24

By Avi Burra

Surreal, suspenseful, and thought-provoking, 24 is a book about Oliver Battolo's journey, as he comes to terms with the unexpected death of his father, and in the process discovers that he had been harboring a bizarre secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Avi Burra
• Release date: Nov 16, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989580514

Book preview

24

Avi Burra

Copyright © 2023 by Avi Burra

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

To Monika and Ishan, who inspire my best actions

Prologue

738161

Silence. Darkness and silence. A deep, inky darkness and a thick, pliant silence.

And then he heard the sound for the first time.

A million voices whispering in unison. Maybe it was a billion voices. The harmonic whisper rose from a soft hum at first until it reached a brief, deafening crescendo before quickly dissipating into thick, inky black silence.

Oliver felt a primal terror starting at the base of his spine and rising up into his head, until his brain was seemingly engulfed in flames.

Help! Somebody, please help! Maren, where are you? Oliver yelled out.

A distant voice echoed through the silence in German, "Und jetzt bist du fast bereit, die wahre Bedeutung zu verstehen."

Maren, is that you? I don’t know why I called out to you. How are you even speaking? I didn’t come here with you! Oliver screamed.

Bist du bereit oder bist du es nicht, die wahre Bedeutung zu verstehen?

Maren please, help me! I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t speak German, Oliver continued, in panic.

Mein liebling, du bist fast bereit. Deine zeit ist gekommen.

How do I get out of here? I’m trying to do what you taught me, but it’s not working! Oliver pleaded.

Das ist alles, was ich dir sagen kann. Du bist jetzt frei.

With that last statement, Maren’s voice faded away and Oliver was back to the silence.

A silence that seemed to have a texture to it. An interconnected lattice of gaps between words. Gaps between syllables between words. The silence itself was an imperceptible and continuous hum. Of voices? That’s impossible.

Battluuuu, I’m still here! the sing-song voice he heard before Maren spoke returned.

Wait, how did you know that’s my… Oliver stopped himself from asking the question and tried to reason through the fog of confusion and terror he was fighting. Of course the voice knew. The voice was just a figment of his imagination. Right? It had to be. What else could it be? That’s how it knew. Because the voice was inside his head. It was him. Except that if this was his imagination, why was he trapped?

Goddamnit. 

Where am I? Oliver howled.

Batlooo, you are exactly where you need to be, you already are. You are everything you need to be, you already are. You are exactly how you ought to be, you already are, the voice echoed through the darkness.

What? I don’t even know what that means. Why can’t I see you? Oliver asked.

Well, of course you can. You’re just choosing not to right now, you silly goose, the voice said.

Choosing? I want to see you. It’s crazy just hearing your voice coming from everywhere all at once and not being able to see you, Oliver went on.

Ah, Battolo, maybe that’s what it is. You are too attached to the thought of seeing me. Let go, and I will appear to you, the voice instructed.

Oliver gave up. This is obviously a dream and I just need to wait for it to end somehow, he said aloud.

The voice replied: 

"Dream dreamy dreams of a different hue

That take you to lands that nobody knew

That take you to lands of uncertain terrain

Twenty-four dreams in the magic timechain"

Can you please stop? Please stop saying things that don’t make sense! It’s bad enough I don’t know how to get out of here, and now I have to listen to … to this nonsense … Oliver exclaimed.

Oh yes, Battloo, that’s exactly how you will find the answer. I’m so glad you’re getting there. The voice then took on a slightly pensive tone, But I fear today is not that day. I was so happy to see you again after all this time, but it appears you’ll be ready the next time we see each other.

This confused Oliver even further. All this time? What are you talking about? I never saw you – you’re just a made-up character, he said.

The voice seemed to brighten a little bit, The good news is, the next time won’t be too far away! Okay, Battloooo, you are ready to leave now. And with those last few words, the voice started fading out.

Oliver yelled out as he realized the voice was leaving, Wait, you really are the Nose Smiter, right?

STAGE 1: DISBELIEF

Chapter 1. violin

730279

Oliver Battolo stared at the stage in front of him with a numb, blank expression. He was having trouble focusing on the words the people were saying.

His mother, sitting next to him in the front row, leaned over and whispered to him, I can’t believe he’s speaking next. Your dad never liked him. She looked at the next speaker getting up on stage with a mild expression of disgust on her face. 

