Oliver's intrigue

. . . It became the middle of the coldest night in the Vermont mountains. Mid-January. I had worked a double shift at the lodge, and I was just entering the house, shaking off the cold. I removed my coat and shoes and quietly made my way upstairs to find my wife, Mary, sleeping soundly. Normally, I’d shower after work, but it being so late I didn’t chance waking her or the children, all asleep soundly in their beds. Knowing I’d be unable to sleep right off, needing to unwind a little, I decided to head back downstairs and pour myself a couple fingers of brandy. And it was there that I’d decided to sit beside the fire.

Nonetheless, I needed to get the fire going again; it had been left to slowly die. There had once been an unspoken agreement between Mary and myself, always to keep the fire lit. And so I tended the embers, stoking them to life again, then adding a couple logs to really get it going. In no time it was roaring. I prepared a Brandy and picked up my book, “From Whence They Came”, and set myself to read.

I was about half-way finished, reading the chapter with Lady Sarah’s preaching’s, and Steve Coleman’s untimely meeting with the devil. Good stuff, I thought; wondering was I as to just what it must have been like creating those characters—as I myself had started lately, to write. If ever I could duplicate such a story as his, in what I had now just begun; my keeping a notebook by the chair, jotting down ideas I thought would pique the interest of middle America.

In ciphering all this, reading a little more, making notes, sipping my brandy, I’d obviously dozed off. When I awakened, the fire had again died down, and it was still dark outside. The book I’d been reading was upside down on my lap, along with the notepad and pen. The brandy I’d finished, still managing to hold the glass, not letting it drop. Neatly I inserted a book marker and placed the glass and other items on a side table.

Not knowing the hour, for here in the mountains the sun didn’t present itself until well after seven, I’d decided to make my way up to bed. Yet before I moved, something stirred within me, and I thought: ‘If only I could write like this. What I wouldn’t give for just a little recognition.’

I’d always wondered if it was meant that I be someone other than Oliver Cash, the dourly Reservations Clerk; someone to tend the embers of another’s dying fire?

“Surely you couldn’t have meant that?” replied an ominous voice, sounding as if it came from . . . the hearth. At first, I thought it was my son. But realized that was impossible, he was tucked-in upstairs, sleeping as were my daughter and Mary. Besides, the voice was far too deep. My heart began pounding. The reality of the anomaly sinking in.

Just who was in the house? How could they have gotten in? Why?

This was beginning to terrify me.

“I believe the proper phrase is ‘whom’,” corrected the voice. “And don’t worry, only you can hear me.”

“Who are you?” I murmured, shaking.

“Let’s just say I’m your friendly imagination.”

I thought the voice to be coming from the fireplace. It had to have been some devious trick of someone’s, but—

“What are you?” I asked, reassuring myself as to it being just a prank. I began looking around to see if I could locate the source of the mysterious hoax. I thought about the shotgun in the basement.

“As I said, I’m your imagination. Though it can be said that I have been the imagination of a great many throughout time; the smoldering embers of the heart. I was only saying what you’ve long been thinking—wishing perhaps.”

With those words, flames enlivened within the hearth; a partially burned log reigniting with a snap, then crackling with flames.

I must have been dreaming. But I couldn’t awaken myself.

“Think about what you want, Oliver. It is important. Humanity needs voices to awaken it, save if from itself. I know you could help it along. You will require assistance with your work, however. I’ll see to it that you get a little from your friend there. That author you’re now reading.”

“I’m not liking the way all of this is sounding,” I replied. “Being a devout church member—”

“Save it. ‘Church member’? You’re just as much a heathen as all the others of this township, rarely setting foot near one of those forsaken institutions. I cannot say that for your wife, however. You know as well as I that religion is in the heart, not some gilded cathedral lorded over by exasperated old men.”

The flames leaped wildly about the hearth. A hot flush raced through my body.

“With such a wonderful family to back you, and times being so well for you as they are, perhaps it is time you changed professions and began doing something you’ve longed to for years now. You’ve been more that a good father and faithful husband, now isn’t it time you share your talents with the world. The news is just brimming with every type of divisiveness imaginable. This newly elected President, Winns, will be fighting negativity every day of his administration and beyond. Even his own people admit to his being the biggest narcissist ever. Many cannot stand his madcap ways—ways that are necessary if this country is ever to survive. I, however, rather enjoy them. He brings a certain light to politics, wouldn’t you say?”

At those words, again the flames jumped, and I was certain I’d seen a face within them . . . my own.

“Half the population abhors the man, while the other half adores him. Pick your side. Never again will this nation be united. I see a fabulous market for a book—a series even. It’ll be a veritable bonanza!”

“But I—”

“We’ve all been through that. Yes, Oliver, I believe it’s time you shared with the world your thoughts on these latest political matters. Perhaps I should say, ‘My Thoughts’.”

A large pop and crackle erupted from the hearth.

“A writer’s words can be very influential, you know. Even more so the man who stands behind them! Come, join our mission. Become part of the Intellect! There is much to accomplish before things really become heated from the next election. Gives you a few years to gather your resources. Oliver—The world awaits you.”

I was dumbfounded by these words. My mind was spinning; a jumble of thoughts assaulting my sanity.

“Remember, ‘Timing is everything.’” The voice cackled, then faded as did the flames in the hearth . . .