"Separation"

Part I—The Philosopher

Percival Aristides Wilkins was one of the gravest people you’ll ever meet; the Cambridge professor’s sharp features only augmented this assessment: a nose quite like a kite’s beak, thick, slanted eyebrows, burning blue eyes, and a shock of red hair. If it weren’t for his gentleman’s clothing, one could quite easily mistake him for a vagabond.  

He always wore a clean white shirt with a black suit and greatcoat, a blood-red tie adorning the front. As for his person, he was very tall and thin, and had a face with just enough color in it to make you certain it was alive. His students were very often terrified of that face, and sometimes all he had to do was look over the entire lecture-hall from his podium to make them concentrate and do their work.

Even his fellow professors at Cambridge regarded him carefully. At every meeting, they seemed to try to avoid speaking to him, and when it could not be helped, they always chose their words carefully. He wasn’t only chilling to behold, but also terrifying to hear if you were on his bad side. The man had the temper of an angered wasp, and his fiery wrath often struck like a viper’s venom. Moreover, he was a smart, staunch atheist, who could argue with both the succinctness and the passion of Cicero. Although many fell short against him, there was one person who could indeed match wits with him.

Finnigan Flather was his old roommate years ago at that very school. The two of them were in the philosophy track and would debate topics of all sorts in their spare time.  Of all people, he was the one to actually befriend Wilkins, and mind you, Wilkins was just as short tempered back then. For instance, the young philosophy student once created an embarrassing scene in the dining hall when a fellow student got into a political argument with him. No one was quite sure what happened, but by the time it was over, various food items were scattered around them and both students, sporting black eyes, were severely reprimanded by the Dean of Students. But, for some reason, Wilkins was always struck by Flather and rarely vented his wrath against him. Perhaps it was the way he actually spent time with him, taking long walks in the countryside, or perusing Cambridge itself. Perhaps it was the way he so good-naturedly debated with him on all sorts of topics. But whatever it was, he could not place it. That is, until near the end of their second year.

It had finally occurred to Wilkins at that time that he did not know what Flather was interested in doing with himself later in life. “I,” said Wilkins, “would like to teach philosophy at one of our Universities.”

Flather nodded. “Quite a good choice, and I am sure you will be very good at it.”

Wilkins felt that urge within him to ask. He needed to know. “What are you interested in doing with yourself after University?”

His roommate’s smile waned a bit, and he became serious. "Percy, I knew I would have to tell you at some point, but before I do, I must clearly emphasize how much I have deeply enjoyed studying philosophy—our science—with you.” He paused.  “I am planning to become a priest.”

Wilkins’ heart thudded practically to a halt. “What?”

“That’s right, my friend. The bishop has approved that I enter the seminary of the High Church of England after I finish my studies here at Cambridge.”

“I mean,” said Flather, “what I said. I am going to be a priest because I am a philosopher, because I am a high thinker, and the Church needs those people in her ranks. Yes, Percy.  I know.”

It was nothing less than a miracle that the two of them did not completely fall out. In fact, they managed to keep meeting each other well after the University. But, as fate would have it, when Finnigan Flather became Father Flather, he was stationed at his beloved Cambridge University, where Wilkins had just become Professor Wilkins. For the next six years, they continued to stay in touch. They would go out together for their lunch hour every Friday, and would continue to discuss fascinating philosophical topics. Even when they disagreed (as was inevitable), they would part ways with mutual respect. It shocked fellow professors at Cambridge that somehow their colleague’s temper was kept at bay by this priest, and that the two of them didn’t end up in a fistfight at any point.

One particular Friday in February, Wilkins met with Father Flather for lunch as normal. It had been a full morning for Wilkins, giving students their final lecture and homework on Friedrich Nietzsche before the weekend. He was convinced that Nietzsche was one of the greatest philosophers of all time, and wanted his students to unequivocally come to that conclusion as well. He knew from his past years of teaching that this would be difficult to effect, especially given Nietzsche’s harsh atheism, but was not prepared for how difficult it actually turned out to be this time. There was in this particular class several deeply religious young people, and they absolutely refused to comply with Professor Wilkins’ strong feelings on the subject. In the end, after a series of heated debates in the classroom, Wilkins simply demanded the usual five page essay, having convinced only a handful of people, mostly due to his terrifying facial expression.