Oliver shrugged, still in a daze. The room was occasionally spinning in front of his eyes.

A short, overweight, middle-aged man in a poorly fitted dark suit got up on the stage, adjusted the mic, and looked down at a piece of paper in front of him. He cleared his throat gently and started speaking: I first met Nate over twenty years ago on my first day at work at WilcoxRe. I remember being very nervous, as I had made the switch from banking to reinsurance and wasn’t sure what to expect. Nate was …

Oliver’s thoughts wandered off. How could this be real? This had to be a dream. He had just spoken to Dad three weeks ago, and they were supposed to be grilling out today. Now here he was listening to a clumsy eulogy from a guy his dad didn’t particularly care for. Impossible, this had to be a dream. A nightmare. 

Oliver … Oliver … Oliver! his mom whispered with increasing urgency loudly in his ear.

Oliver snapped out of his thoughts, still dazed, and reluctantly turned to her.

Are you sure you don’t want to speak today? she asked.

No Mom, I told you I can’t. There’s no way I can get up on stage and find the words. I don’t think I can even get up from this seat right now, Oliver said, blankly. 

Please sweetheart, it would have meant a lot to your dad, his mom persisted.

Mom, please, I’m begging you, I can’t do it. Please stop asking me, Oliver replied, with as much irritation as he could muster in his dazed state and finally folded his face in his hands.

After the service, Oliver went outside to obligingly shake hands with the departing guests. A familiar face, a lady slightly older than his mom, came up to him and gently brushed the side of his face and ear with the palm of her hand.

Oh, hi Maren, Oliver said to her. I’m sorry I couldn’t speak to you earlier. Things are a bit mad right now.

Don’t worry about it, Maren said, in a lilting Bavarian accent. I’m about to leave but wanted to let you know that we need to meet soon. There’s something your dad wanted me to give you.

What is it? Oliver asked.

Now’s not the right time. Why don’t you come to my studio on one of the evenings this week? Maren replied.

How about tomorrow at 6 p.m.? Oliver asked, not fully sure where Maren was going with this.

That works. 39 Carmine, between Bleecker and Bedford, remember? she said to him.

Sure, I’ll be there. Oliver waved to Maren and turned to the next guest waiting to meet him.

After the last guest had departed, Oliver’s mom walked over to him and asked, What did Maren have to say?

Nothing much Mom, just the usual condolences, Oliver said, avoiding the truer details of the conversation.

Well at least I know your father wasn’t sleeping with her, she said haughtily.

Mom, how can you say something like that today? Aren’t you even a little sad? Oliver asked, as a flicker of anger tried to fight its way through the emotional exhaustion he was feeling.

I’m sorry sweetheart; I know, he was a good father to you. But I had to close my heart to him after everything else that happened. Oliver’s mom replied, as she appeared to realize her previous comment might have been tactless.

Oliver wasn’t appeased by his mom’s last comment. You weren’t able to prove a thing in the twenty years you were married. Please, Mom, I just can’t have this conversation right now! he said, coldly.

Still dazed, but now angry, Oliver walked off towards the parking lot. When his parents told him about their divorce six years ago, in his freshman undergrad year, it felt like the worst thing that could have happened to him. He had trouble focusing for the next two semesters, and his grades suffered as a result. It took him another two whole semesters after that, with lots of help from his dad, before he was back on track. But this … this was incomprehensible. It had been over a week, and he was still too stunned to even cry once. None of this made sense. How could it?

image-placeholder

730459

Oliver turned off the computer at his work desk with a sigh, picked up his satchel, and started walking towards the office exit.

Leaving early today? Oliver’s co-worker, Hope asked. She was sitting on a bean bag near the office exit, with a beaten-up MacBook Pro on her lap.

Hey Hope, yeah. Heading out to meet a friend in the Village, Oliver replied.

Hope looked at Oliver kindly, I know what you’re going through. You know you don’t have to come in for awhile, right? Work gives us two weeks of bereavement time.

I know, but I need to take my mind off my dad’s passing. Being here is a welcome distraction, to be honest, Oliver replied.

You’re going to have to process it at some point … Hope started saying, and then caught herself. Her face flamed red. I’m so sorry, that wasn’t for me to say.

