Inversion - 18

Book V: The Unbound

Chapter 18

Laurel stood at the edge of the gathering, watching his followers arrange themselves in the usual semicircle for the evening teaching. Two hundred faces turned toward him expectantly, some weathered by decades of following him through wilderness and settlement, others bright with the enthusiasm of recent converts. The sight filled him with a weariness so profound that his knees buckled.

Twenty-five years had passed since Maya’s letter. He was eighty now, though his reflection in still water still showed the face of a man in his mid-thirties. Something, some combination of factors, about the accident and his sitting had ruined his life, had also preserved it, changing his cellular repair mechanisms in ways that interfered with normal aging. He had become a living paradox, unchanging in visage but still questing, still chafing against boundaries.

The earliest five sat in their accustomed places in the front. Asher, now seventy-eight, his white hair thinned to wisps, his once-steady hand now requiring a wooden brace to hold his pen. Lila, bent somewhat with arthritis but still emanating that gentle attentiveness that had first drawn him to accept her among his followers. Cal, whose zealous intensity had mellowed into something more peaceful and accepting. Nico, who had never quite learned to exist as himself, still unconsciously mimicking Laurel’s postures despite the increasing difficulty of movement. And Erin, the eternal skeptic, now past seventy but still sharp-eyed, still asking the questions that kept him honest.

They were dying, all of them. Not today, perhaps not even this year, but it would not be all that long. Their bodies were failing them while his remained frozen in time, a walking reminder of the accident that had started this strange second life.

“Teacher,” called a young woman from the middle rows. “Will you speak to us of the Eighth Current? I’ve been struggling to understand the nature of attunement.”

Again, that flicker of annoyance. How many times had he explained the Currents? How many different ways had he described the same fundamental principles? The teachings had become a performance, the same words delivered to ever-changing audiences who treated each repetition as divine revelation.

“The Eighth Current,” he began, his voice carrying the practiced cadence of decades, “flows through all things that seek harmony with the Flow itself…”

The words came automatically. He watched their faces as he spoke: the reverent attention, the careful note-taking, the nodding heads that followed his every gesture. These people had given him their lives, their devotion, their unquestioning faith. And he had given them what? A philosophy constructed from personal catastrophe? Wisdom born of bitterness and isolation?

Over the years, the community had grown and spread. Some followers had departed to set up their own teaching centers, carrying versions of his message to distant places. He’d heard rumors of schools in California, retreat centers in the Pacific Northwest, even groups in Europe who claimed to practice the teachings of “the American forest sage.” The Codex had been copied hundreds of times, translated into multiple languages, analyzed, and interpreted by scholars who had never met him.

What had begun as an attempt to make meaning from an accident had metastasized into something far beyond his intention or control. He was no longer teaching people. He was feeding a myth that had taken on its own inexorable life.

After the evening session, Laurel retreated to his shelter. The synthesizer made its usual noises in the corner, its solar cells barely functional after so many years of use. The device that had once seemed like salvation now felt like a chain, binding him to an existence he had never chosen. He could not eat normal food, could not live in normal society, could not age and die like a normal human being. The machine that processed his meals had become the instrument of his isolation.

He was tired. Tired of the questions, tired of the reverence, tired of being treated like something more than human when he had never felt less so. For years, he had been performing the role of a wise teacher while feeling increasingly like a fraud. The insights that had once felt genuine now seemed hollow, the philosophical frameworks he’d constructed more like elaborate justifications for his own trapped existence.

The next morning, he called the oldest five together.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said without preamble, “that perhaps it’s time for the teachings to spread more widely. There are people in distant places who could benefit from direct instruction.”

Asher looked up from his notebook, alarm flickering across his weathered features. “You speak of sending us away?”

“I speak of fulfilling the purpose for which the wisdom was given. The insights about the Flow should not remain confined to one place, to one group of people.” The words felt rehearsed, which they were. He’d been rehearsing this conversation for a few months.

