The Five Times I Met Myself (30 page)
Brock leaned back and sighed. He wasn’t up for a lecture about quests and destiny. He needed to know how to dream again.
“There’s a point to this, right?”
“Most people refuse to face the truth. They choose to stay where they think they’re safe.” Shagull sat back against the bench. “You’ve made choices, Brock.”
“And look where it’s brought me.”
“Where is that?”
“You know exactly where. Tell me how to dream again so I can get back to the time before I, or he, made the decisions I influenced him to make. I have to turn this thing around.”
“What if you never dream again?”
“I can’t continue to live like this.”
“Why not? You’re the one who set this life in motion.” The doctor folded his hands and tilted his head.
“Which is why I need to be the one to change its trajectory.”
“I’d like to give you something.” The doctor used one hand to open his coat, the other to pull out a long brown envelope. He set the envelope on his lap.
“What’s in the envelope?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute.” The doctor tapped his lips. “Do you think God speaks? Talks to us?”
“Sometimes I think yes, sometimes I’m not so sure.”
“Neither am I.” The doctor chuckled. “But I’m starting to lose my balance on the fence and believe I’m falling.”
“Which side are you coming down on?”
“That he does speak. If we’re willing to slow down enough to listen. And if we’re willing to act on what he says.”
“You care to tell me what he said to you?”
“I think you might need to do something that was set in motion years ago. I think it’s time.” The doctor lifted the envelope. “It might seem a little odd, but I think God told me to make a suggestion.”
“What?”
“It’s just an impression, mind you, that it should be now. Might have been him telling me, might have been a stray idea that bubbled up from my subconscious without bidding.”
“What should be now?”
Shagull handed Brock the envelope. “Open it.”
Brock tore open the envelope and pulled out a sheet of paper with a picture of a mountain on it. Below the photo it read,
Despite its intermediate difficulty, Mount Pilchuck sees a slew of visitors in any given year as hikers flock to the trail for its grand panoramic
views and historic restored fire lookout. Easily one of the most rewarding hikes in the area, its relatively short 2.7 mile, 2,300-foot ascent gifts you 360-degree views of Mount Baker, Mount Rainier, and the Olympics from its shelter lookout, which sits nestled on a summit that tops out around 5,300 feet. The journey is made possible by a high-elevation trailhead, which sets you off on your travels around 3,000 feet, cutting what would otherwise be an arduous ten-mile round-trip in half.
“You want me to hike up there.”
“Yes.”
“And do what?”
“Northeast of the fire lookout—fifty or so feet—is a box hidden, covered by a rock two shades darker than any of the rocks near it. I want you to find it.”
“Did you leave it there?”
“No, a friend of mine did.”
“But you want me to open it.”
“Yes. Trust me, my friend will be fine with that.”
“Who is your friend?”
The doctor’s eyes brightened, and his countenance betrayed a deeper knowledge of what Mt. Pilchuck would mean for Brock.
“What do you know, Dr. Shagull?”
The doctor rose and brushed off his slacks. “Nothing.”
“Tell me.”
The doctor clasped his hands behind his back and stretched his arms. “It would take considerable force to convince me that would be a wise decision. We’ll talk again after your return.”
Shagull tipped his hat, snatched his walking stick from where it rested against the bench, and strode away from Brock at a faster clip than a man of his age should have been able to generate. Brock
remained on the bench for another ten minutes, wishing he was in better shape, because tomorrow he’d go on a hike that might be the key to the door of his salvation, and he wouldn’t be able to get up that mountain fast enough.
J
UNE
11, 2015
W
ithin ten minutes of reaching the top of Mt. Pilchuck, Brock found the rock on the north side of the summit and shoved it to the side. Underneath was a wooden box inside a thick plastic bag, within another plastic bag, both yellowed with age. He opened the bags and slid out the box. His name was carved into the top. What? How was that possible? A friend of Shagull’s had done this?
Brock lifted the box and climbed down the back side of the peak till he found a small alcove where he wouldn’t be spotted by anyone who might appear at the top of the mountain. Even though he’d hit the trail at six thirty that morning, he didn’t want to chance bumping into other early risers.
The box was simple but radiated an astounding elegance. Six or seven inches long by four inches wide. It looked like maple wood with multiple coats of a dark stain. Brock ran his fingers over the surface, almost expecting it be warm. It wasn’t, but a sense
of wonder and lightness filled him as he placed his whole hand on the box.
He lifted the lid slowly as if he didn’t want the wonders inside to escape. The box made no sound as he lifted the lid. A thick piece of paper sat on top of the contents. He unfolded it.
May 31, 2005
Dear Future Brock,
Brock stopped and went to the bottom of the page to confirm what he’d just realized.
Your friend in dreams,
Brock
Heat raced through him. Incomprehensible.
He
was Shagull’s friend, the one who had made the box and placed it on top of this mountain. Brock closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and read the entire letter from the top.
May 31, 2005
Dear Future Brock,
If you’re reading this, then you are who you said you were all those years ago.
You changed my life through the things you said, and through things you didn’t say.
Now, maybe it’s time for me to change yours, or at least remind you of what I pray you already know and are living out every day.
I was going through some old boxes that Mom was going to
throw out and found something I want you to see. I’m not going to tell you why, I get the feeling God will tell you what it’s all about. And if you embrace what he tells you, it will set you free.
I think what you’ll find in the box I made is the place where the circles intersect.