It’s all good, I know what you’re saying. Right now, this feels easier, Oliver said and tried his best to smile at Hope. He appreciated her empathy.

Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow then, Hope said.

Bye Hope, Oliver replied, and walked past her and into the elevator. After a short elevator ride, he walked out onto Mercer Street, in the bustling, but chilly SoHo spring afternoon, and set off on the ten-block walk to 39 Carmine. He arrived at the address and looked for Maren’s studio on the buzzer board outside.

Maren Dehnert, Spiritual Healer – 4C

Maren buzzed him in, and he made his way to the fourth floor walkup. She lived in a sprawling loft, which she had partitioned into her healing studio as she referred to it, and her living space. The healing studio looked like everything he expected a healing studio to look like – Buddha statues and fountains, Native American prints, Eastern European trinkets, and general new age kitsch. There was soft violin music playing in the background, although it wasn’t a genre he recognized. Perhaps some sort of Peruvian folk music, if he had to guess.

Maren came in to greet him. Oliver, I’m so glad you’re here, she said with a warm smile and invited him into the studio to take a seat on a comfortable looking armchair. She sat on another armchair across from him.

Maren was a tall, attractive lady who looked like she was forty, when in reality she was in her mid-fifties. She had been a family friend for a long time, and perhaps closer to his dad than to his mom.

Oliver remembered hearing from his parents about her meticulous diet, skincare routine, and lifestyle which allowed her to peel back the years. He first visited the studio when he was thirteen or so – his parents had brought him here because he was having trouble concentrating at school, and they thought she could help. He didn’t quite remember what transpired there, or how effective the spiritual healing had been, but school seemed to have become easier for him over the next few years. Maybe it had worked. Who knows?

Maren and Oliver sat across from each other in silence for a few minutes. 

Would you like some water? she finally asked him.

Sure, I can get it. That’s the dispenser over there, right? Oliver stood up.

Ah, ah, ah … Maren raised her hand and stopped him. Let me get it for you.

She walked over to the kitchen counter and removed the lid from a large glass jar and poured water into a glass.

This is special, blessed water. It’s good for you to have it in these times, she said, somewhat mysteriously as she handed him the glass.

Oliver took a sip. Other than being a few degrees warmer than tap water, he couldn’t really tell the difference.

So, what did you want to tell me about Dad?

Oliver, you are so impatient. We’ll get there. First …

Ok Maren, I’ll be back later tonight … a voice rang out of the hallway, interrupting Maren. A young woman in her twenties came in through the studio door from the living section. Oh, sorry, she said when she saw Oliver sitting there. I didn’t realize he was here already. Hi, I’m Daniela, she extended a hand out to him to introduce herself.

Oliver, this is my student, Daniela. She’s just heading out to her yoga lesson, Maren said. After a few minutes of small talk, she and Daniela walked towards the front door.

Okay, see you later hon. She kissed Daniela on the lips just before closing the door.

Oliver was squirming somewhat uncomfortably in his chair when Maren came back.

So Daniela is your ..? He was unsure of how to frame his question.

Oh, she’s just a friend who’s staying with me for the next few months. I’m training her, Maren replied, with a dismissive hand gesture.

Ah. Oliver was not entirely convinced.

Okay, so tell me, have you cried yet? Maren asked him, pointedly.

I’m sorry? Oliver was surprised by the odd question.

You know, you need to feel it. Everything that’s happened. You need to feel it and let it go. Maren widened her eyes and gestured animatedly. 

I don’t … Oliver said, unsure of where the conversation was headed.

Sweetie, you’re blocking it out. You need to feel angry; you need to feel sad; you need to feel … how do you say it in English, how much injustice the universe has.

Oliver was a little taken aback with the directness. Everyone else had beat about the bush sheepishly while offering condolences. He wished he could say, I accept your apology to all the people who said, I’m so sorry. Instead he’d just nodded and moved on to the next embarrassed condolence giver. Maren’s blunt approach was almost refreshing. 

Maren, I think I’m still in shock. I’m not sure my brain has processed what’s happened, Oliver replied, finally.

Okay, maybe we’ll get you there. Maren nodded her head assuredly.

They fell silent for a few moments. 

What is this music playing? Oliver asked. 

It’s Russian folk music. They use a special kind of violin that makes it seem like it’s almost magic. In fact, it really is magic. One day I will tell you the story about how the Russian folk people saved my life when I was a girl, Maren said.

