Tabula Rasa

0000

When I wake, I wake in fright. It is like a vacuum seal being broken; there is nothingness, and then all of sudden, there is everything, all rushing in, all at once.

There is nothingness, and then there is me, waking, floundering and desperate, as though I’ve just come up from deep water.

I am dry though, and the air I gulp down is cool, stale, the light harsh and blinding. The world is grey and white. I am in a cabin, laid on a narrow bunk, flat on my back. The cabin is unfamiliar to me; all is unfamiliar to me. The ground moves and sways in a gentle, thudding rhythm, like the heartbeat of a giant.

Not a heartbeat; a train. I am on a train.

Good morning.

The voice urges me to stand on weak, unsteady legs. I fall and then rise again and grasping, gripping, I make it to the window. The world flies past in a blur of white and blue. Snow. Snow and clear skies and a brutal, brilliant sun. I do not know this place.

Good morning.

I am greeted again. The voice, not my own, seems to come from every direction, seems to spill and seep from the walls and floors. It is pleasant, smooth. Androgynous and with minimal accent. I do not know the voice.

I make to answer, but my mouth is dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. My throat makes odd clicking noises.

There is water on the desk if you require it.

Behind me, a pitcher and a glass. I forego the glass and drink directly from the jug. In my haste, water spills down my chin and front, staining the soft carpeted floor. I drink until the pitcher is empty and lean on the desk, coughing and gasping. Saliva strings and drops to its surface, but I cannot bring myself to care.

That’s better.

Is it? What is better, in this situation? What is the situation at all?

Now that you are more alert, let me try again. Good morning. Welcome aboard. We will be your Conductor for the duration of your trip. We are very pleased to have you here.

A figure moves and lurches across the cabin. My heart thunders and quakes at the sight, and I rear back, pitcher knocked to the ground. The figure does the same. It takes a few seconds to realise I am looking at a mirror. I am the figure across the cabin.

I move closer and stare. It is me, undeniably so. It is a mirror, undeniably so.

I do not know the person that stares back. I do not know myself.

I am clean, vigorously so. My nails are clipped and scrubbed, filed into neat half moons. Hair shiny and pulled back, practical, professional—the smell of plain soap and laundry powder wafts from my skin and the fabrics.

I wear simple clothes. Ironed to crisp perfection, trousers that caress my ankles, a white button up shirt. Grey blazer, the same colour as the walls. Underneath, plain cotton underwear, nondescript and modest. Laced, leather shoes that hug my feet, shiny as a new coin. A uniform, of sorts. Every item, expertly tailored. Like it was ready. Like it was waiting for me. All of it is for me.

There is a thin, metal collar around my neck. When I grasp my fingers around it, it is immovable and solid, seemingly with no join, only a smooth, buffered surface the whole way around. A leash, of sorts.

It is for me, but I do not know me. The person in the mirror is just a person that moves when I move, touches their face with long, spidery fingers. Whoever I am, I am underweight. Bones are sharp at my hips and collarbones. There is a scar across the ridge of my left thumb. There must be a story there, but I cannot recall it.

My eyes are dark and pitless. They are haunting, haunted.

I search the deep fathoms of my mind but do not find myself. There are only empty corners, blank surfaces.

Tabula rasa.

The phrase emerges from the darkness. I don’t know how I know it, but I do, the same way I know that the style of my shoes are Oxfords, but do not know my own name.

A clean slate. That is what my mind is. Uncorrupted, unformed.

“Who am I?”

My voice is gravelly and low. Perhaps I am a smoker. Or maybe it is just the sleep still stuck in my throat.

You are the Passenger.

Passenger. A person who travels without participating in its operation. Conductor. One who instructs, directs. It is clear where the power lies on this train. It un-nerves me, irritates me. My emotions make no sense to me. Perhaps I am the kind of person who dislikes taking orders, harbors disdain for authority. There is only one way to find out.

I leave the cabin.