“But Teacher,” Lila said gently, “our place is here, with you. How can we carry the teachings without your guidance?”

“You’ve been carrying them for decades. Each of you understands the principles as well as I do, possibly better, since you’ve had to work to comprehend them rather than simply experiencing them directly.”

It wasn’t true, and they all knew it. He could see the panic building behind their composed faces. These people had structured their entire lives around his presence. Without him, they would be adrift.

“The centers that have been established,” Cal said carefully, “they lack authenticity. We’ve heard reports of distorted teachings, practices that bear little resemblance to what you’ve actually said.”

“Then correct them. Take the true understanding to places where it’s needed.”

“We can’t leave you,” Erin said flatly. “You know we can’t. And you know why.”

She was right, of course. They couldn’t leave because they had forgotten how to live without him. He had allowed them to become spiritual children, dependent on his presence for their purpose and identity. What he saw as liberation, they could perceive only as abandonment.

Over the next few weeks, he made increasingly direct suggestions about the need for missionary work, the importance of spreading the teachings, the dangers of stagnation. His followers responded with polite deflection and quiet resistance. They would not leave him, no matter how clearly he expressed his wishes.

It was many weeks before Laurel realized that there was only one way to free them, and himself. He chose an evening when the community had swelled to nearly three hundred people. Word had spread of his presence in the region, and seekers had traveled from across the continent to hear him speak. The gathering felt like a festival, people sharing meals and stories around scattered campfires.

Laurel stood before them all, looking out over the sea of expectant faces. Many were young – students, spiritual seekers, people looking for meaning in a world that had disappointed them. They reminded him of himself at their age, though they sought answers in community while he had always preferred solitude.

“My friends,” he began, and the conversations gradually died away. “I have something of great importance to share with you.”

Complete silence fell over the gathering. Even the crackling of fires seemed muted.

“The time has come,” he said, his voice carrying clearly in the still air, “for me to complete the final stage of my journey. The Flow calls me to return to its source.”

A murmur of confusion rippled through the crowd. In the front row, Asher’s pen had stopped moving entirely.

“For fifty years, I have walked among you in this form, sharing what insights I could gather from my own passage through suffering and transformation. But the teaching phase of my existence is ending. I must now undertake the ultimate passage – the dissolution of my individual essence back into the undifferentiated Flow.”

The murmur became a buzz of alarm. He could see people leaning forward, straining to understand what he was telling them.

“This is not death as you understand it,” he continued, in an attempt to calm them. “It is a return to the source from which all things arise. For this passage, I must be alone. No witnesses, no attendants, no record-keepers. The transition requires solitude.”

The alarm turned into full-blown panic. Voices rose from the crowd, with questions, protests, pleas for explanation. Someone began weeping openly.

“Teacher, no!” a young man called out. “You can’t leave us! We cannot live without your guidance!”

“The guidance you need,” Laurel replied, “lives within you. It always has. My role was simply to help you recognize what you already possessed.”

“But when? How long do we have?” The question came from Lila, her voice barely audible over the growing tumult.

“Soon. In a few days. I will go into the deep wilderness alone, and there I will release this form and return to the Flow that has sustained me all these years.” He raised his hand for silence. “I know this causes you distress. But consider, have I not taught you that all forms are temporary? That clinging to what must change only increases suffering?”

The crowd erupted. People were standing now, calling out, some pushing forward as though they could physically prevent his departure. The original five sat frozen in their seats, looking as though they’d been struck by lightning.

“Please!” Laurel called over the noise. “You have to understand, this is not a tragedy. This is completion. The teachings will continue through you. The insights will live in your practice. The Flow itself is eternal, even when individual expressions of it return to the source.”

But his words were lost in the chaos. People were crying, arguing, exclaiming their willingness to follow him everywhere, even unto death. The very reaction he had hoped to avoid was taking over the gathering.