When he arrived at the popular pub across the street from the university where Father Flather was waiting for him, he was in a bad mood, and the priest could tell. He had seen Wilkins like this before and was well used to it. You dealt with it by letting him blow off some steam first. Father Flather didn’t say anything, but it wasn’t long after they sat down to lunch together that Wilkins began talking.

He complained about the gray sky, although it wasn’t raining. He complained about his students, though they were some of the best he had ever had. He especially complained about his lodgings, a small apartment across from the Cambridge campus, but not bad by anyone’s standards. Father Flather listened patiently, waiting for Wilkins to get the bulk of it off his chest. And that was when he attempted something he had never done before.

“All these inconveniences, Percy,” said Father Flather, “but you want something more than alleviation. You know you do.”

The irritable Cambridge professor snorted. “I am sure you don’t know what you are saying, sir. Alleviation is my sweet bliss.”

“But that is exactly what gives you away, Percival,” said the priest. "You are generally unhappy, and thus unhappy with all the little annoyances.”

“What is there to be unhappy with generally if not people, things, and nature itself?” sputtered the Professor, getting red-faced.

The church bell began to toll the hour; students would now be making their way to the next class period. Father Flather looked up at the standing, sweating professor with a knowing smile. “God,” he said simply, and with that he donned his bowler hat and left the room. That last word and look haunted Wilkins all day. He was strangely quiet through the rest of his classes and meetings, and everyone noticed. But what no one but Percival Wilkins knew was that he had entered a crisis stage, questioning profusely everything he had ever believed to be true since abandoning religion in college. Was it true that there was a God? Was he dependent upon Him? And, most troubling for him, was the predominant school of philosophical thought for the past two hundred years false? Diderot, Nietzsche, Sartre, his idols; were they all wrong? It chilled him to the bone to think about it.

After his last class of the day, Wilkins went home to his apartment. Unlocking the door, he opened it and was greeted with the same cramped space and musty smell that he so hated. The main living space was quite small, supporting a small leather couch opposite a maple-wood writing desk separated from each other by a small homemade rug. The far corner of the ceiling had a small leak which the maintenance personnel kept neglecting to fix, contributing to the must. A tiny kitchen was adjacent to a doorway which opened into his bedroom, in which were barely squeezed a four-poster bed and an inherited walnut wardrobe. The whole of his abode was a constant reminder to him of who he was. Born poor, he was doomed to live poor and eventually die poor, as he often bitterly put it in his mind.

But for once, he quickly closed the door and, without a second thought, strode over to his desk, beside which was a bookshelf. He pulled down book after book, reading their arguments for or against the existence of God. So terrified and so engrossed he was with this work that he completely neglected to feed himself until he set down his last book at just past ten o’clock in the evening. He was sweating, he was hungry, and, for once, he felt completely deprived of any knowledge. Books of all sorts were strewn about him in disarray. Easing himself up from his spindle-legged chair, he made himself a simple meal of porridge and, after dressing in his pajamas, he collapsed, exhausted, into his bed and fell into a deep sleep.

When he awoke the next morning, Saturday morning, it was already past nine o’clock. A golden sun shone through the patterned window-panes. He was well rested, but his mind was no less troubled. What was it, he kept questioning himself, that made this particular saying of Father Flather so impactful? It wasn’t the first time he had alluded to God as the solution, but it had hit Wilkins like he had never heard anything like it before.

He sat bolt upright in bed and shook his fist. “Why can’t I prove you false?” he bellowed. He got up out of bed, showered, dressed, ate, and, without delaying a minute, returned to his ransacked bookshelf. He spent the entire morning there, but, to his horror, the longer he searched, the more the existence of God seemed like a possibility. Finally, in a spasm of fury, he threw the book he was holding to the floor, where it split in pieces. “No!  I will not accept it! Even if it be proved upon my head, I will not!” He grew more angry, and this time spoke directly. “You are the reason I was born poor, and you are the reason I cannot escape its specter! My life is ruined, because of you! I do not want you! Get away from me!”

