someone else is here in my stead, where am I now?

How can you know you’re not the same person? Anyone who has a mind and a heart, sees and hears, feels and talks within your body has to be you. It doesn’t matter whether you believe or not that you have a certain name and age and status. When you dream you are someone else, it is still you who sleeps and lives the other life in the realms of Morpheus. On those lands of phantasy, you can be more than a mere human. You can expand. Why should you limit your perception and existence to the willow shell that is your body?

Yet, is it really me the one who wakes up in the morning? How can I know? How can I be sure the life from my dream is not the real life? Maybe I’m dreaming now, and everything around me is only an illusion. Yet, I still feel that between dream and reality, between the one who dreams and the one who is dreamed of, there has to be a subtle difference. Nonetheless, dream and reality look now like two mirrors reflecting each other. Or, even better said: like a single mirror reflecting itself. How can I tell which one is the mirror and which one is the reflection?

You wish to find out which one is your true self? Then, in silence, you have to shut down the doors and windows connecting your mind and soul to the outside world. Light, sound, heat, or cold should not bother you. Then you can listen to what your heart is saying. When you can hear your heart, you are the mirror; when you can’t, you are the reflection. Yet, don’t forget: sometimes the mirrors can break! When this happens, you will see how the ego itself is an illusion, an illusion within an illusion. And when you reach this level of understanding, you can become anyone you like.

Seraphios — Dialogues at the Edge of Time

---

A wet wind is blowing onto my face, cool and refreshing. From the rhythmic splashing sounds of the foamy waves, echoes are sprouting, ethereal and impermanent. Their music is pouring inside my ears like a delicate whisper.

My lungs are slowly moving up and down like a pair of wings, breathing in and out the glorious dance of the atoms that make up the air of my world. At this moment, the whole Universe is breathing in and out with me. In and out, inside and outside. From the slow beats of my heart to the Moon, the Sun, and beyond, there is no real distance anymore.

Soon, the flow of time reveals itself to be as illusory as the manifestation of space. This inner mounting flame is pushing open my eyelids. The light from outside pours in, filling my soul with eternity. Each breath feels now like a new birth of myself, like a cyclic return into existence. Everything is one, and one is everything.

Too many ideas and concepts are already roaming wild through my mind. Too many thoughts are flooding my perception. Some are familiar, but other seem to come from far away, as if they belonged to total strangers, mirroring me and mirroring themselves. Something doesn’t seem quite right. Have I been somewhere else before? Or, perhaps, have I been someone else before?

In the beginning was the light. Can we go back to the beginning? Can we return to what we used to be and become as pure as the light again?

♣

The sound of water.

Mother Nature has put on golden colors everywhere in and around the city. But the metropolis, as well as the continent, were left behind two days ago. Now only the ocean, an endless expanse of blue-green liquid with a faint salty odor, is stretching all the way to the horizon, wherever I look.

Standing on the deck of our fast brig, I can sense it’s autumn even here. Something hard to define makes me think of falling leaves. Is it the scent of the sea? Or could it be the fragrance of the wind? I turn my eyes up. A flock of fluffy clouds is towering high above the ship’s masts as if they were watching us. From the east, a pale, almost sick-looking Sun is shooting shy arrows of light.

The breeze blowing from the stern is pushing us with constant speed towards our destination. The tall prow cuts the waves with a slow rocking motion that generates a tender hissing sound. Here I am, on this beautiful morning of October 13, 1794. I’m in charge of the weather observations and the duty shifts of the crew.

Our vessel is sailing towards the Southern Islands, transporting weapons and ammunition. In addition, we’ve got a squadron of thirty soldiers as passengers. The soldiers will replace the current garrison in charge of the fort built there more than a century ago. These three tiny islands from the Tropics are locations of significant strategic importance for our navy. They oversee the main routes of an increasing number of ships that travel from our country towards exotic and commercially profitable shores from the Southern Hemisphere. My second mission in such far-away waters has just begun. A journey from autumn to summer and back.

The hours pass quietly. While I fill my logbook with notes, the wind is pushing our vessel with a speed of seven knots. If the weather stays the same, I should expect Excelsior to reach her destination in about eight days. But will it stay the same?