Wait, what? Oliver asked, surprised again.

Oh yes, I was very, very sick and the doctors said it was too late. But the Russian folks make me okay. That is for another time. Today we talk about your father, yes? Maren responded.

Oliver was intrigued but was more keen to hear about his father. Yes, so tell me then.

Maren inhaled sharply and said, Oliver, I don’t need to tell you this of course, but your father was a great man. He was expert in mathematics, and expert in computers, yes? You know this of course and he worked at this big company that did insurance and finance and to you he was a good father.

Oliver shrugged. He wasn’t sure why Maren was giving him this preamble about his dad, but he chalked it up to her German-psychic eccentricity. He remembered his dad always being around and supportive when he was growing up, helping out with homework, especially math. He’d taught Oliver how to code when he was nine and later encouraged him to do an undergraduate and master’s degree in computer science. He wasn’t so sure about the big company and important job, though. His dad had worked at WilcoxRe, a mid-tier reinsurance company and he’d never risen past mid-senior level management, as far as Oliver was aware. It had puzzled Oliver, especially once he was in his late teens, that his dad, who had seemed so passionate about these subjects, would end up at a boring reinsurance company.

Maren continued, He also did things I don’t fully understand, and he didn’t explain them to me. A few months ago, he told me this.

What kind of things? Oliver asked, now intrigued.

Oh, he didn’t tell me, and out of respect, I didn’t push it. He did say a day like this may come and then I would have to teach you something, Maren said, grimly.

Okay, I’m lost. This isn’t making any sense, Oliver said, confused.

Maren smiled. Why don’t you have some more water. Then sit back and close your eyes.

Maren, what are you talking about? Oliver took another sip of water. You’re speaking in riddles and now are you trying to do some spiritual healing stuff on me? Oliver's voice got louder and higher pitched as he said this. 

Maren seemed to sense the frustration in Oliver’s tone and switched to a soothing voice. Hon, it’s going to be okay. Your dad obviously planned for things in advance and wanted you to understand what he did. I’m going to teach you a method he asked me to teach you in case he was not around anymore.

Wait, he knew he was going to die? Oliver asked, now perplexed.

Everyone knows they’re going to die at some point, no? Knowing about our mortality is what makes us human. Maren gave him a soft smile.

Maren, please. You’re making this very difficult for me … Oliver was getting close to tears at this point.

Sweetie, just listen to me for a little bit. In all my years doing these healings, I discovered a method that I call ‘time projection.’ I can guide people to go back to past events in their minds and see and hear and feel everything that happened in those events, as if it were happening just now, Maren continued in her soothing voice.

Wait, like time travel? The conversation was beginning to sound absurd to Oliver now.

"In a way, yes. But it is time travel inside your mind. It is like a deep meditation, and you can go anywhere you want in the past. Usually, people go to the places where they need to go, when they need to learn something or resolve something," Maren replied.

So I can go back into the past and talk to my dad? Oliver found Maren’s words hard to believe.

Oh no, only the special masters of this method can interact in the past. For most people, they go to be observers. They see what they need to see or need to remember and that helps them find resolution, find peace, whatever it is they need to find, Maren said.

And Dad knew how to do this? Oliver asked pointedly, struggling to accept the implications of what was being said.

Yes, I taught him many years ago.

So why didn’t you go back into the past to learn about what he wanted to tell me? Find out about all the strange things you think he was involved in? Oliver was still wrestling with this seemingly bizarre proposition Maren had put in front of him.

It is not possible for most people to go into someone else’s past. Only the rare, special masters can, as I said. And I don’t know if there are strange things about your father. Just things I don’t fully understand, she responded, mysteriously.

Oliver had heard enough and exhaled sharply in annoyance. He stood up promptly, and his calves hit the base of the armchair and sent it sliding a few inches along the floor behind him. Maren, this is ridiculous. I’m sorry, I know you help people a lot with what you do, but if you expect me to believe this crazy stuff about time travel, I don’t think I’m in a mental state right now to take this joke. I’ve got to go. He grabbed his satchel off the floor and stormed out of the front door, to the sound of Maren sighing behind him.

image-placeholder

730601

Oliver had mulled over the events of the previous day and realized his curiosity was piqued after the conversation with Maren, absurd as it had seemed at the time. He had called her up a short while earlier and planned to meet her back at the studio after work that day. He was on his way back there now, retracing his steps through the SoHo afternoon foot traffic.