He collapsed back in his spindle legged chair, and it gave way beneath him. He fell back on the crunching splinters, and from his position on the floor, he heard the tolling of the church bell. It was only noon, but Wilkins heard something else; a splintered chair, a battered book, but he saw something else. He heard, saw, a sign for what to do about it. He picked up the loose leaves of the book and a few shards of wood from the chair. “These parts are no longer under the influence of their former selves,” he murmured. “This page is no longer under the influence of the book, this splinter no longer relies on the chair, but both yet exist, freed from the original influence.” He strode over to the window and gazed toward the church tower. “The sound issuing from those bells is pure music, and once separated from the bells, it does not rely on them for its existence.”  

Wilkins narrowed his eyebrows. He was certain of what he had to do. Like any child, he had learned his catechism well, and he still knew it, even though he had rejected it in the past. “Man is of two parts:  soul and body. The soul is directly influenced by God. Therefore,” he said, slowly and with a great deal of conscious solemnity, “in order for me to be rid of the influence of God, I must rid myself of that part which is influenced by him.” He thought for a minute about what he was saying, and then reaffirmed, “Yes, I must be rid of my soul.” He turned away from the window and sat down on his couch, deep in further thought. “Alchemists used to seek a certain Philosopher’s Stone to turn any metal into pure gold. I seek the reverse for myself:  a kind of Philosopher’s Stone to free me from my soul, and leave me as my constituent earth-self.” He smirked. “I, of all people, have the ability to do this, as a philosopher.”

Part II—The End of a Time

If you had asked anyone in one of Wilkins’ classes if they had noticed anything amiss with their professor following that fateful weekend, they would have said absolutely not. Indeed, unless you knew him quite closely, it would be very difficult to tell if anything had happened at all. And considering that Father Flather was perhaps the only one who fit this description, weeks passed without anyone but him discerning any change.

And, true to form, Father Flather most definitely did notice the change, and that change disturbed him. Not only was Wilkins bolder (as if he wasn’t bold enough already), but he had begun to finally check out of his relationship with the priest. At first, it was only a snide comment here or there, but it eventually escalated into insults, affronts, and finally, complete withdrawal; the beautiful, miracle-relationship that had begun ten years ago between two understanding young men had completely disintegrated. Wilkins stopped coming to lunch with Father Flather, and avoided encountering him whenever he could, not so much out of fear of the priest, but in anger for what he saw the man to be: a perpetrator of an old, primitive ideology that had absolutely no place in the modern world.

In place of lunching with Father Flather, Wilkins took up a new pastime. He began perusing the library in the philosophy section for whatever he could read about the soul, the thing he so desperately wanted to be rid of. And so, for weeks, he did his research, and nobody but Father Flather had any idea that something terrible was about to happen. Nobody, that is, until at the end of the academic year, it happened to the shock of all that Percival Aristides Wilkins announced that he would be stepping down from his professorship at Cambridge.

The announcement was so sudden and so unwarranted that even the University President was reluctant to accept his resignation. But a legendary staring contest settled that in a matter of minutes. All in all, though he became the talk of the University, Wilkins was set to leave. From there, he thought to himself, he could fully devote his time to his research and to his purpose. Truth be told, his research was not going very smoothly. Though he scoured the library, he could find no way to completely disown his soul. The more he looked, the more he became convinced that a compromise might be necessary. And so, he concluded for the present to live assuming his soul was non-existent, to completely ignore God, and that way to throw off His influence until he should find some more direct way when he had more time on his hands. Such was his intention, and so it would have been, but for one chance occurrence on Wilkins’ last day on campus.

It was a Friday, and the professor had just finalized his students’ grades and was taking them to the registrar. Afterwards, he would clean out his office and remove himself finally from Cambridge University. He took the papers to the office and deposited them successfully. But on the way back to his own office, he saw, coming down the hall towards him, none other than Father Flather. The professor experienced a moment of panic. There were no exits nearby; this was a long stretch of hall without any hallways branching off it, and all the classrooms were locked. Plus, the hall was relatively narrow, so he would have to walk quite close to the priest. Wilkins breathed in and steeled his nerves: he would have no choice but to deal with the man. He walked on; Father Flather approached; the distance between them decreased until they were only paces from each other. It was then that Wilkins grunted something that was supposed to sound like “Good afternoon.”

