INNER CIRCLE

Aligned at the center of the floor was a thin square mat. The man sitting on the mat was skinny, almost painfully so, and his narrow legs were twisted up into a knot. In contrast to the rest of his physique, a flourishing beard spilled down his scrawny chest, streaked here and there with gray or even white.

His eyes were closed.

Somewhere, water slowly plinked, a careful drip at a time.

A collection of thick candles had been positioned around the mat forming a careful circle that ran through the full rainbow of colors. Their dancing flames provided the only light, casting the rest of the chamber into indefinite gloom. Here and there shadowy shapes loomed; to his back was the one definite shape, a large sliding door, mounted solidly into one of the cinder-block walls, made of stolid metal, with a numbered keypad glowing dimly beside it.

This last item suddenly beeped, provoking from the bearded man an almost subliminal flinch. He did not open his eyes. The pad beeped some more, a long quick string, and one of its lights clicked over from red to green.

The door clunked, and then slowly, ponderously, began to slide open. Not on its own power; someone was pushing it: A woman, fairly short, and so she had to lean with most of her weight to keep the door moving, her sneakers squeaking against the concrete of the floor, her purse swinging from the end of its strap. She got the portal just wide enough to squeeze her well-curved body through, and she did so. Once inside, she immediately reversed position, and resumed pushing. The door thudded back into place, and clunked. Green back to red. Plinking water.

The woman straightened up, and blew a wisp of reddish hair away from her eyes, sending back to rejoin the unruly mop which haloed her head. She looked at the man’s rigid back, and grinned, her hands on her impressive hips. A short step away, just visible, there was an outlined square of white paint. she let the purse slide off her arm, onto the floor, into the square. She was also in possession of a long tan coat, which she now removed, revealing a dark one-piece garment, a sort of cross between a miniskirt and a pair of denim overalls; a thick strap crossing over each bare shoulder and latching onto a polished metal buckle above her swelling chest. The buckles shimmered in the candlelight as she folded up the coat, placed it with the purse. She stripped off the sneakers, and added them to the square, mostly filling it and leaving her feet unadorned.

She paused again, as if expecting some reaction from the man, but he did not move or speak, keeping his back straight, and so she walked towards him, one bare foot in front of the other. Halfway to her destination, she came to a teetering halt, as if walking into a yielding but ultimately invincible wall. Still smiling, even smirking, she smoothly dropped to her hands and knees and resumed her forward motion, crawling now, waggling her barely-covered butt in an exaggerated fashion.

She reached the edge of the candle-circle, and again hit another “wall”. She scratched at the stained concrete with her long fingers for a moment, then began to prowl along the perimeter of the circle, passing by the candles one by one. Red.. orange.. yellow...

And then she was halfway around, in front of the man, and there she paused yet again

Still no reaction, and she finally spoke, her voice smoky and deep for a woman, especially one of her size.

“I’m the very first, aren’t I?”

After a last long moment, he finally opened his eyes. They were mild and brown.

“The first?”

She resumed crawling, following the circle.

“Out of all the bimbos who read that thing of yours. How many of them have their been now?”

He stared straight ahead.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s only that one copy, right?”

“Yes.”

“Mmm. Well. Still. Lots, I imagine, since whenever you first sent it out. And out of all of them, I’m the first to actually read it.”

No reply.

“The others, they popped open those grubby little cardboard covers, read all the way through, and the.. the subliminals, or whatever the hell you used, did their work, reformatting their brains, and now, they walk around on the end of your strings, little puppets, with your thoughts in their heads, your opinions spewing out of their mouths. But then, why am I telling you this? You know it. You’re having this conversation with yourself.”

“No I am not.”

She considered, still smiling.

“Mm. Yes. I suppose you’re right. If you were talking to yourself, you’d both just sit there in stoic silence, wouldn’t you? So there are still parts of me inside my head.”

“More than parts.”

“Anyway. They go on with their lives, usually, more or less, except they send you..” She broke off for a moment. “Oh. Right. Forgot.” She crawled on around the circle until she was in front of him again. Her garment had a single pouch-like pocket sewed into its belly, and she slithered her fingers inside, produced a stack of money, neatly wrapped up in a band. She placed it on the ground, exactly between the two relevant candles, and slowly, meticulously, slid it towards him, breaking through the circle, using only a forefinger.

He didn’t look at it, continued to glower at the darkness, and once it was in position, she resumed crawling. She made another whole circuit before she resumed speaking.

“They send you whatever money they can afford every month to that post office box. And I suppose they’re happy enough. Your book makes them smarter, more passionate and creative, braver and brighter and shinier and all that crap.” She rolled her dark eyes. “ ‘Crap’. Hell. Damn. Nuts. Shucky-darn. You know, you’re really no fun at all. My brain won’t even swear properly anymore. But none of those spazzes actually...

really... read it. None of them paid attention. Until me, of course.”

