James C Clar Archives - Sci Phi Journal

Fiction

I Know What I Desire

by James C. Clar

In the narrow, labyrinthine streets of the city, there was a nondescript establishment nestled between a taxidermist and a tobacconist. Above its door was a sign that read simply, The Hourglass. If you happened to pass by the shop, and if you happened to take notice of it in the first place, you’d very quickly afterward begin to forget you had ever seen it. On your next trip down that street, you’d probably ask yourself, “where did that shop come from? I’ve never seen it before.” It was that kind of place. All cities have them.

The Hourglass belonged to a man named Alejandro Montoya. He had devoted his life to the accumulation of objects that had long outlived their usefulness. Objects whose provenance, in fact, was often far more intriguing than their original purpose. Among antique maps, unwound clocks and ancient esoteric texts, Montoya took pleasure in ephemera, in the flotsam and jetsam of the past. His store catered to a small but enthusiastic and, luckily for him, wealthy clientele.

One gray, late autumn afternoon just as a light rain had begun to fall, an old man entered the shop. He was tall and gaunt, almost stereotypically so. His coat was stained by both time and the tide. His eyes were blue, the blue of the sea.

Montoya took him for a vagrant or, more likely, a down-on-his-luck sailor too long divorced from his ship. From time to time, street people and others would wander into the shop in search of a handout. He was just about to usher the stranger from the premises when, without preamble, the old man placed a stoppered glass bottle on the counter.

Against his better judgment, Montoya was intrigued. The bottle was emerald-green and was covered in an elaborate network of runes and symbols done in intricate cloisonne. It was a beautiful piece and one of obvious antiquity.

“How much do you want for it?” Montoya asked. He already had a buyer in mind. He knew a collector who would pay a tidy sum for an antique like that.

The old man laughed. “Take it,” he replied. “It’s all yours. I can’t wait to be rid of it. As far as paying for it is concerned, the bottle will exact its own price in due time.”

Before Montoya had a chance to ask for an explanation, the old man turned and left the store. The shopkeeper watched him as he disappeared into what had now turned into a downpour.

Over the next few weeks, Alejandro Montoya studied the ornate bottle for hours. It became an obsession. He would run his fingers over the delicate filigree. He polished it endlessly. More than once he picked up the phone to call a prospective buyer, but something always seemed to prevent him from doing so. His research, thus far, had yielded nothing regarding the object’s origin or age.

One evening, just after closing, Montoya found himself once again contemplating the bottle. The one thing the shopkeeper had not yet done was to pull the stopper from its neck. At least he had no recollection of having done so. That realization surprised him. Curiosity now became his driving motivation. Holding its base with one trembling hand, Montoya carefully removed the stopper with the other. As he did so, a thin wisp of vapor escaped. The vapor curled, coalesced and, within a few seconds, took the shape of a man.

It was a moment before Montoya processed what had just happened. His rational, empirical mind wrestled with what it saw. “You’re a genie,” he murmured, not yet truly believing that it was true.

“Indeed, I am,” the figure in front of him spoke with a voice that seemed both playful and old … as though it had been old even when the world was young. “My name is Azar, and for the record, I find the term ‘genie’ to be so imprecise as to be almost meaningless.”

“Do you not then grant wishes,” Montoya asked.

“Let us just say that I am bound to fulfill desires. There’s a difference.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Montoya spoke with hesitation.

“I’m quite sure you don’t,” Azar response with a chuckle. “In my experience, few mortals do.”

“Please explain yourself.”

“The first thing you must understand,” Azar began, “is that precision is all-important. A ‘wish’, as you put it, must be carefully worded and flow from a genuine, concrete desire. A poorly crafted wish can – and often does – lead to unintended consequences and even disaster.”

Now it was Montoya’s turn to chuckle. “What if I choose not to wish at all?”

“Then I will remain.” Azar looked at the store’s owner with something akin to pity. “I am patient, infinitely so. But, sooner or later, you will wish. They all do.”

#

Weeks passed. Montoya found himself engaging in lengthy conversations with Azar who emerged from his bottle unbidden almost every day. The latter’s knowledge was limitless and spanned centuries. They talked of art, history, literature, science and philosophy. The vagaries of human nature and human ambition were of particular interest to the genie. Try as he might, and despite their growing rapport, Montoya could not forget the implied warning in Azar’s declaration that, as far as wishes were concerned, “precision was all-important.”

“It strikes me,” Montoya observed one night as the two sat talking, “that you enjoy tricking mortals.” The shop’s proprietor had stayed on long after closing.

“I don’t trick them, my friend.” Azar’s teeth seemed to glimmer in the moonlight that filtered into the room amid the bric-a-brac of bygone eras. “Rather, they are undone by their own haste and their almost universal lack of clarity.”

“What if someone were to wish for nothing?”

“Ah, that ancient paradox,” Azar spoke quietly as he leaned forward. “To wish for nothing is in fact to wish for something. Even that wish has ‘content’. Besides, it reflects a desire. A desire that is itself its own negation.”

One afternoon shortly thereafter and, unable to any longer bear the weight of his indecision, Montoya decided to act. Azar materialized before him. His expression was, as usual, inscrutable.

“I’ve made up my mind. I know what I desire.”