Each door I pass contains the same scene; an identical room, sparsely furnished, the curtains open to reveal our environment. There is no break in the snow, no cease to the landscape. It must be that way by design.

You are an unusually quiet Passenger. Most have many questions for us. Many questions and more.

The Conductor offers me this information freely as I walk, their voice following my path.

I am not the first Passenger. There have been enough Passengers that their questions have become routine, boring to the Conductor, so much so that any deviation has surprised them.

“Will you answer if I ask?”

There is a beat of silence as the Conductor considers.

No.

“Then I will save us both the hassle,”

I arrive at a door. Beyond it, a dining area. Empty. There is the pressing, lonely feeling that there are only the two of us aboard. The Conductor and the Passenger.

If you keep walking you will find a meal prepared for you. It is the least we can do.

We. The phrase is as loaded as a gun. Conductor is singular. We is not.

The Conductor is right; at the last table in the carriage, a cloche is set over the middle of the table. It is bracketed by cutlery, and two fine glasses sit above it. One is filled with orange liquid, the other white.

I sit at the table. Tuck in the white silk napkin to my collar and smooth it over my chest. The Conductor has already told me they will not answer my questions, thus there is no point asking. The annoyance still sits in my chest. I will take their demands, for now.

Please. Eat.

I lift the shiny bronze cloche and the aroma is instant and intoxicating.

Breakfast; a bowl of porridge, a plate of two thick brown pieces of toast with butter. To the side, an offering of fresh fruit, and two mints in a tiny dish. The glasses, I find upon inspecting them, are orange juice and milk.

I realise for the first time that I am hungry. Starving, sharp, stabbing pangs in my belly, saliva pooling with swiftness in my mouth. I am eating before I even realise it, decorum tossed to the side.

Healthy food for a healthy mind. We do hope you enjoy.

I do enjoy. I mop the dregs of my porridge with the toast and eat the fruit with my fingers, forgoing the small fork clearly meant for it. I drink both the orange juice and the milk, even though I find I don’t care for the latter.

I sit back, panting from the vigour with which I devoured.

Excellent. Now we may begin.

“Have we not already begun?”

No. For your benefit, this has been a grace period. To recover your strength.

‘Recover’ suggests I have been in some stage of deterioration prior to awakening. I think of my prominent bones, the sallowness of my cheeks. There are a number of reasons that may have caused it. Poverty, homelessness, eating disorders.

A drug addict, perhaps. I raise the sleeve on my left arm and inspect the crook of my elbow but find nothing to indicate injection points. The buffered, almost impersonal presentation of my body makes me feel like some kind of doll.

Are you ready?

I tug the sleeve back down. I am unnerved.

I don’t bother asking the Conductor what I am supposed to be ready for. I will find out soon enough.

“I am ready,”

Wonderful. Let us begin.

T MINUS 6 HOURS

I have six hours to make my way forward through the carriages and to the Conductor. If I succeed, I will be allowed to live. If I fail, the train will speed right on and over a cliff, killing me.

In each carriage there lies a task for me. Three tasks, each allotted two hours. I must pass them to the satisfaction of the Conductor, or I will not be allowed to continue on to the next. Then the time will run out and I will die.

If I attempt to escape, the collar on my neck will trigger a blade that will pierce up through my neck and sever my spinal cord and brain and I will die.

If I refuse to attempt the tasks, the collar will activate and I will die.

If I act particularly belligerent and abusive or damage train property, the collar will activate and I will die.

If I attempt to remove the collar in any way it will activate and I will die.

The only way to live is to go forward.

The door to the first carriage opens. I step through.

TASK 1

The first task is a game of chess. I find it underwhelming. Predictable, even.

You find this pretentious.

I am playing against the Conductor. I am given white, as a courtesy, they say. It is polite to allow your guests to go first. ‘Guest’ feels highly generous; considering the collar around my neck, I believe the word ‘prisoner’ is more appropriate.