When I check the horizon with my handheld telescope in the early afternoon, I notice dark clouds gathering far away to the southeast. They’re spread over a large area and are set to cross our path. Changing the course to avoid bad weather could mean arriving at least one day late. We are most likely going to run into a storm during the first hours of the evening.

The captain is in his cabin, looking at the maps. I inform him immediately about the oncoming storm. We both return to the deck and begin the preparations for the soon-to-be unpleasant encounter. The captain wants to minimize any delay caused by the elements. He plans to take advantage of the cyclone, using it to shorten the journey to the Southern Islands by about one day. He also wants to test the efficiency of the crew. We have many new hands on board, and this storm is an excellent opportunity to check their skills.

The ship changes course to south-south-west. With no lee shore anywhere near our route, we plan to partially skirt the storm, using the strong winds that blow towards the south on the west side of the cyclone. Excelsior will keep sailing at full speed, gradually reefing her sails as the wind gets stronger. Hence, many sails will stay up and running almost until the storm is ready to strike. Our crew is large enough to take care of them in time.

Late in the afternoon, dark-gray clouds begin to fill the sky. The ocean becomes agitated and foamy. Legions of malefic spirits seem to be dancing on top of the ominous white waves. They are doing the final preparations to ram hard into our ship’s hull and do as much damage as they can. Some sails are still up, although many are reefed now. They’re pulling Excelsior southward with a speed of about eleven knots. The daylight is fading. The celestial tanks hanging above us are ready to explode and flood our vessel with a torrent of rain.

♣

The first drops fall one hour before sunset. In the beginning, just a few. Then a hard downpour floods the deck. Every few seconds, electrical discharges cut deep irregular lines across the dark-crimson sky. Thunders follow immediately after the flashes, loud like cannon shots. The ocean has turned nasty. It appears set to bury our ship in its liquid hell. The wind gradually transforms into a gale. Many crewmen are working in a hurry to finish stowing the higher sails and stroking the lower ones. At the same time, a dozen hands are unfurling a single storm fore-topsail to maintain the ship’s direction under the strong wind.

Despite doing my best to make myself useful wherever I can, I’m barely moving back and forth along the deck. My legs are wading through a continuous stream of water, sometimes ankle-deep. My boots are slipping on the wet planks every few steps. I have to hold tightly onto backstays, shrouds, hawsers, gunwale, or anything else with some local stability that I can reach with my tired hands. Everyone else exposed to the elements is in the same situation.

While gazing up for a moment, I find out that the fore topmast and fore topgallant sails haven’t been fully stowed. This is obviously the work of less experienced hands. The crewmen are still up there, trembling shadows moving against intermittent flashes of light. Balancing on the wet footropes, the poor lads try to fix their mistakes as fast as possible. However, the wind is getting harsher by the minute, and they are having difficulties finishing their job.

With my vision blurred by gale and rain, I continue to supervise the sailors’ work from the deck. Soon, I notice two young crewmen near the main topgallant platform, working alone and having a lot of trouble untying the gaskets from the jackstay before stowing the topgallant sail. They are almost done with the starboard and are pushing hard to get quickly to the port side. Suddenly, the sailors stop and look upwards, visibly frightened. Above them, a diffuse green light surrounds the top of the mast and the edges of the royal’s yard.

This is a most unusual phenomenon. I want to examine it at a closer distance. Directed by the first lieutenant, all hands around me are busy with other urgent issues. Finishing unfurling the storm fore-topsail is one of them. The canvas hasn’t expanded in the wind. The sailors involved in the operation are moving frantically to fix its orientation. That’s why the captain wanted to test the new hands. This storm is the best exam he could find for them. The crew doesn’t need me on the deck anymore, so I decide to climb up the mainmast to investigate the unusual light. I’ll also use this opportunity to double-check how the upper sails are stowed.

Reaching the topgallant platform in this weather is a real challenge. I’m tossed back and forth like a rag doll by the powerful shakes of the ship. The high-amplitude rolling makes me hold the rigging tightly to prevent being thrown overboard. My boots are not so great for a good foothold on the ratlines, but they’ll have to do. I feel as if I were tied to a giant metronome. A metronome moving in fierce harmony with this deafening symphony of wind and water.

