Like a wail in the back of an inflammed throat came that protracted
noise once again. Interminably, the rhythmic pitch of pounding grew
louder as if several loose stones had swished themselves against the
larger cylinder of his room. Already, the steady rap of a hammer's edge
oozed from night's blackness disparate as a voice muffled in protest
against an exhausting load.
Again, the unyielding barricade of sound renewed itself much as a
headlight might fall against the path of a dazed woodland animal. The
same enervating crust of unreality accompanied this sound as must, he
imagined, light that focused itself upon a stunned rabbit at a roadside
clearing.
Steady now, it peaked again after a small hiatus interrupted only by
the staccato bumping of his own heart within thin visceral walls.
Catching the bed-sheets in his hand and moving to switch the nightlamp
on as his feet touched floor, Durfield let his eyes grow accustomed to
the bright light now filtering across the room. Same turmoil as with
the ruddy animal immobilized in its tracks, he thought, excepting now
the darkness coiled in wait instead of that speeding car. Same fate, he
pondered, nearly aloud. No, not really, because I have a vestige of
control here, he reassured himself. The lamp-switch allows me, of
course, to commandeer the ignition keys to this vehicular room. I have
mastery of my environment, however limited. The fawn or hare has no
more free will in that regard than a stone spinning upon itself through
orbital space. The animal freezing in its tracks is but a by-product of
its own misshapen destiny--a projection of inward fear itself. Instinct
knows only one route when threatened, he theorized. I, at least, have
that avenue of self-preservation plus the dimension of reason. That and
that alone separates me from the splattered remnants of a deer against
the highway. Its over-specialization dooms or pre-dates its response.
So very predictable, he mused fingering the face of his big, green
lettered clock. I'm different, he began reassuring himself adjusting
his eyes to the flooding light a little less nervously. I have the
calling card of reason plus an instinctual nature. The two should
compliment one another. Why, take that accursed noise. I can attempt
its categorization in hope of dispelling the fear of the unknown.
What's more, I can move to lessen its impact or remove it altogether.
In effect, I can take the edge off its annoyance altogether and sleep
peacefully for the rest of the evening. If only I could identify its
source!
Still, it was so very still in the room now. It was as if the advance
of light had checked the noise, whatever its origin acting as a
deterrent to its raucous splendour. Yes, that's it, he thought. The
light in some fashion interfered or dispels the racket that spawns the
darkness. How irrational. What a repudiation of his earlier thesis that
man, as a rational being, manipulated his surroundings as opposed to
being the mere lackey of circumstance. Yet, there was but one way to
determine the logistics of his theory, he reasoned. Apply brakes to the
light and brace oneself for the possible resumption of the unearthly
noise.
Did he dare? Did he, in a Profroukian sense, care to challenge the
impetus of the moment--that crackle of sound made as it darned a wavy
edge over the liquid crack of an audible wave? Could he presume to roll
up his trouser legs, eat the allegorical peach or clutch the parchment
of his being to prepare a loosing onto the gates of night? A strange
synthesis for a man priding himself on logic, he muttered quickening
the thought process. Carefully, he prepared himself for the venture.
Barely a flick away, he imagined a surge of electricity to go rifling
through the inroads of his body, illuminating in garish sequence the
duality of his true nature--lucidity and ghost fear. He was ready to
examine the Hegelian fusion of his private universe.
The light remained off. Unbearable became the mental jousting going
forth across the diameter of his brain, that circle of intense inner
reasoning. Yet nothing threatening had yet developed. No formidable
barrage of sound like the last time just bare minutes before when the
noise had tormented him so. No creeping need to silence the unexplained
droning that parried his sanity. But where did that place his theory on
darkness and a correlation with the heightened noise's proliferation?
What if the noise should return when, say, he awoke tomorrow in the
luxury of a room bathed in morning's warm gaze? How might he cope amid
sheer inconsistencies, such contradictions like that?
Now the uninterrupted silence assumed growing dimensions. There was
nothing amiss, yet nothing resolved either. The sound and fury existed
in a mute silence, growing within the totality beyond categorization.
After all, it was darkest before dawn. And when did a fat man look his
most corpulent--next to one deprived of flesh, of course. One could not
react too carefully juxtaposed against glaring opposites in a universe
filled with few resolutions. No, he would not be lulled into a false
confidence, into the luxury of seemingly overcoming the mystery of his
baffling noise. In all sincerity, he must anticipate everything.
Perhaps the very silence harboured little noises like maggots invisible
to the eye? Invisible, yet nonetheless there, brooding for an assault
beneath a limpid surface? Yes, the enemy--that pestilent noise was
still in its lair watching his fragile kingdom, eyeing an opening,
searching out his jugular. He would blunt it, though. Under no
circumstances would he crack. Not the likes of him. Must remain calm at
all costs, he cautioned himself. He must remain master of the
situation, not be alarmed should the phantom noise return. After all,
in darkness lay his chance to test his theory of the sound's
interrelation with shadow. Without darkness, there was no sure way to
clear this mess up once and for all.
The doctor searched again for a pulse, then shook a wearied head. The
bedclothes were damp with perspiration and the room lay ajar with
evidence of disarray. Durfield's eyes stared voluminously through their
sockets and seemed fixed to the furthest wall of his bedroom. At the
room's opening lay an overturned table with the smashed remains of a
deflected lamp with its nightshade crumpled lying by the base of the
wall.
"I just got up for a drink in the minute of the night and stumbled
against the door," the younger brother was explaining. "I could barely
even see the door, honest. I didn't mean to wake him or anything like
that. He's given me heck before."
The doctor closed the eyelids against pupils bulging in a vaccuous
profusion. He said nothing, but renewed his glance at the broken glass
and dark spot on the coiled rug where spilt water had made a
crevice-like opening over the linoleum and upturned nightstand.