Oliver climbed up the four flights of stairs at 39 Carmine. Maren was waiting for him at the door.

Sorry again about yesterday. I guess I’m not quite myself these days, Oliver said, as he walked up to the studio door.

Of course, hon. I’m happy you called me today and wanted to come back. Maren greeted him with a warm smile, then led him in and to his seat in the same armchair as the previous day.

Is Daniela here? Oliver looked around for Maren’s friend.

No, she is gone for a massage and then maybe dinner with her boyfriend, Maren replied.

Her boy … wait, but yesterday I saw … Oliver replied, a little confused.

Maren laughed. You have a lot of questions, but today I help you find some other answers, yes?

The same violin music from the previous day was playing in the background as Oliver got comfortable in his seat. Maren brought him a glass of water. Blessed water. It’s good for you, she said as she handed him a glass. 

Oliver shrugged and took a couple of large sips. So, what about this projection thing you were telling me about yesterday?

I think the best way would be for you to experience it instead of me telling you about it, Maren responded.

She asked Oliver to sit back comfortably in his seat and close his eyes. First, we need to see which symbol means truth for you. Hold up both your hands, palms facing upwards in front of you. Good, now don’t keep your muscles too tight in your arms and listen to me and repeat the words that I say in your mind: ‘Higher consciousness, show me a sign for the truth.’

Suddenly, Oliver felt both his arms swivel slowly, but involuntarily to his sides. His shoulders were slightly outstretched, his elbows pressed against each side of his waist, and palms still facing upwards. 

Maren, what’s happening? My arms are moving on their own! Oliver’s heart started beating faster and his shoulders trembled at the involuntary arm movement.

It’s okay hon. Your unconscious mind is moving them. We call it autokinesis. Just let go and follow me. You’re safe. Maren soothed him by putting her hand softly on his trembling shoulder.

Did you drug the water? This is so weird, Oliver asked, unable to relax.

I told you, the water is blessed. There are no drugs. Relax, everything is okay, Maren said.

Oliver took a deep breath, and sat back a little deeper in his seat, arms still in the same outstretched, sideways position.

Higher consciousness, Maren continued, show me a sign for the truth.

Oliver’s left arm suddenly felt a lot heavier than his right one, and it moved downward slowly, as if it were being pulled down by an invisible weight.

We’ll try it again to be sure, Maren said, as Oliver’s left arm came back to its original sideways position. She repeated the command again, and Oliver’s left arm duly followed the same way as the last time. Now we try the opposite question. Higher consciousness, show me a sign for what is false.

This time, Oliver’s right arm felt much heavier than the left, and it performed the mirror image downward motion. They tried once again, with the same result.

"Good, so now we know from your unconscious mind how it likes to symbolize true and false. If it believes … actually, if it knows something is the truth, it shows on the left side, and if it knows something is false, it shows on the right side. Ok, now we are ready to go a little deeper. Say this in your mind: ‘Do I have permission to go back to what Dad has to show me today?’"

Oliver’s left arm fell downwards almost immediately.

Look at that, Oliver! You are so ready for this today, Maren encouraged. Okay, so now that we know you can go there, imagine a peaceful, calm place in your mind. When you are there, let me know what you see.

After several seconds of silence and wrestling with the darkness behind his shut eyes, Oliver said, I see an occasional flicker or plume of green and purple, intensifying into thicker and thicker plumes.

Wonderful. Go on. What else do you see, Oliver?

The plumes are intertwining now like asymmetric helices and finally clearing, Oliver continued, his voice now becoming a little more relaxed and lower pitched. 

He concentrated a little more, before saying, And now, the helices have fully cleared and opened up into the image of a meadow at night, with long, uncut grass shimmering in the wind, gently reflecting bright golden moonlight. I see short hills in the far distance, but mostly a long vast expanse of meadow, Oliver said, his voice pitch got even lower, and more relaxed. He felt his heart rate slow down and his breathing get softer.

That seems like a beautiful place, Maren said. I think you need to find a direction to go. Ask yourself, which is the right way for you, and let the signs you just learned guide you to the truth. Remember, you can only rely on the signs if you ask the right question, a question that can only be answered with ‘true’ or ‘false.’