He sat down in his desk chair and buried his face in his hands, and for once in his life, he wept—hard. He remained in that state for several minutes. Finally, with a tear-stained face, he removed his face from his hands and asked to no one in particular, “Why am I doing this?” Shaking himself, he continued, “I must be losing myself. That man has only served to drown me in my emotions—to drown me with irrelevancies at that. I need to rid myself of him and his camp. I should never have taken him as a friend; never will I again. Then will I be able to escape the influence of God.” He sat there quietly, deep in thought. “No,” he said, “this is beyond him. This is about me. It isn’t only he who is holding me back, it is me. I’m feeling remorse because of me; I’m feeling the pangs of conscience because of me.” If anyone had seen Wilkins at this point, he would have seen terror stamped on that blanched face, an expression little known to the man. “It is not enough,” Wilkins finally said, “to ignore my soul; it will not be ignored. I must be literally rid of it—destroy it—if I am to be free of God.” The terror seemed to increase on the ex-professor’s face. “I know what I have to do.” And with that he feverishly got up, packed up the belongings of his that remained in the office, and left the Cambridge University campus the exact moment the church bell tolled three o’clock.

Part III—Bells in the Dark Night

Wilkins arrived home a nervous wreck. His hair was tousled and every creak of the building made him start. He set down his bags by his desk and sank into his couch, leaning his head upward against the back, breathing heavily. His heart thundered. Was he really about to do what he had proposed to himself? Was it worth it? He looked around at his dismal abode and was reminded: born poor, he was doomed to live poor, and to never escape that specter until his dying day. None of his fellow professors had been as badly off as he was. “Yes,” he muttered bitterly, “it is worth it. Why should I maintain any further allegiance to the one who ruined me?”

The rest of the day passed slowly. Wilkins paced the room, paged through his books, and paced some more. At around five o’clock, he ate a meager dinner of cabbage soup, and returned to his desk. The splintered chair had been glued together since he had broken it, and one of the books on his desk had tape all along its spine. The church bell struck six o’clock. He continued his feverish routine into the evening. Minute by minute the light waned.

Finally, after hours of feverish reading and pacing, Wilkins was startled by the sound of the church bell striking nine o’clock. The last of the daylight had disappeared over the horizon. He shifted nervously in his seat, and then stood up. “It is time.  I must.” With that, he put on a light coat and left his apartment. A few moments later, he emerged in the street below. It was strange to see that street so empty and so dark, even with the streetlights. There was no one to be seen in the lane, and the thought occurred to Wilkins that whoever he would meet at this time would most definitely be disreputable. He shook the thought off and strode off into the night.

He headed toward the outskirts of town, toward a ramshackle neighborhood that was anything but welcoming.  Wilkins had never been here before, but he was well familiar with the map of Cambridge, and knew from his student days all those years ago that, in this distasteful place, he would find what he was looking for. He had heard classmates talk of a certain place in here to where he must go. He needed only remember the sign they showed him to gain entrance. He traced the outline of the symbol on his palm.  He remembered it.

He continued for quite some time down the muddy street encased in the darkness. From far away in the more reputable neighborhoods came the sound of the church bell once again. Ten o’clock. The sound terrified Wilkins, and he hurried on. All of a sudden, he struck off down a narrow alley between two tall wooden buildings. Ahead was a rickety staircase. Up these stairs went Wilkins, terrified, but at the same time certain that this was what he needed to do. He couldn’t—he wouldn’t—live with God running his life. He finally reached the top of the stairs where there was a door cracked open just a hair. A dim red and orange light issued out from the crack, just enough to illumine a dingy poster on the door which read: “COSMOS the Great, Seer, Psychic, etc.” And below that read: “Restricted admittance.” Wilkins was leaning in close to this sign inspecting it when a hand jutted out from the crack between the door and the frame holding a piece of paper and a pen.