Your friend in dreams,
Brock
As Brock reread the letter, he tried to wrap his mind around the fact his younger self had written to him in this time line. He’d stopped trying to figure out how his present and past had intertwined to form a new reality, but this was a new twist. And how did Shagull know to send him up this mountain?
Brock turned the box over and his breath caught. Carved into the bottom were the three overlapping circles Shagull had shown him. The place where the past, the present, and the future meet. And the place where the Father, the Son, and the Spirit intersect.
The top and bottom of the box were lined with what looked like white silk. A thin black border ran along its edges. The only thing inside was a small rectangular object wrapped in light-brown paper. Wonder surged through Brock. The package from his dreams of his father. He touched the torn corner as if it might shock him, hesitated, then tore half the paper away.
Brock sat stunned, staring at a relic from this childhood he hadn’t thought of for forty years. Captain Action. The Ideal Toy Company’s answer to G.I. Joe. Captain Action, who could turn into Batman, Spider-Man, Captain America, Aquaman, the Lone Ranger, and so many other characters.
Captain Action, the ultimate hero. One for Ron, one for Brock, Christmas 1971. His dad had been almost giddy that morning.
“Okay, last present, boys!” His dad had handed them the gifts and rubbed his hands together as he waited for them to rip off the paper and discover what was inside.
“Do you like him?” Their father grinned and nodded as they gave their approval. Ron and Brock loved Captain Action.
How could he have forgotten the worlds he and Ron created together? Millions of late nights under their fort blanket downstairs, each of them with their Captain Action in hand, battling the forces of evil together. Their mom forcing them to come inside after another endless summer night of creating adventures under the trees in their backyard.
“Ronnie! Watch this!” Brock had launched himself out of the apple tree next to their above-ground plastic pool, Captain Action in Superman mode in hand, and belly-flopped into the water. When Brock recovered, Ron climbed the tree and flung himself down like his older brother, smacking the water even harder. Their stomachs hurt for two hours, but they didn’t care.
Their dad built them a headquarters for the captains out of wood and bought them every issue of the Captain Action comic book. But in the fall of the following year, their dad had his nervous breakdown and everything changed. Captain Action left Brock’s life. The figure reminded him too much of his dad. But that wasn’t the case with Ron.
“Brockie! Come on, let’s play.” Ron had held up his Captain Action and his Green Hornet costume on a Saturday afternoon full of rain and boredom. “You be the Phantom, and I’ll be Green Hornet. And we’ll save the—”
“Ronnie, I’m . . . I don’t feel like it right now . . . I gotta do some other stuff.”
“Whaddaya gotta do?”
“Practice basketball and school stuff.”
“What about the code?” Ron’s eyes pleaded with him. “We gotta follow our Code. Please?”
“Um, yeah, maybe after dinner tonight, okay?”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, sure.”
But Brock broke the promise, and they never played Captain Action again.
Brock stared at the package and tore off the rest of the brown wrapping. He hesitated, then opened the top and pulled out the figure. Captain Action stared at him as if asking where Brock had been all these years.
Stupid thought,
he told himself. But it wasn’t.
Taped to the figure was a piece of paper. Brock had no doubt what it was.
“I have an idea, boys.” Their dad had put down a piece of paper and laid a thick black marker on top of it. “Every hero has a code. How he’s going to act. What do you think about coming up with a code for you guys and Captain Action? Because you two are heroes now.”
Brock unfolded the paper as if it were two-thousand-year-old parchment. There, scrawled in Ron’s and his eight- and nine-year-old writing, was their proclamation to the world:
OUR CAPTAIN ACTION CODE
Save the world!
Destroy the bad guys!
Rescue all the good guys!
Get the girl free!
Brothers till the end of time!
That’s all that matters or will ever matter!
Brock sat on the granite boulder, overwhelmed with the truth exploding in his heart. The breeze picked up as if to confirm his feelings. The Code. So simple. So true. There was no line on there about making Black Fedora an idol. Nothing in the Code about being so focused on competition and winning it would become a god. No mention of ignoring your son.
Save the world. Free the girl. Brothers till the end of time. That’s all that matters.
Brock read the Code again, and then for a third time before folding it and sliding Captain Action and the note back into the box.
He sat staring at the horizon as the sun made its way across the sky. Finally, he pulled out his phone and dialed Shagull.
“Hello?”
“We met before, didn’t we?”
“Yes, Brock. We did. Ten years ago. In the very spot you’re standing right now. And we met a few times after that as well.”
“You talked to him—to me—about the three circles.”
“Yes.”
“Only ten years ago.” Brock rubbed his face. “When you heard I’d called you, it must have been a shock.”
“Quite. Especially when I realized you had no recollection of that earlier encounter. But part of me anticipated it based on what the other Brock told me.”
“That’s why you don’t see readers of your book, but you agreed to see me. Why you’ve never charged me anything. You wanted to see how this would play out.”
“And I wanted to help you.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You have to understand, this whole adventure has been almost as strange for you as it has for me, so I wasn’t sure how much to say, and how much to leave unsaid. But one thing I was certain of: God is behind this, and with him in control, it is better to say less than needed, rather than say more.”
“This explains why you’re the only one who has stayed constant in every time line.”
“It doesn’t explain how it’s possible, but it certainly explains why.”
“What else do you know?”
“Nothing.”
“Where do I go from here?”
“What was in the box? Did it give you any direction?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all you’re going to say?”
“That’s all.”
When Brock pushed through the door of his houseboat at five that afternoon, he set the box on his kitchen counter and made himself his highly customized BLT. He took it to the roof and watched a pair of kayakers traverse the waters of Lake Union.
