The Short Stories of Jim Stallings

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"A Primitive Replica"
A selection from Tales for Commuters & Other Time Travelers

.....by Jim Stallings

Her life was a primitive replica of all that was.

She was being modest of course. She struck a pose in front of the enormous mirror and blew a kiss at herself. She imagined a handsome man in a dinner jacket standing behind her, his thigh against....

"Come with me, darling, come with me away to the shadows," he whispered in a phony Transylvanian lisp.

She turned and embraced him and ran her tongue over his glistening canines.

Ahhhwoooo! she heard him howl as he sprang away into the night trees.

"My name is..." she tried to announce to the starry night sky.

The huge mirror divided a grass-covered rectangle about the size of a tennis court. The court was itself on a raised stone ledge a foot above the open ground. Encircling it was a thick forest of fir trees. The night sky was speckled with bright stars and brushed with thin wisps of cloud. The air was warm like a summer night.

She tried the old speaking ritual again. She addressed the night:

"My name is..."

She waited in the immense quiet of the forest.

"I have no name," she began to answer, speaking spontaneously, "I have come as a witness. But what to witness, I do not know. I do remember what happens, though...They come from the woods from all directions..."

The air moved slightly and the night swelled with the whispering of pine needles. She sat on the courtyard wall and waited. After a time she heard a band playing marching music. It approached through the woods and she thought she could see the glint of starlight off the brass instruments. Then it faded just as it seemed about to break through the thick wall of forest.

Moments later an old man in a business suit limped into the courtyard, nodded and sank down with a humph!

"Hello!...uh, why are you here?" she tried.

"I ain't saying nothin', I don't have to, that ain't part of the deal. You don't have to talk."

He clamped shut his unshaven jaw and said not another word, although he grumbled and fretted with his thick boots.

She wondered if she might sneak a peak in the mirror while waiting. In this heavy moisture a girl's hair could turn to limp spaghetti. When she stood up, the old man glared at her, and she decided to stretch and sit down again.

There was a light in the forest. It was coming closer. It looked like a lantern swinging to and fro. Maybe it was for her, she thought, maybe it was...what? She could almost remember.

The light came into the courtyard and hovered over the mirror. It was completely disembodied and looked about the size of two pulsing fists. What appeared first as an intense white light was now fanning open into a peacock of colored light beams. When the light struck her face she recoiled. She was afraid, but her eyes drank in as much as she could bear. Inside each colored beam was a kaleidoscope of beckoning faces down forking paths.

She felt herself pulled down a golden path of light. Through the first portal was a gathering of men and women staring up at her. As she stepped through the passage she turned and saw the old man walking through a violet-hued door. He was smiling now, as hands beckoned from the light.

Her attention returned to the men and women bathed in a golden halo. They were very pleasant looking, very intelligent and sensitive, and they were casually dressed in loose clothing.

She was seated at a low table with them in a soft, comforting light. They moved their mouths and gestured but she couldn't hear a word.

An athletic, young man was drawing patterns in the air with his fingertip. A map formed before her eyes, as his finger deftly sculpted the contours of mountains and rivers. She did not know this land before her.

One amazing fact was intuitively clear to her. They were all, including herself, going into that country. The map spun away and expanded into a background that was the very mountains and valleys.

Their little band now stood on a hilltop overlooking a turbulent river that raced by an village of thatched huts.

In an instant they flashed from the hilltop to the wooden bridge that crossed from the woods into the village. Darkness engulfed them as they stepped across the loose planking and heard the wild stream beating against the bridge's trembling supports. Holding hands in a line they trooped down the muddy main path through the village.

The man who had drawn the map was acting as leader. He paused at crossroads in the center of the village and wet his finger on his tongue and held it aloft testing the wind. Then he led the way toward the outskirts beyond the last hut.

Down a dirt track they marched until at last they came to a small farmhouse. They huddled around the lone windowpane in the earthen front wall. Inside was a shepard dog sleeping before a low fire in an open hearth. In the reddened shadows to the side were low beds and, again quite suddenly, they were inside the house staring down at a row of blanketed sleepers.

The young guide led her by the arm to the bed next to the wall. Lodged there was a young girl of no more than three years.

She felt an overwhelming love for the sweet little thing. She wanted to touch her, wake her, and kiss her...An indescribable sadness, an aching wave of loss struck her, and she reached out to stroke her glowing cheek.

But the leader blocked her hand and shook his head no.

She turned to face the group and their eyes locked into her own.

She felt their overpowering sympathy and resignation. And then she heard the leader say distinctly, as the others looked on, "This too is your name."

He came to her side and kissed her gently on the lips. She closed her eyes and without a jolt, she was instantly returned to the elevated court, standing again in front of the enormous mirror. The old man had taken a seat again.

After a momentary pause, she struck a pose and kissed the night air with puckered lips. In the black, mirrored forest behind her a light was approaching.

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