Wilkins was thoroughly rattled by this occurrence, but kept his composure. He took the paper from the hand and looked at it closely. On the top of the page was scrawled in ill-formed letters the word “Password”. Wilkins thought this was strange, but he hastily formed on the paper the sign he had been shown by his classmate all those years ago. It was the Greek letter Phi superimposed upon the letter Psi, like this: 

Wilkins didn’t need to be told who it was; he shuddered in dread of what he was doing. Without turning to face them, the man spoke in a strangely resonant, weirdly warm tone, “I am COSMOS the Great, Seer and Summoner of Spirits. What is thy request, O brother of mortal men?”

Without really contemplating what he was doing, Wilkins blurted out, “Bring the devil.” The very next moment, the faraway church bell struck eleven o’clock.

COSMOS straightened and somewhat stiffened, never turning to face Wilkins, but responded in the same even tone, “So be it, O brother of mortal men.” With that, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of powder which he scattered on the fire. Sparks crackled in the air and a heavy smoke billowed across the room making Wilkins gag and cough. Then, COSMOS spoke in a weird voice that was something between shrieking and chanting: “Come forth, O Lucifer! Angel of Light! You are summoned!” He repeated this six times in the same manner of voice, and at once a blazing red fire erupted amidst the carrion candles. No form materialized from the fiend-fire, but a terrible, guttural voice issued forth. “Percival Aristides Wilkins!”

The ex-professor of philosophy dropped to his knees in absolute terror. He could not say a word.

The voice spoke on. “At the end of this very night, you will be rid of your soul. You will no longer have to depend on God. Yes, it is true. Trust me.” With that reverberating in the air, the fire vanished in a foul-smelling plume of smoke.

Wilkins gingerly got up. “Has it been done?” he thought to himself. He stood still, watching COSMOS, who still had his back facing him. “What now?” he found himself saying out loud in a rather quavering voice.

“Payest thou the keeper, O brother of mortal men,” came the even, resonant voice.

Awkwardly, Wilkins dug in his pockets and gave the keeper a fifty-pound note. The keeper nodded, and without a word ushered the philosopher toward the door. After Wilkins was once again outside, the keeper shut the door just enough so that the crack was once again all that was visible.

Wide-eyed, Wilkins began his descent down the stairs. That place had been a nightmare. He should never have gone there; he knew that. But at the same time, he had been promised that he would be rid of his soul that very night. Isn’t that what he wanted? He reached the bottom of the stairs, found his way out of the dark alley, and began the long walk back toward his apartment. As he passed by the church, the illuminated face showed a quarter to twelve. Fifteen minutes left in the day. Fifteen more minutes, and then he could be sure that he was free from the influence of God.

He walked on and was a few blocks from his apartment. Was he really to trust the devil? But he had no reason to trust God. God who had ruined his life. Then a brutal realization hit him, a realization so obvious that it stung. The truth was that he needed to believe in God in order to be rid of him. All the past months were for naught. The more firmly he pushed against God, the more God became a real being that he was pushing against. He became deeply absorbed in thought. Was his whole aspiration useless? Had he squandered hours of research in an attempt to achieve the impossible? Had he senselessly deprived himself of his professorship? Had he unnecessarily cut himself off from Father Flather? Had he been such a fool as to seek out the psychic and call on the devil, who had sworn to take away his soul by the oncoming day? The terrifying thing was that he realized he had done all these things: he had given up philosophy—his noble science—for senseless pseudo-philosophy.

“Oh God!  What have I done!” Wilkins murmured aloud in a trembling voice. He paled at the last thought as its gravity hit him, and he lost his senses so much so that he did not hear a wailing siren approaching down the side street he was about to cross. As the ex-professor of philosophy stepped out onto the cobblestone street, out of nowhere, a box-truck with its lights out careened out of the darkness and plowed down the unsuspecting Wilkins. He gave a cry of shock as he was hurled to the pavement, and the last thing he perceived as he breathed his last were the flashing lights of the pursuing police car and the sound of the church bell tolling twelve o’clock.

Part IV—The Visit

“Awake!” commanded a powerful voice.

