CHAPTER 12

ADVICE FROM A PSYCHIATRIST

Thanksgiving, 2008;

A Mayberry type Sheriff's Office

In Pigeon Nest Hills,

A small town in the N.W. U.S.

Near a large port city;

   It was the wee hours of the morning and Anya and Boris, were sitting on a bench in a small one room sheriff's office. Wind-swept rain was falling in droves outside, making pounding and tapping sounds on the tin roof and thin windows, which together with the eerrie howling of the wind, drove Boris to distraction.

     Anya slept at the side of Boris with her head on his arm--stopping circulation therein, but Boris didn't want to wake Anya to adjust things, so he let things slide and suffered in peace. Boris could see both his mother and father in jail, in separate cells, both accompanied by another cell mate of their own sex.

    At the Sheriff's desk, snoozing, was Deputy Barney Fife, as Boris called him, but who was officially designated as Deputy Hempty and who could easily be called Hempty De'pty, for this great round egg of a man was on the tip of a great fall if only his small feet would move just an inch or two and drop off the edge of the desk.

    Boris's parents, and their cell mates, were charged with conspiring to induce damage, and possible bodily harm, to the establishment, and the persons therein, of one Pregnancy Treatment Clinic--otherwise known as an abortuary. In addition, there was talk of them being charged under one of the many Anti-Terrorist Acts now on the books these days and that agents of various agencies were at this very moment on their way to question these dangerous desperados.

   "That is sheer nonsense," thought Boris, "for by the accidental flip of a small switch they merely obstructed the electrical power of said establishment--before anyone arrived--and in doing so they would have prevented any of those so-called medical procedures from being perpertrated on any of those unsuspecting women.

    "I say accidental flip of a switch because that is how it happened.  They were merely saying Rosaries outside said medical establishment, contravening no laws, when a cold wind and rain suddenly came upon then.  Looking for shelter, they found a small square building--on public property--with its door luckily opened and entered it. The wind and rain was entering said structure, and so they closed the door, thereby blocking the only bit of light entering the small room.  Looking for a light switch, they felt for one all over the walls of the room in the dark.  They found no light switch, but in hunting for one, they accidentally toggled several other switches, one being the switch that controlled the electricity going to said establishment. When one person in the bunch got their flashlight working, they were able to read the labels and instructions near some switches--and with one person of the bunch actually being a town electrical worker--they realized that they had turned off the power to the abortuary.

    "At this point, they debated whether to turn it back on, for many in the group figured that that action would amount to a sin, for they would be in effect aiding and abetting in murder, according to their beliefs.  They were in this state of debate when the police arrived.

    "Lucky for us," Boris continued his musings, "it seems that Dep'ty Hempty--being an astute fellow and good Catholic (N.O., but conservative, traditional and open to the truth)--is in agreement with my assessment and would gladly let my parents go after they paid a nominal fine, but his boss, Sheriff Boss Hogg as I call him--who in fact seems more like a tall dark scarecrow of a man--wants to prosecute them to the fullest extent of the law, for he seems to be one with the town council who wants to merge their fair town into the greater Metropolis Hub of the nearby port city in more ways than mere physical union, but rather in union of kindred spirits; ha! rather of dark sin'ster spirits (not that there are no good people inhabiting said big cities, but it seems that evil does concentrate in a place of, what else, concentration.)

   Over the night, Boris had heard snippets from his parent's conversations and derived from these a sense of their overall despair: politically, concerning whether they would ever make a dent against the evil of abortion; and personally, over their own, well, personal, prospects and the prospects of their children.

   Boris agreed and added even more to this, "In addition, I think Anya's and my own troubles have been compounded, for Dep'ty Hempty has warned us that Child Services! would be over to take us away in the morning and that they would start right off the bat with a psychological evaluation. Oh no, not that! Not for my Anya, or I. 

   "And all for what? Was our cause that important? Were the people we were battling that bestial? And even if our cause was just, were the methods we use to set things right, the right ones. Could our mere presence be reasonably mistaken, by even good people, as possibly radical? Are actions even asked of us by God, or are we simply enjoined to pray for the souls of the murdered, the mothers and all involved.  Prayer is mighty, and might it be the only thing really necessary to be done. Oh, I am so tired and can not think on it any more, for these thoughts are too heavy for a mere boy of fifteen to constantly dwell on."    

