Garden of Solace

“Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own minds.”

Franklin D. Roosevelt

Confined beneath the world of the living, hardly in the grave and not buried or eulogized, Jamison suffered. His lament could not be heard by those above ground that were free to come and go flowing in life’s stream. On display like a war map on a wall he ached suspended while peering eyes examined the map which was his body.

Jamison was a tattooed businessman with investments in the Jamaican exports of alumina, bauxite, sugar and agricultural products and clothing. He also imported food, beverages, mineral fuels and fertilizers. He wanted more than anything to be out on the ocean with his wife Lora on their tour boat “Soul Sabbath.” Fate had reached out and snatched him from the comfortable living place they shared in Jamaica and for the time being he was trapped. His muscular arms had been stretched by harnesses over his head, his legs pulled tight, restrained by similar harnesses ratcheted tight. His body was supine, suspended high enough for the onlookers to walk beneath him during the examination. When he awoke this morning he could have never imagined being subjugated in this barbaric manner. Wearing only a loin cloth around his waist, this was the last thread of dignity that remained. No bodily harm would come to him immediately because his skin was a canvas of heavenly design waiting to be translated and interpreted.

Regaining consciousness his head hurt. He could not discern if it was from a blow to the head or jumping through time. It was either a concussion or his neurons trying to fire from the depths of the cortical folds within his skull.

A presence of someone or something was in this place with him. He could feel the coldness, a rising malice as coherence as well as fear struck his senses with a sickness that attacked his intellect. Fully awake he would rather have remained dreaming in delirium replete with ecstasy but this wasn’t meant to be. At least in the idyllic realm he could imagine himself anywhere but here. But wasn’t this a selfish thought? There was Lora to consider. Where was Lora his beautiful bride that had been kissed by the sun? Was she also taken during his abduction? Should he yell out for her? What good would it do? If she were here what relief would that bring him? Calling her name may just alert these monsters and stir something in them to kidnap her as well if they had not already done so. He could only hope that she was safe back at their home in the “Land of Wood and Water.”

If she were here he believed he would be able to feel her. Anytime she was close to him he knew it. He could not feel her. What does it mean? Could she be dead? Oh God no! Don’t let her be dead. His sudden sorrow was intruded upon by the sound of movement beneath him. Something was rustling around, like restless fingers on wood, a tapping of a foot on stone. Whatever stirred made no audible sound and neither did Jamison who remained motionless, still trying to breathe normal. He knew that being reserved would not keep the inevitable from happening. The longer he constrained himself and pretended to be asleep the more time he had to think up a plan and detach him self from the callousness of this situation.

Jamison had been in many horrifying predicaments but he could not remember a more severe entanglement. Through the discomfort he noticed staleness in the room. He begged mentally for a breeze, something to wave fresh vivifying air to his body.

An icy dullness from something living touched his back. He dare not twitch a muscle. He would remain taciturn for as long as possible. When things began to become truculent which he figured would happen sooner or later he promised himself that he would not answer a word. He vowed to remain stoic until the end regardless of the brutality or ruthlessness showed to him.

He could not have realized that he was far too valuable to his captors to abuse, or scar in any manner. He was the Holy Grail, a guide to universal dominance and power. Savagery against him would not be tolerated. His keepers were under strict orders that no harm was to come to him before his time. Those in authority who controlled the premises acted with exacting swiftness and rigid structure so that they would not have the same failure befall them as their predecessors.

A noise like a hand crank turning broke the uncertainty and snapped Jamison from panic to sheer panic. He noticed his body was turning. He was being spun around headed face down. The pressure on his body shifted as his internal organs gave away to gravity and his lungs were squeezed. He kept his eyes closed not wanting to give his guards or guard any reason to suspect that he could answer questions. He needed to spy out the situation so he could measure what he was up against; without knowing the odds and possible exits he had no chance. His mind diagnosed every scenario in hope that when the time came he had a plan. It was vital he saved his energy. He did not know if he had strength or not. Not having anyway of knowing how long he had been prisoner, he wasn’t even sure if he was hungry or not.

Once in the prone position, even with his eyes closed he saw light. His shoulder joints were beginning to sting and tingle. His hands and feet grew numb from lack of circulation. Ischemia is about the worse thing that can happen to a body part. With the build up of carbon dioxide and lactic acid along with nerve compression Jamison would have a hard time carrying out any devised plan of escape. He desperately needed to move. The sensation was becoming intolerable. Excruciating and unbearable his extremities were throbbing like a thousand pin pricks.