Soon, I arrive near the top, grab the futtock shrouds, and climb onto the narrow platform. I can see the scared faces of the crewmen within an arm’s length of me. They are just getting done stowing the sail. All the ship parts I can glimpse around dance chaotically under flashes of lightning. I take hold of the yard and step onto the footrope, double-checking the hands’ work and ignoring the glow from above.

Looks fine! You may go back on the deck now! I shout as loud as I can.

The youngsters seem to understand my words and slide down along the rigging. The rain continues to pour from above like a waterfall. I feel already giddy from the slow but ample rolling motion of Excelsior dancing on top of the waves. Yet, I manage to control my nausea without having to throw up. Anyway, my location is too high, too precarious to allow myself such weaknesses. I suppose throw down would be more appropriate, given the circumstances. Although, given the wind’s intensity, this wouldn’t be entirely true, either.

I’m doing a final check of the knots. They look tight enough. The light surrounding the top of the mast generates a tingling sensation on the crown of my head. I have climbed all the way here to investigate it, so I step higher on the ratlines, closer to the mysterious glow.

Down on the deck and close to the prow, five crewmen have just finished stowing other sails and got a few moments to breathe. They are looking in my direction, gesticulating and shouting something. With the ubiquitous roar of the storm, I can’t make out their words. I assume what they mean is something like: St. Elmo’s fire!

However, from what I have read in books or heard from the stories of a few sailors, I don’t remember St. Elmo’s fire appearing above a ship while it’s raining so heavily. In addition to this, people who saw it described its color as blue or violet, not green. And why is it not pushed away by wind and rain? Something is different here. As I continue to climb closer to it, the tingling sensation on the crown of my head intensifies.

Right at that moment, a flash of lightning strikes the top of the mast with an ear-shattering noise. I can feel its tremendous power through a wave of pain. The flame from above wraps tightly around me. Its surge of electricity passes through my skin, flesh, and bones. A taste of metal fills my mouth a moment later. My heart seems to stop for a moment, then resumes its hurried beating. My eardrums hurt from the violent bang. For a few long seconds, my muscles twitch in uncontrollable spasms. Then numbness fills up my body. I try to grab the cordage near me, but I’m not successful. My hands and feet are slipping off the ropes. I begin to fall towards the deck, slowly, like in a dream.

Sailing ships are rarely struck by lightning, yet this can still happen every once in a while. And this time, I happened to be in the wrong place, at the wrong time. You can call it bad luck stretched to the extreme. Here it is, all mine to enjoy.

While sliding down, I notice how everything has become quiet all of a sudden. The wind’s whipping has ceased. Large, almost spherical beads of water dripping from the yards float around me, descending in slow motion towards the deck. The bolt that has just hit me still surrounds my body with a faint glimmer. The waves around the ship look like unfinished glass sculptures, reflecting the yellow-blue light of several frozen lightning flashes. Black clouds are hanging above, like a giant carpet spread all the way to the horizon. And the green light still surrounds the top of the mast, unchanged.

From up here, the ship’s frame looks like a leaf tossed into a fuzzy maze of foamy water crests. My field of vision narrows like a tunnel. It closes to a dot as colors turn grayscale. The seascape surrounding me disappears, with the flow of time slowing down even more. The green halo of light expands and swallows me. I’m floating now, weightless, in the air. Wrapped in silence, I find myself in the middle of another scenery, in a different space and time.

It’s dark. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable. The pain is gone.

Soft shadows shroud me like a silk robe. A night view is unfolding before my eyes. There is a man in front of me, watching the night lights of a city. Seconds later, he walks away from them, stepping onto a narrow path bordered by oaks and maples. At the same time, I’m him and I’m myself, observing the scene from a short distance. My senses have become distorted. Apparently, what I’m experiencing now was triggered by this flash of lightning.

Like a mirror reflecting itself… What would it show?

Flash One:

Cassiopeia

The late-night sky looked unfriendly, even slightly threatening. It floated, like a mantle, above the dense foliage that surrounded the river. Despite the dark-green carpet of grass that caressed his feet, it was actually cold, close to freezing. He had decided to spend the night here, in the tent. Away from the city’s noise, without a radio or a phone.

A full Moon painted in the color of blood was rising above the pine-covered mountains. His gaze focused on it for a moment, then moved higher until it reached the trembling lights of the five stars that sketched the big W shape of Cassiopeia. A grin came across his face as he recognized the familiar constellation. The man stretched his arms to the sides like a pair of wings, imagining he could soar all the way up to the edge of space.