“I suppose,” I take their knight. So far, we seem to be of equal skill. Or the Conductor is pretending we are. Their pieces move on their own, controlled, I think, by some kind of magnetic manipulation. When I take them, they resist and stick to the board until I pull hard enough. The chair opposite me is empty, but above it, a red light blinks high on the wall.

The Conductor’s eye watching over me.

The first task is designed to be familiar. To soothe, in a way.

“I can’t imagine it would be soothing if I didn’t know how to play,” I watch with almost disinterest as the Conductor claims my third pawn of the game. Pawns are meant to be sacrificed, after all.

We knew you could play. That is why we chose chess. Each task is tailored for the Passenger.

The use of ‘we’ is beginning to drive me to distraction. I fumble my next move, moving my bishop and failing to notice the Conductor’s queen lurking. I bite back a curse when she swoops, knocking my bishop from the board.

The information is intriguing. Hidden in these tasks are fragments of myself that I have to dig for, a sick kind of treasure hunt. Can you find the hint? What does it reveal, and what does it illuminate?

I know how to play chess. Fairly well. My hands never falter, are never unsure. The Conductor is right. The game is soothing in a way, the feel of the pieces intimate in my hands. I am skilled at chess. I dislike the taste of milk and apparently harbour a disdain for being told what to do. Such funny little leads that guide me to only more dark corners.

I win the chess game handily. I believe less and less that the Conductor is allowing it. By the time ‘check mate’ is spoken and my piece taps the board with finality, my mind is clear, all possible routes and moves visible. The Conductor could not have won. The game is mine and it is mine on my own merit.

I am almost disappointed for it to be over.

Congratulations. A thrilling game.

The clock on the wall above the Conductor’s red eye tells me the game took 46 minutes. It surprises me. I was so consumed it felt like no time at all. But still, I am well ahead of schedule. Time left over from tasks is added to the next. For the following, I will have three hours and twelve minutes.

Outside the windows, the snow never breaks, never reveals more than what can be seen on the surface. The sun is slowly rising in the sky. Bits of light spill onto the chess board, and the pieces cast inky shadows.

The door across from me opens. I stand, shaking out the stiffness.

Are you ready?

It’s patronising, really, the way the Conductor keeps asking me that. There is no choice. Ready or not ready hardly matters. A train is linear. The way forward is set, unchanging.

I do not answer. I go onward.

TASK 2

T MINUS 5 HOURS AND 14 MINUTES

There is a house. One enters it blind and comes out seeing. What is it?

A fucking riddle.

There is a single chair in the middle of the room. I ignore it and stand at the window, my hands clasped behind my back. Before me, the world blurs and races. Behind me, the red eye of the Conductor sits above the forward doorway. It weights down my shoulders and sinks the soles of my shoes into the lush carpet.

“How many attempts do I get?”

As many as it takes. But they must be considered answers.

Considered answers. No wild guessing, then.

A house. Blindness. The revelation of sight. The riddle is insulting, in a way. In this train, I am blinded, robbed of past vision.

I think beyond physical traits. A person can be blind in more than one way. Sight can be turned within. A house can be more than a house. Riddles, in their very essence, conceal, veil, mix meanings. They hide within themselves.

Am I hiding, somewhere in the blankness of my mind? Is that what these tasks are for? Are they meant to reveal me, through hints and suggestions?

My head is beginning to hurt. I close my eyes. Blind. Seeing. The words feel religious, somehow.

“A church,”

There is a beat of silence.

Incorrect.

My mind is running in circles, running, running and ending up where it started. The darkness behind my eyelids calms. Is this train supposed to be the house? What is being revealed to me here?

Time is wasting. While my mind chases itself like a dog after its tail, time wastes. It feels like a great, black mass has risen in my brain, preventing me from thinking beyond it.

“A tunnel,” I try.

A beat.

Incorrect.

Blindness, sight. Sight, blindness. I am blind and now I see…what do I see? What are they doing to me on this train? I open my eyes.

The Conductor’s eye stares back. What is the Conductor trying to tell me? What are they trying to teach me? The questions burn like fire in my chest.