Oliver’s left arm dropped when he asked if he should move towards the hills in the distance. He set off, first at a brisk walking pace, then finding that he needed to run to get to the hills faster. A dim light on the closest hill became visible, getting brighter as he was getting closer. Now he was sprinting at a furious pace, and he noticed that accompanying him — at the same pace — was a pack of lions! Oliver was closest to the largest lion in the pack, now flying in the wind with Oliver right behind it. He noticed a small symbol on its muscular back. He got closer and it looked like a tattoo, in black ink.

Is that an old key? he mumbled. 

The lions had now disappeared, and he was now right by the light on the hill. It was an entrance to what seemed like a cave, or maybe a tunnel. Oliver entered, and it was indeed a tunnel — a long, long, long tunnel, with no end in sight. He walked further in, and as before, his pace increased with each step, until this time he was flying through the tunnel. Straight ahead at first, then arcing left, then right, then upwards towards the top of the hill, then suddenly downwards towards the depths of the earth, eventually stabilizing horizontally into a sinusoidal meander at high speed.

Maren, I think I’m trapped in this tunnel. It doesn’t seem like there’s an end to this, Oliver said.

Have you tried looking around you to see if there are places to escape? Maren asked.

Oliver started to look sideways, upwards, and downwards as he was flying. A few seconds later, he saw what appeared to be a door approaching. He was able to slow himself down and land in front of it. 

Should I go in?

Only if it feels right, Maren whispered, softly.

He tried pushing the door, but it didn’t move. He heard gentle music coming from behind it. Oliver then noticed a knob and keyhole on the door.

I think it’s locked, and I don’t have a key, Oliver said.

Did you try turning the handle? Maren asked, still whispering softly.

Oliver turned the knob and pushed at the door. This time it opened into a dark room, but the music got louder. He followed the sound until he arrived at another room, lit with a faint purple light. 

Oliver could almost feel the texture of the light with his fingers – an ethereal, impressionist haze. There was a man playing a violin there. The same song playing in Maren’s studio. The man stopped when he saw Oliver walk into the room. He quietly reached into his pocket, pulled out an old cast iron key, gave it to Oliver, and then returned to playing the violin. The key looked identical to the one he saw tattooed on the lion’s back a little earlier. Oliver stood there for a few moments, waiting to see if anything else would happen. When nothing did, he turned around and walked out of the room. He was now back in the meadow where he had first started. 

It was daytime.

Maren, I don’t understand the point of this. I went through all that just to get this old key and now I’m back to where I began? Oliver was puzzled.

Maybe the key is meant for something else. Look around you to see if there’s something to use it on, Maren continued in her soothing whisper.

Oliver scanned the landscape. He noticed a new structure right behind him. It was a little cottage, with a sandstone roof, ivory walls, and a solid wooden door. The door had a large cast iron lock on it. Instinctively, Oliver took the key in his hand and put it into the lock. It fit perfectly, and the lock snapped open. Oliver pushed the door open and entered a dimly lit room. 

The room was sparsely furnished and looked like it had been stuck in time since the 1950s. There was an armchair in one corner that looked just like his dad’s favorite one in his apartment in Chelsea, and a few feet across was a mahogany table. On the table, there was a transistor radio, and next to it was a boxy cathode ray TV. The radio was playing the same Russian folk violin song. Slow, ponderous, and melancholic. The armchair had a modern TV remote on one of its armrests. Oliver moved closer to inspect it and realized it was, in fact, his dad’s remote. He could recognize it because of the telltale wear and tear around the power and volume buttons. 

Something told him to turn the TV on. He went to the radio to turn it off first. It was an old model, and he couldn’t locate the power button. He finally figured out that he had to turn the volume knob backwards until it clicked into the OFF position. The violin didn’t stop, though. Giving up, Oliver went back to the remote and turned the TV on.

He was met with a few seconds of static, and then the screen flickered on. It was the chiseled, handsome face of his dad, alone in a room, lit by the same purple light he saw earlier, looking directly at him. Oliver, listen to me. There are twenty-four words, and you need to find them.

Dad, Dad, is that you? Oliver fought back tears.