   As Boris thought these dreary unsettling thoughts, he fell into a deep, unsettled sleep.

***

   A little later, Boris woke up to find himself in an entirely different room, and possibly in an entirely different building. Boris thought, "I am thinking that they must have carried me over here during my deep sleep. It seems to be a small waiting room for some sort of doctor. I seem to be all alone in this dreary room; and no Anya in sight."

    Boris investigated the room for avenues of escape, but only found only one barred window and a locked door.

    Boris sat down and thought, "I'm a prisoner here, and, oh my! little Anya is also a prisoner in some, other, similar, dreary elsewhere. Oh my! I wonder what dreaded psych-eee!-logical evaluation is now being perpertrated on her small innocent mind; I must find her!"

   To that purpose, Boris got up and sought a way to look out the small barred window. Boris found a small dreary chair, and stepping on it, stood on his tiptoes and just managed to peer over the window's bottom sil.

   "Oh my!" said the astounded Boris, "I espy a wonderful garden flush with wonderful bright sunlight and soothing soft breezes which are gently swaying the beautiful full trees and blooming bushes therein. And, lo and behold, I espy none other than the magnificant Catlan frolicking about among these wonderful flora. Oh, I must get to that garden to talk to him; maybe, He can help my dear parents and Anya!"

   As he was just about to call out to Catlan, the obstinate wee chair took it into its head to tip over, sending poor Boris suddenly down to the floor.  Boris was all right and quickly tried to get up onto the chair again, but the chair uncustomarilly decided it wanted some exercise, and to that purpose, rushed out of the room through the previously locked door--which mysteriously was now fully open and which just happened to be the door to the doctor's office. The chair entered the room and stopped just in front of the doctor's large round desk which looked rather more like a mushroom than some piece of furniture. Boris couldn't directly see the doctor, but believed him to be there from the thin curl of smoke coming from the the environs of the desk.

   Just after Boris entered the Doctor's office, he looked all around for an avenue of escape, and fortunately for Boris the only thing beyond the desk were large reeds or stalks of grass.  So Boris thought to make a break for it through the grass, but every time he ran through it he eventually ended up back again right before the desk.  After a while, he simply gave up on this mode of escape and so he decided to investigate this desk further.

    "Oh well," thought Boris, "I may as well go in there as anywhere else. Maybe this doctor knows the way to paradise."

   The mushroom desk was about the same height as Boris, and when he looked under it, and on both sides of it, and behind it, it occurred to him that he might as well look and see what was on top of it.

   He stretched himself on tiptoe and peeped over the edge of the mushroom desk, and immediately met those of a large, blue-robed, plumpy, psychiatrist, that was sitting on top with arms folded, quietly smoking a long hookah, and taking not the smallest notice of him or anything else.

   The psychiatrist and Boris looked at each other for some time in silence: at last the psychiatrist took the hookah out of its mouth, and said in a languid, sleepy voice.

  "Who are you?" asked the psychiatrist.

  "I am Boris Harte, sir."

  "No, I mean, WHO are YOU?" repeated the psychiatrist.

  This was not an encouraging opening for a conversation and Boris couldn't reply.

  The psychiatrist responded for Boris, rather too forthrightly it seemed, "I know, boy, at least I know who you were when you got up last morning, but I think you must have been changed several times since then."

  "What do you mean by that?" said Boris sternly. "Explain yourself!"

  "I can't explain your Self, I'm afraid, boy," said the psychiatrist, "because I am not yourself, and you are not yourself, you see."

  "I don't see," said Boris.

  "I am afraid I can't put it more clearly," the psychiatrist replied very professionally, "for I can't understand it completely myself to begin with, for you must explicate your Self to me completely in order for me to explicate your Self back to you."

  "I am not sure what you are getting at?" replied a confused Boris.

  "Well, perhaps you haven't got it yet," said the psychiatrist, "but when you have to turn into a chrysalis--you will someday, you know--and then into a beautiful butterfly, I should think you'll feel like you will then know your true Self, don't you think?"