He had set up the tent already, right before sunset. The weariness brought on by a long and tiring day was slowly sinking in, taking control of his body. He glanced at the sky one more time, then disappeared inside the canvas dome. The sleeping bag swallowed him at once, like a cocoon. Soon, a heavy slumber enveloped his thoughts in a halo of dreams. The dreams took control of his mind, coming and going in fuzzy whirlpools of colors and shapes. With them came a feeling that someone from a different space and time was watching him.

♣

The sound of the stream flowing a few paces away became louder. Frequent splashes in the shallow waves were interrupting its flow. He woke up.

Must be a boar looking for roots and seeds on this side, the man thought. Perhaps I should check it out. He reached for the lantern and sneaked out of the tent, light off. A few quiet steps got him to the water’s edge. No boar was there.

The stream glistened in the moonlight, alien and uninviting. Dark shapes were moving along it, marching or swimming upstream in parallel lines: hundreds and hundreds of fish-like creatures with long tails and lizard legs.

He turned on the lantern. The other bank had changed. Trees shaped like baobabs filled the opposite slope, their blue leaves reflecting the light of an invisible moon. The sky looked alien that way, too, with the spiral arms of an immense galaxy spreading over it.

Oblivious to his presence and ignoring the lantern beam, the creatures kept going on with their journey. Bluish sparks glistening in midair revealed the boundary between his world and the other reality. Looking upwards, he saw the border extending across the sky: a giant half-circle, dividing the Universe in two.

Above him, the same familiar stars were still shining. Wait, there was something different, something weird high above, in the Cassiopeia constellation. Right on top of the W shape and a little to the right, a new luminous dot was blazing, about as bright as Venus.

No, this can’t be true, he thought. His decent knowledge of astronomy reminded him of the supernova discovered and studied in detail by Tycho Brahe in 1572. Had he somehow slid back in time? Nonetheless, the landscape on this bank looked the same. Then what about the city? Of course, the urban center was too far away, and he had no means to make sure it was still there.

Suddenly, a breeze carrying warm air from the other bank blew onto his face. He noticed a movement on his left and felt a light touch on his shoulder. Something shaped like a butterfly had landed on the dark fabric of his jacket. It was an insect the size of a sparrow, with a blue body and wings covered in black and red patterns.

Time was slowly pouring into the night, its flow marked by the cadence of the creatures moving along the river bed. Time itself felt like a river streaming above the valley where the procession was taking place. Piece by piece, it was engulfing the watercourse and the scenery surrounding it. Now he could also hear drums in the distance. He felt the desire to cross the boundary grow more intense, like a rose spreading its petals in the morning sunlight.

The alien butterfly was still resting motionless on his shoulder: a delicate decoration glistening in the night. He decided to leave it alone, refraining from touching the fragile-looking wings. After moments that seemed to last an eternity, his feet moved forward.

A gentle electric discharge came through his fingertips when his right hand touched the border between the worlds. The loop of eternity shattered. The alien scenery faded away. Everything came back to the familiar configuration. High up in the sky, the bright star from Cassiopeia was no more.

The experience had lasted only two or three minutes. Had it been just a dream? Yet, when he turned his head, the alien insect was still clinging to his garment. Struck by the cold temperature of the night, it fell off his shoulder and died in his hands moments later. With utmost care, the man took the insect and placed it inside an empty jar.

Poor butterfly! What were you dreaming about when you crossed into my world? Why did your flight have to end like this? I’m so sorry for your lost life! Caught in this strange chain of events, are you even real? Maybe I’m actually deep asleep now, dreaming of alien worlds and butterflies?

He returned to his shelter and curled back inside the sleeping bag, looking now like a chrysalis himself.

♣

Early in the morning, the Sun launched a dazzling assault against the shadows enfolding the river’s bank. Without mercy, its rays filled the interior of his canvas dome with bright golden light. They pierced his closed eyelids with a thousand needles, blinding him painfully in his sleep. He woke up dizzy and with his vision blurred by tears. A small clock next to his open backpack was displaying 6:07.

It’s time to head back, he thought, yawning and stretching his arms and legs.

Last night’s adventure felt now like the memory of a dream. However, the