Oliver, listen to me, his father Nate on the TV repeated. There are twenty-four words, and you need to find them.

What words Dad? Tell me. How do I find them? Oliver asked, not understanding what his dad was saying.

This is how. Doing what you’re doing right now. One word at a time, Nate replied.

The TV flickered again and turned off. Oliver pressed the power button frantically, but to no avail. The TV refused to turn back on. Suddenly, the room started dissolving around him, and disappeared. Oliver was back in the meadow again. This time it was pitch dark, with no moon in sight. 

In the silence, Oliver knew. It was violin, wasn’t it? It had to be.

Maren, what do I do now? he asked.

Do you feel like you need to find more answers? she asked him.

Yes, I need many more answers. So many more. But yet, right now, I feel like I know one answer, and I’m satisfied, Oliver replied. He felt an odd sense of resolution after that episode, despite not much of it making sense to him. 

Then you are done for today. Take three deep breaths, releasing slowly. Then, open your eyes, Maren said, no longer whispering.

Oliver did so, and noticed his cheeks and chin soaked with tears. Was I crying?

Yes, continuously for the last few minutes. Maren smiled.

Maren, my dad said something about twenty-four words. And that I need to find one word at a time. Do you know what he meant? 

Maren shook her head, I told you Oliver, your dad was doing things I didn’t understand.

"And I feel like I know with certainty that violin is one of those words," Oliver said.

You can go back and ask yourself the way I showed you, with autokinesis.

Oliver closed his eyes for a few minutes, trying to calm the tumult now inside his mind. Eventually he got to the place with dancing spires of color, which this time gave way to a quiet darkness. Higher consciousness … Oliver heard his own voice echoing inside his head. "Is violin one of the words Dad wanted me to know?"

Oliver’s left hand dropped. He tried the same question a few more times. Same result. He slowly brought himself back to the room and opened his eyes. I believe it is.

Here’s what I don’t fully understand … Oliver started and chuckled softly to himself at the inadvertent understatement. There was almost nothing about what had just happened that he could understand. You said this projection thing can take you back to past memories or events, right?

Maren nodded. 

Well, I’m pretty sure what I just saw was not my memory, and it certainly didn’t seem like it could have been an actual event that happened to anyone else, including my dad. I mean he was in this purple room and speaking to me through an old TV, which was in a 1950s room itself … kinda hard to believe that was a real event. Oliver tried to make sense of what he just saw.

Maren arched her head upwards and closed her eyes, as if in deep thought before replying, It is true that our minds can add some fantasy to memories when they are time projecting. However, it is very rare to go into places or events that did not ever happen. The only few other people I saw this with, they had … I’m not sure the English word for it … ah yes, synesthesia.

Synesthesia? The word rang a bell, but he couldn’t remember what it meant.

Yes, you know when people are able to transpose their senses. Sometimes they are able to taste colors or hear shapes, Maren explained.

Oh yes, I think I’ve heard of that before. Oliver remembered reading about it in a magazine article about psychedelic rock. So wait, you’re saying people with synesthesia are able to make up memories and events that happened when they do time projection?

It is very rare. In twenty or maybe even thirty years I’ve been doing this, I’ve only seen it two, perhaps three times. Do you know if you’re synesthetic? Maren asked.

I’ve never thought about it. I mean sometimes when I listen to music that I really like and close my eyes, I do see shapes and colors dancing, but I thought everyone has that. Oliver wondered how he could have missed something like this about himself.

Yes, that could be a sign of synesthesia. Try to pay attention to your senses in the next few days to see if you notice anything, Maren said.

So what do you think I should do now? There are twenty-three more words I need to find, Oliver asked her.

Come back to me for a few more sessions. I will teach you how to project on your own, Maren replied.

As Oliver gathered his satchel and headed to the door, he paused for just a moment. Maren, are you sure there was nothing in the water you gave me that made me have this experience?

I promise you hon, the blessed water is only to get you started the first few times. Once your mind is ready for this, you can do it by yourself, Maren replied, with a smile.