Finally, he gestured to Asher, who struggled to his feet and slowly made his way to Laurel’s side.

“My faithful friend,” Laurel said, loud enough for the nearest listeners to hear, “you have been my voice in the world for so many years. In these final days, I need you to be my voice once more. Help them understand what has to happen.”

Asher’s eyes were wide with shock, but he nodded. “What would you have me do?”

“Explain to them that this is necessary. That the Flow itself has called me to take this step. And ensure that when the time comes, I am allowed to go alone. No one must follow. No one must interfere. The passage will require solitude.”

“But Teacher…”

“Promise me, Asher. As my attendant, as my friend, as the keeper of my words. Promise me you will help them understand and accept what must be.”

Asher was trembling now, whether from the afflictions of his age or from emotion, Laurel could not tell. “I… I promise. Though it breaks my heart, I promise.”

“Good.” Laurel turned back to the crowd. “You have heard my attendant’s pledge. In the coming days, he will help you prepare for what must happen. Listen to him. Trust his wisdom. And when the time comes, let me go with your blessings, not your resistance.”

“Who will succeed you?” A voice came from the midst of the assembly. Laurel could not make out who the speaker was, but he was troubled by what he heard. If he named one, even Asher, this gathering would undoubtedly turn into a religion, sooner or later, and that was something that Laurel most devoutly did not wish.

“Each of you will be his own teacher. You already know everything I do. What I gave you was not a revelation from on high. It was only clarifying what we all carry within us.” It was unclear if the message landed.

The gathering broke up into smaller groups, people clustering together. Some approached the original five, seeking reassurance or explanation. Others simply sat in a stunned silence.

Laurel watched it all with a mixture of relief and guilt. He was finally going to end this impossible situation, but the cost was the deep distress of people who had given him all their devotion, their very lives. Still, there was no other way. They would never release him voluntarily, and he could no longer bear the weight of their dependence.

Over the days that followed, Asher worked tirelessly to calm the panic. He spoke of transcendence, of the natural progression of spiritual development, of the honor of witnessing such a profound transformation. Gradually, reluctantly, the followers began to accept what they could not prevent.

“When will you go?” Lila asked on the third evening. She had aged visibly in the past few days, the stress etching new lines around her eyes.

“Soon,” Laurel replied. “I’m waiting for the right moment, the proper conjunction of circumstances. The Flow will make it clear when the time has come.”

It wasn’t true. He was simply waiting for the community to reach a state where they were prepared to give him the space to depart without following. Asher’s efforts were succeeding. People were beginning to speak of witnessing a miracle, of being present for an unprecedented spiritual event. The first shock was transforming into something approaching reverence.

On the seventh day, Laurel announced that he had received the sign he’d been waiting for.

“Tomorrow at dawn,” he told the assembled followers, “I will depart for the place of dissolution. You must remain here for seven full days after my leaving. This is essential. Any attempt to follow or observe will disrupt the process and prevent my return to the Flow.”

The restriction was arbitrary, designed solely to give him time to disappear. By the time his followers came looking for him, he would be gone.

“We understand, Teacher,” Asher said formally, though tears were streaming down his weathered cheeks. “We will obey your final instructions.”

That night, Laurel lay awake in his shelter, listening to the sounds of the camp settling into uneasy sleep. Tomorrow, he would walk away from the only community that had ever accepted him, leaving behind people who loved him more than he deserved. But he would also walk away from a role that had become a prison, a performance that had consumed whatever authenticity he’d once possessed. Where he would go was unimportant, as long as the destination was away.

The synthesizer labored away in its corner, making the last meal it would prepare for him before he left. Tomorrow, he would carry it with him into the wilderness. And there, finally, he would make his choice about how this strange second life would end and the next begin.

Dawn was still hours away, but already he could hear people stirring, unable to sleep on this final night. By tomorrow evening, they would begin the process of learning to live without him.