To teach me…To teach. To learn. The answer rises from the mass of darkness in my mind, a single beam of pure light shining through like a shooting star splitting a night sky.

“A school,”

The Conductor’s eye blinks. We stand, student and master.

Correct.

I feel both satisfaction at my ability to solve the riddle and anger at the audacity of the Conductor. That this train is somehow a place of learning. That I am somehow inferior to them, am lacking in a way that they can remedy.

“No need to ask,” I say, smoothing the front of my blazer even though it doesn’t require it. I stand before the door. “I’m ready,”

It took me an hour and eleven minutes to solve the riddle. A step down from the chess game, but still leaving me with ample time. The final task lies ahead.

Very well. Please, proceed. We will begin the third task.

TASK 3

T MINUS FOUR HOURS AND THREE MINUTES

There is a woman in the third carriage.

She is separated from me by a glass window, waist-height to ceiling and so polished it is almost as if it is not there at all.

She is tied to a chair. Feet bound to the legs and arms behind the back with leather straps. Another strap is snug over her mouth. Around her neck, a collar identical to mine.

She is crying.

The shock crashes like a wave. She can see but not hear me. I can see but not hear her. No sound permeates through the glass. When I enter through the door she reacts; attempting to rise and heaving at her restraints, eyes wide and bulging in fright, desperation. I imagine that she is making sounds like a pitiful, wounded animal, the noise muffled by the leather of the strap. She is dressed the same as me, identical down to the shoes, but her hair and clothes are messy, askew from her struggle.

She is unfamiliar, unknown. Does she recognise me? Should I recognise her?

“What is this?” I ask, my hands pressed to the glass, the wall, seeking.

The third task.

The Conductor’s voice seems closer than it has ever been. Its eye sits in its customary place, above the door. The woman flails and writhes.

Before you, you will see a switch.

In my preoccupation with the woman, I have overlooked it. Built into the wall, just below the mirror, is a large switch, currently flicked up. I feel a cold break over me like I have suddenly been submerged in freezing water.

To complete this task, you must flip the switch. Upon doing so, her collar will activate and end her life. You will be allowed to proceed forward to the Conductor’s carriage.

How simple. How cruel.

“I won’t,” I say, continuing to press, to search for some way to overcome the barrier, but I know it is fruitless even as I try.

Then you will both die.

“I don’t care. You can’t make me,”

No, we can’t. The decision is yours. She is dead either way. You must choose whether you will die too.

“Who is she?” I demand. “Do I know her? Is this the test? Some sort of trick where I’m meant to remember who she is? Who I am?”

There are no tricks here. Yes, you know her. But do you remember her?

I look upon her face and I feel nothing. She is a stranger to me, a face passing in a crowd of millions.

A relative, lover, friend? We appear too similar in age for her to either be my daughter or mother.

Relative, lover, friend. Someone I knew, perhaps loved. Perhaps still love, somewhere deep and dark where the me who still knows her lies hidden.

“Why?” I ask.

Why?

“Yes, why? Why me? Why any of this at all?”

We saw in you what was once in us. A great burden. How heavy it is to carry oneself, how unbearable a weight life can be. We saw that you were tired. And we wished to help you be free.

I have been played for a fool. This train, these tasks. I am not meant to find myself in them; I am meant to let myself go.

I hold my hands up and look at them. Rough, worn. Underneath my shirt, my ribs push, my skin taught and sallow. I recall how my eyes looked in the mirror. Tired.

Now that the Conductor has spoken it aloud it rears so strongly.

I feel it in my bones, too. There is a deep, lingering ache there that quietly bides, never wavering, never dulling. It is getting harder for me to ignore. I feel the sudden, crippling urge to allow it to swallow me whole. There is something that is waiting for me in the back of my mind, but I no longer feel the urge to go looking for it.

I lose time again. I stare out the window, my eyes looking but unseeing. I watch the women. She has stopped crying, stopped struggling. She merely watches me back. The clock ticks down but it seems no longer relevant. I wait for her face to morph, to change into something familiar, for the veil to be lifted from my mind.

