With each passing century, I find myself growing more restless, craving wars or disasters or some heinous turmoil that will require my intervention. I am not proud of this, but I attribute this minor infraction to escalating boredom.
How long has it been since I picked up paint and brush or settled in my chair, this invention or that demanding escape from the recesses of my mind, a ream of paper spread just so on the tabletop before me? In the beginning, I grew annoyed when called away from the canvas, content to while away the night, immortalizing the creatures of the Hollow Earth in precise detail and blazing color. This is something I miss, yet the motivation eludes me, perhaps because I can no longer share it with the world.
I am aware that Socrates suspects that it is I responsible for his recent bouts of forgetfulness. I am not. Perhaps a compromised bottle of blood from Torok Laboratories is to blame. Indeed, a miniscule droplet from a donor vaccinated with the herb vernicadis might very well explain the dear boy’s malady. But would it be a significant enough quantity to alter Socrates’s immortal state? Uncertain, I decided the ramifications might still prove disastrous and, under a preponderance of caution, I disposed of every bottle allocated the same lot number, straight away, and clandestinely alerted Torok Labs so as not to alarm the others.
Seldom do we have visitors here, and I find it difficult to distance myself from the girl, the scent of the living still emanating from her porcelain skin and her long, lustrous hair, evoking memories of maidens, their cheeks aglow with passion and the night’s promise. She is looking at me now, her eyes betraying curiosity and a willingness to succeed. I hope I don’t disappoint.
“Do not be intimidated,” I begin. “Teleportation, at its essence, is merely emitting one’s psychic field while commanding the molecules to separate, thus allowing movement through solid objects.”
I don’t find her blank expression the least bit encouraging. I tell her as much and her modulating pupils enlarge, all the while sporadically flashing a brilliant orange. She is expressing her anger, which is understandable, and I don’t take it to heart. Some emotion is better than no emotion at all, I always say.
“Dear girl, think of yourself as nothing but imperceptible molecules and breach that tree behind us.” I ignore her slack-jaw expression, but I am already losing my patience.
“You can’t be serious,” she says, stuffing a strand of fragrant hair behind one ear.
“You will try. You will fail. And then you shall try again. Now, give it a go.”
I watch from behind as her hands ball into fists, her shoulders shake, and I can only imagine her constipated expression. Then she smacks face-first into the unyielding oak. A sweet, metallic scent fills the air and I know she has broken her nose, but I resist the urge to lap the blood spilling from her nostrils.
I spin in circles, debating a more forgiving object but find none. “Given your valiant attempt, we shall set this aside for a future date and return to the palace.”
She shakes her head, and I know she is thinking that the sooner she masters that which we expect of her, the sooner she can leave us behind and return home. The silly imp. We shall always remain nearby, whispers beyond the mist. “I’ll try again,” she says.
I flick my hand and tell her to have at it.
Her body trembles, a purple haze radiating all around her. A loud whack echoes throughout the forest on her second attempt. This time the impact propels her backward, and the deep laceration across her forehead resembles pulverized meat. I watch her blood congeal over the wound, and I think it is only upon canvas that one can truly appreciate a blood red.
“Do you understand the concept of quantum frequency?” I ask, following an exaggerated sigh. Judging from her knitted brows, I think she does not. “Consider it merely mind over matter.” Again, I receive the type of acknowledgement one might expect from the most simplistic of species. “Perhaps permeating the mighty oak was a bit unrealistic,” I say, instead of the disparaging remark on the tip of my tongue. I clasp her hand and zoom the two of us inches above the ground for one hundred yards. We come to rest just outside the wooden structure I constructed centuries before, a serene place I would often visit in the past, whether to paint, draw, or further my inventions.
“The objective is to materialize on the other side,” I say with a nod toward the building. “Simply free your mind and focus on what lies beyond the structure.”
Her thoughts, though easily transcribed, lack the proper direction. I implant a suggestion and I watch, with great pride, mind you, as she concentrates on a rotted section near the foundation. She believes her bones are nothing more than pliable putty—her method, not mine—and moments after she presses both palms against the oak planks, she vanishes and then reappears on the opposite side. I deny an urge to dance a jig amid the wildflowers embracing my feet. And I so want to play the rogue—to take her in my arms and kiss her, but I bow before her instead.