(part 4)
Blair was in bed, but he wasn't asleep. He wasn't even trying to sleep. Instead, he was sitting up, lamp on, notebook resting on his knees, pen in his hand. But he hadn't written anything in ten minutes. He was thinking over their conversation of this evening, returning to what seemed to be the most stunning thing of all.
Jim wants me to publish my dissertation. He wants me to. Not because of guilt brought on by That Nightmare, but because it would help other people, other Sentinels. God, how could I be so selfish? Because, when it came down to it, helping other Sentinels with his dissertation had always been a faint possibility on the horizon, never really considered. Yes, he'd wanted to help, face to face, up close, first with Jim, then with Alex, but... Let's face it, when you started off, all you wanted was your degree and to prove yourself right in the face of your peers.
Oh, yes, the thrill of finding a walking, talking legend, that was there too. My hero, the embodiment of the perfect warrior. A dream come true. What Jim had become, more than a dream, his best friend, his partner, his Sentinel, that was something he didn't want to let go, not at all.
Yes, too, there had always been, and always would be, the sheer intellectual attraction of it all, propounding theories, discarding ideas, solving problems. Blair knew that Sentinels were his life's work, that Jim was his life's work. There would always be more to discover, more to know. Whether or not he published, so long as he was with Jim, there would always be challenging vistas before him, the uncharted territories that were waiting to be mapped. Publishing seemed trivial compared with that, an afterthought.
If publishing took him away from Jim, if he could no longer work with him if he finished the diss, then, forget it. Don't finish. Or, at least, put off the evil day for as long as possible. Change topics, if that would help. Because it was no longer about his degree, his reputation, it was about being with Jim. But I don't know if I would really have the guts to declare myself a fraud. Jim had thought so; or Jim's subconscious did.
Can I really live up to that kind of trust? Or was Jim, really, consciously, capable of that kind of trust? Blair remembered what happened with Alex all too clearly. It was still fresh in his mind. The bruises were still on his body, on his soul. But Jim is trying, he's really trying. He's giving you his power of attorney, for God's sake! Jim had held up a mirror to his own soul, and he hadn't liked what he'd seen there at all. Jim was turning over a new leaf, heck, a whole book of new leaves!
Jim wants me to publish my dissertation. To help other Sentinels. Had it really been that bad for Jim? Had he really feared that he was going insane, back then when Blair had thrust himself on this crew-cut, overbearing, hit-first and ask-questions-afterwards modern warrior? Fear-based responses. It wouldn't be the kind of thing that Jim would have let anyone know. Weaknesses were something to be hidden, for Jim, not shared.
How can I publish everything that I know? It's gone so much beyond the scope of something academic. Talk about Participant Observer! Real anthropology -- well, at least since the 1920s -- stressed that the observer needed to be a participant in the culture he was observing, or he'd never manage to observe anything of value. You expect to make friends, indeed, you have to make friends of the people you are observing, or you'll never get anywhere. He was an expert at being friendly. But his friendship with Jim was much, much more than that. There are things I simply can't talk about in the diss. Even though there would be some who would call the research suspect if there was anything less than full disclosure. But I have to protect Jim. Heck, even the American Anthropological Association agrees with that! Do nothing that could harm your subjects. Ethical guidelines, no idea what section, but it's there.
Anthropologically speaking, I guess you'd call this a success. I wanted to explore the Sentinel mythos, and I ended up becoming part of it. A real insider's viewpoint. One that my profession demands that I share. He had been "participating" in the study since the beginning, when he'd saved Jim from the garbage truck. But that wasn't the point at which it happened, not really. Not the point at which he had found himself clearly to be part of the mythos that he was recording. My role was set and inescapable from the moment Incacha passed the way of the Shaman to me.
Blair looked down at his notebook, at what he had been writing.
The Shaman is traditionally someone who serves the tribe, by teaching, guiding and interpreting the signs of the spirits, as well as healing those who are sick. The Guide is someone who serves the Sentinel as distinct from the tribe -- he serves the tribe by enabling the Sentinel to serve the tribe to his best capacity.