It never happens.

Hours pass. The sun climbs steadily.

“To be free,” I whisper after what seems like an eternity.

Freedom lies in death, too. But there is one terrible, cowardly truth that will not be denied.

I am afraid of dying.

The clock on the wall tells me five minutes remain.

To be reborn, you first must die. To go forward, you must leave behind the past. The new cannot exist when the old still lingers. Eliminate this last corruption to become pure.

“Tabula rasa,” I whisper. Without form. Erased.

Yes. Yes, precisely. Tabula rasa.

The last tie that binds is before me. I must sever it to become free.

The woman knows my choice before I do. She stares, wet, fatigued eyes fixed on my face and I see reflected in them my resolution. I owe it to her to look her in the face as I end her life for the sake of my own.

I lay my finger on the switch. It is smooth and cold, chilly as ice.

I expect terror, betrayal, hatred. I would have preferred them.

Instead, there is nothing in her eyes but forgiveness as I press down; whoever she is, she forgives me as I flick the switch and her body jolts, spine going as taught as a strung arrow, head snapping back, face to the ceiling, arms and legs spasming in horrible, minute shudders.

In total, it takes maybe not even a second before she is dead, her collar piercing through her spinal cord and brain. I wonder if it had made a noise. If there had been no barrier, if I would have heard the crunch of her bones being cracked and punctured.

If it does, I do not hear it. I flick the switch. Across from me, she dies. On my side of the carriage, I remain, alive.

And in truth, I feel nothing. It is despicable. It is euphoric.

Congratulations, Passenger. You have finished all three tasks within the allowed timeframe. Please, proceed to the Conductor’s Cabin.

The forward door opens. The clock on the wall resets. All I see is the way ahead. I do not look at the windows. I do not look at her.

I do not look back.

0000

There is a little black box on a table. From its centre stares a red, unblinking eye.

“You’re the Conductor?”

We are the Conductor.

“We?” I think of a beehive. All those writhing bodies, working, moving as one.

We were like you, once. Passengers. Bound and corrupted. We are those who found the strength to cast aside our chains. To achieve the enlightenment of complete freedom. Freedom from the greatest prison; ourselves.

The Conductor’s Cabin is the head of the train. For the first time, I can see everything, all that lies beyond.

White and blue. Endless, rolling plains of snow, glittering like diamonds. Above it, the sky. The sun at its zenith, illuminating all. And between them, the horizon, drawing us in, pulling us to its embrace. From here, it almost feels like we are flying.

In the corner of my eyes, I notice a change in the landscape. To the right, a diverting track leads to a bridge in the distance. The middle is collapsed, leaving a wide, gaping mouth into open air. In another world, I am hurtling into that mouth, the woman and I, swallowed whole.

But I made my choice.

“What would have happened to you? Wouldn’t you have died too?”

No. This carriage would have detached and taken this track. You would have gone yours. Our paths would have diverged.

“But they didn’t,” I say and look back ahead. Through the front window, the world rushes in to greet us on our way. I feel it.

I feel it. The freedom. The blessed, rhapsodic abyss.

I have transcended to something greater.

You feel it, don’t you? Isn’t it ecstasy? Isn’t it paradise?

It is.

"What now?”

Join us. Become one with us. Share in our purpose. Help us bring this enlightenment to others, as it was brought to you.

Yes. To share in the glory of rebirth. A divine cause.

“I will. I will join you,”

The red eye of the Conductor blinks. If they had a face, perhaps they would smile.

Are you ready?

This time, I greet the question warmly.

“I am,”

I stare into the Conductor’s eye. They, one and many, stare back.

The Passenger begins to slip away. I become formless, weightless. The Conductor rushes in. It is sweet and painless. I become a We.

Welcome.

The Conductor speaks and the words are no longer from without. They come from within. It is my voice. It is our voice.

We are very pleased to have you here.