Jamison made up his mind and called on the bravery that had won many battles before this one. He slightly opened his eyes enough to allow the light seep through his eye lashes. He strained to see. Nothing was apparent; regrettably there was the absence of anything obvious. He would have to fully open his eyes if he was going to see what he was faced with. As his eyes opened he witnessed a very unsettling scene. Just beneath him to his left was a writing table. At the table was an old man, dressed like a monk busy drawing. Jamison got a clear view of the monk’s work. On the large piece of paper was an exact duplicate of the tattoos that covered Jamison’s back. This monk did not look at Jamison’s face he was focused now entirely on the tattoo’s which adorned the anterior part of his body.

“Picasso, You like what you see old man?” Jamison initiated conversation testing the monks resolve. Being ignored by the artist Jamison opened his mouth again. “I look better standing up.” The monk was not influenced he continued adding color to his work. Doing his best Frank Sinatra voice Jamison said “You don’t scare me. I’ve got chunks of guys tougher than you in my stool!” The monk did not flinch. “So, you don’t watch SNL huh?” Jamison assumed that this would be a one sided conversation either due to a language barrier or just pure rudeness. “What, you don’t speak English?” For fun he switched languages. “Hablas Inglés?”

The monk stood and grabbed Jamison’s face tightly in his right hand and in a strong Scottish accent gritting his teeth together he said “Can A gie ye a haund? He pushed Jamison’s head to one side and let go.

“You’re a real jewel you celibate Friar Tuck looking freak. Why don’t you be a man and cut me down?” Jamison was angry and helpless. The anchorite returned to his seat and continued ignoring Jamison who hung like a human hammock feeling incompetent and incapacitated obligated to remain secure and deprived of liberty.

The sound of a creaking door made Jamison jerk his head to the side for a clear view. He had not noticed the door in the deep shadows of the room. He still had not surmised how big or small the room was. Through the large wooden door with rusty hinges entered four men appearing to be guards in this facility. From the quick look Jamison noticed a hallway on the other side of the door. Aha! An escape route he thought.

The monk rolled one of the pieces of art into a scroll and slid it down into a poster tube. He handed it to one of the men. They were dressed casually but carried side arms and what appeared to be asp batons. Jamison knew that if he could gain access to one of those telescopic batons that he could quickly manage disarming the thugs. He just needed the use of his hands.

“Guys, have some mercy here, my hands and feet are dead. I can’t feel a thing. Come on, loosen these things, please.” He pleaded with them with his best acting skills.

He heard the sound of wheels turning and realized that he was being let down by the hand crank. No one answered his request to be loosened or acknowledged him in any manner but at least he was being either readjusted or moved.

He was brought down to the floor and then brought up to his feet. To himself he said “Please just give me my feet and I will make it worth your while.”

He looked at the monk. “Come on man, loosen these they are killing me.”

Thoroughly disgusted he responded “Haud yer wheest!” and pointed his finger in Jamison’s face.

With extreme resentment splashed across his face Jamison mocked him “Wow, scary, and I thought we were becoming friends.”

The monk smirked confidently “You’re a long time deid. Ye’ll get yir heid in yir hauns an yir lugs ti pley wi.” In English that wasn’t good. It meant “you’re in big trouble. You’ll get your head in your hands and your ears to play with!”

Jamison smiled at the monk and responded with his own wit from one of his favorite movies “Tomb Stone. “Why, Ed, what an ugly thing to say. I abhor ugliness; does this mean we’re not friends anymore?”

One of the guards bent down and loosened his ankle restraints just enough that he was able to scoot his feet taking baby steps. Even loosened he was unable to take action. The shackles were tight but were not as painful as when he was hanging as a subject of the monks undivided attention. A canvas hood was tossed over his head and he was led out of the room. Then they went left twelve steps, took a right, he heard a door open and close behind him. Another twelve steps and they went down a flight of twenty four steps approximately two stories deeper. No one said a word and there were no discernable noises.

“You guys should learn not to talk so much; I can’t get a word in edge wise.” Jamison waited for a reply, but again they were not conversant. He counted forty steps and a new sound, a steel door sliding and it sounded heavy. There was a clang, a clank, and a crashing slam. Normally he was not the type to worry. His demeanor was usually calm, cool and collected yet in this case he saw need for alarm. If his captors had finished duplicating and making an exact copy of his body art they may no longer require his services. If he had served his purpose and exceeded his usefulness there was only one thing left to do with him. If they had intended to kill him why did they not do it back there? Why lead him far away? Another 40 steps past the steel door and into an elevator; it must have been spacious because he didn’t feel crammed in. Maybe they wanted him to walk to his death rather than carrying a corpse all this way. He wasn’t about to make it easy on anyone.

“You fella’s ever hear the old saying silence holds many words?” It was apparent that these guys were not going to give away any secrets. Obviously well trained and disciplined these were not the run of the mill prison guards these were soldiers.

Jamison counted 6 floors down when the final ding sound was heard. From the elevator they emerged and 24 more paces until they came to a halt.

Just remove the hood Jamison thought. Just remove this stinking hood!