It makes more sense that I'm Jim's Guide than that I'm the "Shaman of the Great City" -- because I'm not the Shaman of the Great City. I'm Jim's Shaman, teaching, guiding and interpreting his dreams, not anyone else's. I did what Incacha wanted -- I guided Jim back to his animal spirit, to give him back his senses. But I did it in my way, not his. I'm not the Shaman he thinks I am. I don't think I could be. I'm not Chopec.
He clicked his pen and wrote:
The Chopec do not have the concept of Guide in their world-view. Incacha was the Shaman of the Chopec, who also guided their Sentinel with his senses, but he had other responsibilities. The partner as described by Burton seemed mainly responsible for bringing a Sentinel out of zone-outs while on patrol, and preventing them if possible. The Guide as described in Lindsay's manuscript appeared to have more wide-ranging responsibilities in addition to those attributed to Burton's "partner" -- most obviously the responsibility of looking after the Sentinel's diet, and other acts of preventive health care. They shared their food and even their living quarters; this appeared to be a permanent arrangement. The Guide was treated as part of the Sentinel's family.
Blair stopped, overcome with a sudden longing to live in those days, in that tribe... where things were clear and simple, and his heart's desire would have been his clear and uncluttered duty, without misunderstanding or obstacle. Where he could have been with Jim, and Jim would have been his brother.
Jim woke in darkness, or what to others would be darkness. To him it was as clearly lit as a night under the full moon, as his eyes dilated to take in every scrap of illumination put out by the city lights. The loft was quiet, the lights off. He could hear Sandburg breathing slow and steady in the room below. No catches in the sleeping rhythm; good. He glanced at the clock by his bed. A little after three am. That's what you get for sleeping during the day. Messes up your sleeping patterns completely.
The fragments of a dream lingered in his memory. It was about Carolyn, before the divorce. They had been arguing about the loft. "I can't stand the silence," she had said. I can't stand the silence. He'd never understood the argument -- how could an apartment in the middle of the city be too quiet? I can't stand the silence.
It obviously still bugged him, if he was dreaming about it. He listened to the sounds of the loft, the sounds of the night. It wasn't that quiet. There was the humming of the clock by his bed; the purring of the refrigerator which Sandburg said should be auctioned off at Sothebys as an antique; the little snuffling noises that Sandburg was making in his sleep; the creaking noises of the building settling; a car driving by outside; the flick-flick-hum of an erratic fluorescent light in the stairs. Somewhere, a radio was playing, some popular music station.
A new song began, soft piano and a single male voice. Jim heard it clearly, as if the pianist were sitting in the same room. He listened, letting the words drift over him.
I spoke to you in cautious tones
You answered me with no pretence
And still I feel I said too much
My silence is my self defence
It hit him like an electric shock. My silence. It hadn't been the quietness of the loft that Carolyn couldn't stand, but his own silence. How could he have misunderstood so completely? Well, perception isn't your middle name, Ellison.
But if my silence made you leave
Then that would be my worst mistake
So I will share this room with you
And you can have this heart to break
His silence had made Carolyn leave. And he had never let anyone else in -- until now. Until Blair. Until he'd thrown Blair out. His loft, his home, his alone. He hadn't shared it with Carolyn, it had been in his own name. Just a symptom of how much he held back. It was his alone -- and it had ended up being his, all alone.
And he realized that tomorrow, besides the power of attorney, he had something else he needed to talk to his lawyer about.
As ever in Cascade, the day was overcast. A ray of light broke through a gap in the clouds, flashed on Jim's fork, and danced crazy reflections about the room. Jim ignored it, continuing to eat his breakfast.
"Well, we'll need to hit Toys-R-Us, I guess," Blair said, starting a list.
Jim shook his head. "Nordstrom's have a better range of stuffed animals, at least in Cascade."
Blair stared at him, jaw dropping. "Since when have you become an expert on stuffed animals?"
Jim smiled, refusing to be embarrassed. "Since I have a six-year-old niece who has birthdays," he replied.
"Isn't six a little old for stuffed animals?"
"Girls are never too old for stuffed animals," Jim declared. "Or they wouldn't use them for prizes in fairgrounds."
Blair held up a hand. "Conceded."
"Besides, Mary loved the rabbit I got her. She thinks Teddy bears are boring, but anything else is "gweat"." Jim grinned.