  Boris replied, the gears in his head quickly whirling now, "And can this new butterfly fly high in the air and then into the garden that I saw through the window in your waiting room?"

   "Certainly, this butterfly can fly anywhere it wants."

   "And then can it speak to Catlan?"

   "Aaaah, Catlan! By heavens, no. There is no such thing as Catlan. Only the garden exists, but no Catlan."

   "But, but..."

   "No, to become a butterfly you must first stop being a mere caterpillar: that is, you must destroy your old dead beliefs and that means giving up all childhood fantasies, like this Catlan creature; and when that is done, then you must replace your old beliefs by new, living ones."

  "Anywhich way," replied Boris, "Can I, as a new butterfly, get into the Garden?"

   "Maybe, but you first must answer my questions."

   "Ah, very well. Go ahead," said an exasperated Boris.

   "First, you must explicate your views on this anti-abortion stance you have."

   "There is nothing anti about my views: they are pro all the way through; it is your views that are purely anti."

   "I have no views on the matter either way; I simply want to hear your own views."

   "Very well, I will explicate them to you in a poem I wrote recently on the very subject. May I go ahead."

   "Please do so."

   Therewith, Boris folded his hands and began:

'You are evil, Doctor Choice,'

the young boy said.

'And your heart has become very dark;

And you incessantly protest your innocence--

Do you think, in your mind, it is right?'

'In my youth,'

Doctor Choice replied to the boy,

'I feared it might stir my conscience;

But now that I'm perfectly sure

I have none;

Why, I do it again and again.'

'You are evil,' said the youth,'

as I mentioned before,

But you have grown most uncommonly fat;

And you turned a back somersault

in at the door--

Pray, what is the reason of that?'

'In my practice,' said the Doc,

as he shook his gray locks,

'I snuff wee babe lives for some lucre

By the use of this acid--

half grand per babe--

Also done with a tearing poker.'

'You are evil,' said the youth,

'and your work makes a pile

Why, even mo' higher than a jet;

Yet you speak of such goodness

and do so smile--

Pray, how do you manage to do it?'

'In my youth,' said Doc Choice,

'I took to the law,

And argued each case with the Court;

And the constitutional  nitpicking

which legalized works of my claw,

Has protected my clinic, maison morte.'

'You are evil,' said the youth,

'one would hardly suppose

'That your view was accepted ever;

'Yet you balance the people

on the end of your nose--

'What made you so awfully clever?'

'I have answered three questions,

and that is enough,'

Said Doc Choice;

'don't give yourself  airs!

Do you think I can listen

all day to such stuff?

Be off, or I'll kick you downstairs!'

  "That is not right," said the Psychiatrist.

  "Why so?" demanded Boris.

  "It is wrong from beginning to end. You are paranoid: there is no such beast in the world."

   "Well, no one actual doctor fits all these traits..."

   "There you go."

   "But..."

   "Anyway, don't you see how completely negative you've become; not pro at all, put fully anti. "

   "That is possible of late, but..."

   "This all comes from your pride, pride that is common in boys of your age."

   "Perhaps I am bit prideful, but..."

   "In summary, you admit that you are paranoid, overly negative and prideful: this is an improper state of being, and, like I said before, you must change into a new state of being."

   "And what sort of being should I turn into?" asked Boris with a just touch of anger and sarcasm.

   "You must become a creature with a proper sense of your own psychological size: that is: you must humble your Self, as you Christians put it."

   "Very well, what size should I be?" said Boris who simply wanted to placate this puffy beast so that he could learn how to become a butterfly in order to fly to the Garden.

  "Oh, I'm not particular as to size, "the psychiatrist hastily replied, "as long as you desire to change."

   "I do," said Boris.

   "Good. Now, here are two vials. The blue liquid will make you shrink and the red one will make you grow."

   "Good," thought Boris, "Now we are talking. I will grab the vials. Then I will use the red one to grow big enough to escape this rat trap and then I can enter into the Garden."