Oliver shrugged, unconvinced, and made his way to the West 4th station.

image-placeholder

Chapter 2. toddler

731044

O’Connell’s on Spring and Mercer was as Irish a pub as you could find in the city. Well, certainly in SoHo. The front sign had the pub’s name printed neatly in Lansdowne, with a wood-carved four leaf clover right next to it. The inside walls were decorated with an assortment of artifacts intended to evoke an Irish aesthetic for the lazy observer. As a result, there was some Scottish paraphernalia thrown in for good measure – a small bagpipe set and a kilt. There was a mandatory dartboard in the far corner, and two wall-mounted TVs were currently playing a rerun of the midweek Liverpool game. The solid wood bar had the perfect texture and smell, seasoned and aged by years of lager and Guinness spills. 

A man in his early thirties was waiting somewhat impatiently at the bar, until his eyes finally locked with the bartender’s.

Hi Aisling, the man said to a stern-looking lady behind the bar.

Hey there. The usual today? the bartender, Aisling asked.

Yes, the usual Hoegaarden for me, and I’ll get a Zywiec and Lagunitas as well. His tab. The man pointed to a young man sitting at a table right in front of the bar. Aisling looked at the person he pointed to, and her stern expression softened into a smile. She nodded and turned around to get their beers.

Dude, why are you ordering Lagunitas here when you can get it for free at the office? the Hoegaarden asked, as he passed the Zywiec to the tab-holder and the Lagunitas to the other colleague.

The Lagunitas brushed off the comment and took a ponderous sip. Did you guys know that Chris Anderson is going to be at the office on Monday? Tomer and a couple of others are going to be meeting with him. I think he might be interested in our next round.

That’s awesome dude. Yeah, I heard about that. Man, Anderson is one of the best speakers on Web3 out there. The guy really gets it, and he explains it so well. Have you seen the tweet he keeps repeating? ‘Read. Write. Own.’ So simple, yet so profound, the Hoegaarden gushed, almost devoutly.

Totally, he’s probably the best in the business. He always keeps it to the point, and focused on the tech itself, and about how Web3 empowers end users. The Lagunitas seemed equally enthused by the prospect of the upcoming Anderson visit.

They both prattled on for a few minutes, until the Hoegaarden eventually noticed that the Zywiec had been quiet all this while. Hey man, how are you doing? he asked.

The Zywiec had only paid attention to parts of the conversation, as his thoughts had been wandering. He was looking at a large, framed painting of a cherub-like little boy hanging behind the bar which he had glanced at before in passing, but never really paid attention to until now. The boy was standing in a garden next to an apple tree, wearing an intricate floral wreath on his head. It was well painted, done in Renaissance style, and evoked a feeling of primal innocence and unbridled hope. It was also completely incongruous with the otherwise rowdy, pub-like surroundings. 

The Zywiec had been aware his colleagues were talking about Web3, the third iteration or paradigm of the internet as some of its proponents like to portray it. A paradigm built on top of cryptocurrencies and blockchain technology, which purportedly moved data control and centralization out of the hands of a handful of large technology platforms such as Amazon, Google, and Facebook, and put it in the hands of end users by using public infrastructure like blockchains.

I’m okay dude, the Zywiec replied with a sigh and brought his attention back to his colleagues. Not sure it was the best idea for me to get a drink this soon after my dad’s passing, though. I thought it would take my mind off things, but I don’t think the beer is helping. Sorry, didn’t mean to be a party pooper.

Of course, we totally get it. Do what you got to, the Lagunitas reached over the table to pat him over the shoulder.

The Zywiec was now slightly embarrassed that he’d made the conversation about himself and quickly course-corrected, I’ll finish this and head out. But yeah, will be interesting to see how the conversation with Anderson goes. What are we trying to raise? 100-150 mil?

Something like that, yeah the Hoegaarden shrugged.

I heard the next crypto fund those guys are raising is going to be 3-4 billion, so yeah 150 is probably chump change for them. The Zywiec then moved on to a question he knew was going to be prickly, Hey, but I wanted to see what you guys thought of this though – a lot of the permissioned blockchain stuff we’re building, we’re just slapping an API wrapper around it and managing the credentials for users, right? So how exactly is that user ownership of data?

The Hoegaarden and Lagunitas looked at each other with what the Zywiec could only interpret as a "here we go again" look.

Yeah man, it’s a crawl walk run, right? The Hoegaarden seemed to be picking his words carefully. "Not everyone is ready to run their own node on the network, and some of them need to be eased in with something they’re used to, like a managed service. Once they get a feel for it, they’ll be ready to become a network participant