Blair frowned. "A panther and a wolf aren't going to be that common, not like bears..."
Jim got up from the table, grabbed the Yellow Pages from the cupboard, and plonked it in front of Blair. "Since you seem to have finished your breakfast, you can let your fingers to the walking..."
"Stores don't open until nine, Jim," Blair reminded him.
"Write down the numbers," Jim said. "I'll do the dishes."
At nine-thirty, Blair put down the phone in frustration. "None of them have panthers or wolves -- just cats and dogs. Oh, and Nordstrom's had some spotted leopards, not to mention lions and tigers. Well, they did have a black panther, but it was three feet long and cost more than $200." Blair sighed. "We may have to settle for a cat and a dog."
Jim shook his head. "If I'm going to have stuffed animals sitting on the bookshelf, the least we can do is get the right ones."
Blair grimaced. "You gotta admit, though, Jim, most toy stores don't seem to be into wildlife." Blair stopped, and thwacked himself on the head. "Wildlife! I am so stupid." He grabbed the phone book and flipped over the pages.
"What are you looking for, Blair?"
"The Nature Company, and the Museum," Blair answered. "The museum's got a gift shop -- they have furry whales and pandas and seals, they could well have panthers and wolves..."
Twenty minutes later, Blair proved to be right. The museum did have a black panther toy, and the Nature Company had a wolf.
When they got to the museum gift shop, Blair couldn't stop snickering. "It's a baby panther!" he exclaimed. "A panther kitten!"
Jim glowered. "If you keep that up, junior, I'll..."
"You'll what? Hey, they're by WWF. Cool! Buy a stuffed animal and support endangered species. I take it all back, we have to get this one."
"No more laughing," Jim demanded.
"Cross my heart and hope to die," Blair said, making the appropriate gestures.
Jim smiled as a thought occurred to him. "You know, we haven't seen the wolf yet." Maybe it would be silly and cute, and his partner would feel the other end the joke.
No such luck. The wolf at the Nature Company was beautiful. Nestled amongst squirrels, raccoons, and the same kind of dolphins, whales, panda and polar bears that they had seen at the museum, its fur was grey, its eyes bright, its nose sharp and its ears perky.
"Hey, it's bigger than the panther!" Blair grinned.
Jim rolled his eyes. "Maybe I should go to Nordstrom's and get the jumbo-sized one."
"Ah big macho man, forever running in the mine's-bigger-than-yours contest?" Blair teased.
"And who was the one who brought up the subject of size?" Jim said dryly.
"Just stating a fact, man," Blair said.
"Consider the fact stated, with no need to repeat it," Jim said sharply.
"What's bothering you, Jim?" Blair returned. He noticed the strain around Jim's eyes, the crease in his forehead. "Headache?"
Jim rubbed his forehead. "Yeah," he admitted.
"Damn!" Blair muttered. "Sorry Jim. Let's get you home. I was afraid this would be pushing it..."
"Get the wolf first, Sandburg."
They bought the wolf.
Blair dropped Jim back at the loft with their purchases, and went to the university, after multiple reassurances from Jim that he'd be fine on his own. Jim's head, however, was pounding. But Jim certainly didn't want to risk taking any medication, considering how he'd reacted the last time. He was tempted, God he was tempted, but it was definitely not worth the risk. He lay down on the couch with a damp cloth over his eyes, and a classical music CD in the player (Santana and headaches didn't go well together), and tried to relax.
The damp cloth felt rough on his face. He tried to concentrate on the music, which worked for a while, but as he concentrated more, he could hear the hissing of the speakers. Am I going to have to invest in one of those ultra audiophile stereo systems, hand-made by overpaid craftsmen in Germany? He smiled as he imagined what Sandburg would say to that -- something about placing a "Sentinel-approved" sticker on the best sound systems.
Of course, once he started thinking about Sandburg, he couldn't stop. They'd taken care of one thing that needed to be done, but there were others left. Jim sighed and sat up, pulling the cloth off his face. He knew he wasn't going to relax until he'd made those phone calls he'd promised himself he would. Besides, his headache was almost gone.
The phone call to his lawyer took a while, but he was satisfied at the end of it. He was smiling as he made himself lunch.