   So Boris grabbed the vials and drank quickly from the red vial, and in an instance he was growing in wild spurts. This was so sudden, that it literally scared the socks off the psychiatrist who then quickly skeedaddled from his comfortable perch and bolted out into thin air.

  "Ah, I am indeed growing much apace," said Boris in a tone of delight, which changed into alarm in another moment, when he found that his shoulders were nowhere to be found; all he could see, when he looked down, was an immense length of neck, which seemed to rise like a stalk out of a sea of green leaves that lay far below him.

   "What can all the green stuff be?" said Boris. "And where have my shoulders got to? And, oh my poor hands, how is it I can't see you."

   As there seemed to be no chance of getting his hands up to his head, he tried to get his head down to them, and was delighted to find that his neck would bend about easily in any direction, like a serpent.

   "I seem to be in the Garden of Catlan," thought Boris, "but now I'm too entangled in this tree to seek Catlan in any effectual way: oh my, what shall I ever do?"

    Then a sharp tweet made him draw back in a hurry: a large white female Pigeon had flown into his face, and was beating violently with its wings.

   "Serpent!" screamed the Pigeon.

   "I'm not a serpent!" said Boris indignantly. "Let me alone!"

   "Serpent, I say again!" repeated the Pigeon, but now in a subdued tone, and added with a kind of sob, "I've tried every way, and nothing seems to suit them!"

   "I haven't the least idea what you are talking about," said Boris.

   "Oh those serpents! There's no pleasing them! As if it wasn't trouble enough helping my children hatch their eggs, but now we must be on the lookout for serpents night and day! Why, I haven't had a wink of sleep these thirty-five years. And now they come wriggling down from the sky! Ugh! Serpent!"

   "But I'm not a serpent, I tell you!" said Boris, "I'm a boy!"

   "A likely story indeed!" said the Pigeon in the deepest contempt. "I've seen a good many boys in my time, but never with such a neck as that! No, no! You're a serpent; and there's no denying it.  I suppose you'll be telling me next that you go about battling serpents wherever you go?"

   "No, I have never battled a serpent."

   "Then, ergo, you are a serpent."

   "How can that ever be?" asked a perplexed Boris.

   "In this battle, either you are either entirely for us or entirely against us. So if you don't battle serpents, then you are against us. And if you are against us, then you are with the serpents and if you are with the serpents then you are a serpent yourself."

   Boris replied, "I concede that your logic is flawless, but I disagree with your main premiss: that is, that one can only be for you or against you.  Isn't that a bit too radical or extreme?"

   "Isn't the life of just one of my grandchildren radical or extreme enough for you. Well, it matters a good deal to me!"

   "I wish I had time to help you battle the serpents and save your eggs, but I must be off to find Catlan."

   "Ah, Catlan!  He would want you to help me save my eggs."

   "Ah, you believe in Catlan then! Not only that, but you seem to know him well. Can you direct me to Him?"

   "That's what I have been trying to get through to you all this time."

   "What in the world are you talking about?  I have no time to solve silly riddles. If you can't tell me directly and simply where Catlan can be found, then I will be off right this instance?'

   "Well, be off then!" said the Pigeon in a sulky tone, as it settled down again into its nest vanishing quickly from the view of Boris.

   Although this was a bit of a strained meeting, the movements of the Pigeon, has fortunately freed Boris somewhat from the grip of the tree. After some struggling, he managed to disentangle himself completely from it.

    He now made some progress, but found it hard to walk with such a long neck. After a while, Boris remembered that he still had the two vials in his hands, and drinking from the blue vial, Boris was soon down to his usual height.

   "Good," thought Boris, "I am now in the Garden of Catlan and I am also of the right size to find Him. Now, if I can't find Him myself, then I must find someone who can tell me where to find Him; that is, someone with a proper head on his shoulders and not some flighty bird!"

   As he thought this, he came suddenly to a dark place with a cliff wall on one side. In the cliff wall was a well-made archway leading into a dark cave. Over the archway was a sign that said Chess Club on it.

   "Well," thought Boris, "whoever resides here can't be as flighty as that Mrs. Pigeon Person. In fact, they must be ever so logical here, being chess masters, as I guess they must be. There is hope yet!"