Finnigan Flather awoke with a start in his simple room. He was wearing blue and white striped pajamas and a worn nightcap. He looked at his illuminated alarm clock on the table next to his bed: 11:45 pm. It was practically midnight. “Did someone call?” he spoke up.

At that moment a blinding light struck his eyes and blazed about him. Father Flather jumped to his feet, peering through the milky whiteness. When he could finally see, there was a brilliant, strong figure in the form of a man clad in a dazzling tunic with shining, shoulder-length blonde hair. As Father Flather looked at him wide-eyed, the figure pointed at something in the distance. Looking toward where the figure gestured, he saw a gigantic post office just outside the grandest city he had ever seen. Trucks were leaving from its many bay doors and heading off. As Father Flather looked, he noticed that no trucks were arriving at the post office; they only ever departed, and always away from the city along a road that wound down into a black abyss. As he tried to peer closer at it, he felt a wave of exceptional cold sweep over him and wrack him from head to toe. He stumbled back from that direction and felt a strong hand clasp his shoulder.

It was the strong man. As he held Father Flather, the post office loomed closer and they passed into its oppressive depths. Inside were rows and rows of conveyor belts, all with untied mail sacks moving along them down the cavernous hall toward the bay doors, where they would be loaded onto those trucks. The thought of it made Father Flather shudder, though he did not yet know why. The strong man set him down and strode over to one of the sacks, bidding Father Flather to look inside. The priest stepped up and peered in. He gasped. Inside were crammed people of all kinds. There was a worker swinging his hammer, there was a housewife stirring a pot, there was a scientist looking through a microscope. But the worst part of it all was that they didn’t even seem to notice that they were crammed into the sack, or that escape was quite possible. Terrified, Father Flather looked at the strong man. “What does this mean?” he asked.

The man who was like Wilkins then seemed to become aware of the sack, and where it was going. In absolute fear and terror, the man in the sack began jumping up and groping for the edges, which was now only a few feet from the edge of the belt. For the first time now, Father Flather could see the post office workers. They were terrifying demons of all shapes and sizes, and every sack that they took they tied up tightly and threw into an available truck, laughing cruelly as the poor souls inside wailed in terrible recognition of their fate. It was a terrible feeling the priest felt of watching this happen and being able to do nothing to stop them.

Father Flather looked back at the man struggling out of the sack, and felt the vision fading, but at just the moment that the sack tumbled off the edge of the belt and into the hands of the attendant demon, the strong man swooped in and snatched Wilkins out of their grasp. At that very instant, a group of figures like him, who were now evidently angels, hurried in and bore Wilkins out of that house of terror on a stretcher. There came shouts of cursing, hissing, and swearing, far worse than anything possible on earth as the demons raged over their loss, and when everything had gone black, the echo swam in Father Flather’s ears until, sweating, he sat up in his own bed.

It was about 9:30 in the morning. The sun shone brightly and birds sang outside the window. Gingerly, Father Flather stepped out of bed and looked out across the Cambridge campus. The green trees smiled in all their glory, and, on top of it all, the priest felt a great spring of joy and relief within himself.

At that moment, someone knocked at the door. It was the housekeeper, an elderly man by the name of Ruskin, who had come to sweep the room. As Father Flather dressed himself in the next room, the old man spoke. “There were a hit-‘n-run accident last nigh’ righ’ next ta the university. The constable said the guy that got hit used ta be a pruhfesser there.”

A sharp pang pierced Father Flather’s heart, but he responded calmly, “Is that right, now?”

“Yessir.  His name was…” here the old man paused in thought. “Oh, bustit, what wassis name agin?”

“Percival Wilkins?” queried the priest.

The housekeeper snapped his fingers audibly. “Yes! That were him.”

Father Flather was done dressing at this point and he came back into the room. The old man was jabbering on as he swept vigorously about how the culprit had not yet been caught, and how people these days were much worse than they were cracked up to be, but Father Flather put his hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Ruskin.”

The old man stopped sweeping and looked around at him expectantly.

“Let’s pray for the victim of the accident and his salvation. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there to give him last rites.”

The old man nodded vigorously. The two of them prayed fervently together. As they did, Father Flather felt a great joy.

Notes