His sour look intensified. She timed her words to the sway of her body as she crawled and crawled.

“It’s aaallll there. Your real home, or office, or hovel, whatever the hell you call this place. 42 Morton Drive. Where to park my car. The code for the keypad. 6-2-3-3-4-3-6-8-7-5-2-8-3-4-4-7-5. O-B-E-D-I-E-N-T-S-L-A-V-E-G-I-R-L.”

“You just.. figured it out.”

“Oh no. After I read the book, and passed it on to that ditz Rosalind who lives down the hall in Unit 23.. it’s an apartment building, over on the Eastside.. I had to lay awake at night for almost a week, had to turn it over and over in my head, until finally it all.. fell.. into.. place. But then.. the door slid open, and I stepped into the final ring, and it was clear. Who my master was, what he wanted. what he liked.” She shrugged a shoulder. “I tossed the jewelry, scrubbed off most of the makeup, went right out and bought this thing I’m wearing. Love how you managed to come up with something slutty and disgustingly wholesome all at once. And then I came here.”

He said nothing.

“So, what? I’m wrong? you don’t want me here? Then send me away. I’ll go without another word. I’ll drive back over to the Eastside, back to my life and be all smart and passionate and creative, braver and brighter and shinier. I’ll do anything you say, obey your every command from now until the day I die. Or.. what? You’ll be noble? Won’t give me any orders at all? Then I’ll just keep crawling around your circle, around and around on my hands and knees like a.. female dog.. until I collapse from exhaustion or thirst or whatever, and lay here, twitching my arms and legs while-”

“What were you like? Before.”

“Oh, you already know the answer to that, Mr. Master. I was a total female dog. By your standards, anyway. I did bad things. I sinned. I even-”

“Please stop talking.”

Her jaws clicked shut, and she crawled and crawled.

He stared at the darkness, waited for her to make two full circuits before he finally spoke.

“For all your.. cleverness.. did you wonder why I wrote my.. work, wrote only a single copy and then stuck it in a bottle and cast it out onto the sea? It was not..” He lifted his hands and curled his gnarled fingers. “Suppose I were to tell you... There is a room, right now, not all that far away, that is in many ways the very opposite of this one. It is clean and brightly lit. The floor is tiled and carpeted. There is a large shiny mirror which fills one wall, putting everything on display. On other hand, there are similarities. I mostly just sit here in my circle. And nothing much happens in that room. Much of the time... there is nobody there.”

He dropped his hands back to their previous position.

“But during those moments when something does happen.. when someone is there.. the events are terrible.”

He sagged just a little.

“I can’t stop that room from being there. And all the rest, that I was shown by.. I can’t stop the even worse things out there churning in the darkness..

But I can.. save some women.. I can make them.. bright and shiny enough to resist. Not enough of them. Just the one copy, takes all that I have. But as long as I sit here in my circle, and my one crumbling bit of cardboard and paper gets passed from hand to hand..” He sighed. “If I do let you stay.. Miss.. Ah. Very well. You can answer my questions, at least. What is your name?”

“Cynthia Sinclair.”

“Miss Sinclair. My name is Witherspoon. If it matters. Yes, you being here would make things easier. If only physically. Logistically. But at the same time.. making things easier, having things happen here... Opens the circle. Dilutes the effect. Would the end result be..” He trailed off. “Or.. maybe there is a way..” For the first time, he actually shifted his gaze and looked at her, watched her make her way around the edge of the circle. When she again reached the position in front of him..

“Stop.”

She stopped.

“Look at the candle, Miss Sinclair. Look at the flame..”

She wiggled her body around, still following the same rhythm, following the dripping water. She was crouched in front of the candle in question, which was icy blue, her butt pushing its way into the air behind her, still swaying back and forth.

“Look deep into the flame, Miss Sinclair. Look deep into the circle.”

The swaying became slower, slower still, as her eyes dilated further and further.

“Touch the circle.”

She reached out, passed her fingers through the flame, back and forth, back and forth.

“And now.. and so.. and thus.. from this point forward.. whether you are in this room or not, whether you are awake or asleep.. the circle is part of you. You are part of the circle.”

He resumed staring at the darkness.

“Enter the circle.”

She crawled over the candle, into the circle.

She crouched before him.

“I can talk again.”

“Of course.”

“So what happens now, Mister Witherspoon?”

His stomach rumbled.

“Oh.. I guess you go make me a sandwich.”

She smirked.

“Yes, Mister Witherspoon.”

She rose to her feet and sauntered off to the kitchen, where the faucet was dripping.