“Have you indeed?” Azar’s tone was jovial, almost mocking. “Speak your desire and let the universe conspire to make it so.”

Montoya hesitated, momentarily unsure. He had rehearsed this moment, crafting a wish he believed to be as precise as humanly possible using anything other than the language of mathematics. Still, when the time came …

“I desire,” he began haltingly, “to be granted three wishes for all eternity.”

Azar’s eyes glittered with a strange, ethereal light. “I grant your desire. You have three wishes for all eternity.” Under his breath, the genie murmured “I warned you …”

#

One afternoon shortly thereafter and, unable to any longer bear the weight of his indecision, Montoya decided to act. Azar materialized before him. His expression was, as usual, inscrutable.

“I’ve made up my mind. I know what I desire … I desire to be granted three wishes for all eternity … “

~

Bio:

James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the wilds of Upstate New York and the more moderate climes of Honolulu, Hawaii. Most recently, his work has appeared in Bright Flash Literary Journal, Freedom Fiction Journal, The Collidescope, Antipodean Sci-Fi and Sci Phi Journal.

Philosophy Note:

I’ve played with these Borgesian ideas previously in my short fiction. Here, in “I Know what I Desire,” I have two thoughts or questions:

Does a wish without concrete content constitute a wish? (Philosophically, the act of wishing is more about the act of willing than it is about the object of that action/will. If so, then, a wish without content is still a wish since it involves the act of willing desiring itself.)
If, as the ancients believed, words have power, then precision in using those words would be essential — think of an ancient curse or incantation poorly worded. Or, better yet, what would have happened had God not chosen his Word(s) so carefully? “Let there be …” what?

Fiction

Incredulity

by James C. Clar

Credo ut intelligam.
Anselm, Proslogion

Zoticus sat at the desk in his study. He was surrounded by armillary spheres, intricately wrought alembics and retorts as well as by a seemingly disorderly profusion of scrolls and codices in a variety of languages both ancient and arcane. One particular tract, which he had managed to translate with some difficulty from the Arabic, had proved especially fruitful. The breakthrough which he had managed to achieve as a result was the culmination of a lifetime of research and experimentation.

But how to disseminate the information and knowledge he had so laboriously acquired? His was a skeptical age and his work was looked upon with everything from condescension and amusement on the one hand, to outright disdain and even hostility on the other. What was more, Zoticus was old. In spite of what he had learned, his own days were numbered. He was desperate to find someone to whom he could bequeath his wisdom and who would be both willing and able to carry on his work. Apprentices like that were few and far between at any time and in any place, but here and now they were particularly, acutely scarce. The old man sighed and rubbed his temples.

There had been that young man last year. Zoticus had so hoped that he would persevere. Within weeks, however, the novice – despite his aptitude and keen mind – had succumbed to the poison of doubt. He had demanded “proof.” Proof of what, Zoticus had wanted to ask? But he knew that such an approach would have been futile. The youth insisted that he needed to “know” so that he might believe. The secret, as Zoticus himself had ascertained, was that one must first believe and only then might one truly come to “know.” Zoticus was convinced that one either understood that esoteric truism intuitively or one did not. And if one did not, there was no means that had yet been invented to alter such an individual’s outlook or hermeneutic.

Zoticus’ epistemological musings were interrupted by a forceful knocking at his door. He rose stiffly and shuffled slowly into the hallway. A draught of cold air intruded and the oil lamps began to flutter as he opened the outer door. Before him stood what he could only assume was another candidate. This young man, however, was carrying a dead owl. Zoticus had seen far too much in his long life to be shocked or even surprised. Owls, of course, were mystical animals associated with inner wisdom, transformation and intuition. If nothing else, he was intrigued.

“I will forsake all … my family, my friends, and my career to become your apprentice,” Zoticus’ visitor stated without preamble. “First, however, you must prove that what is rumored about you is true,”

The determined young man issued an ultimatum. “Raise this bird to life and I will stay.”

Zoticus couldn’t help himself. He stroked his long white beard and, despite the supplicants’ obvious gravity, the old man began to laugh. “Another one,” he muttered as he shook his head in frustration and dismay.

As Zoticus was shutting the door the startled and bemused would-be apprentice hurled the dead raptor at the old master’s feet in frustration. Unfazed, the elderly scholar closed the door completely and threw the latch. He bent and picked up the owl’s lifeless body and carried it gently, reverently back to his desk. Setting it down, he softly intoned an ancient formula with great conviction and authority. Almost at once, the animal’s hooded eyes began to flutter.

~

Bio:

James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between Upstate New York and Honolulu, Hawaii. His short fiction, book reviews, author interviews and articles have appeared in print as well as online. Most recently his work may be found on Antipodean SciFi, The Collidescope and Half-Hour-To-Kill.

Philosophy Note:

My story plays in a fanciful way with some of the following ideas.
A. Especially of late, my students struggle with the idea that “faith” and “belief” may be considered modes of knowing. When asked how we come to know, they answer: direct experience, indirect experience and logic/reason. Such knowledge, they argue, can be proven. By that they mean proven by empirical or logical means. I then ask them, how do you know your parents or significant others, let’s say, love you? Can you ‘prove’ it? We can cite evidence to support our belief that we are loved, but we simply cannot prove it in a strictly empirical fashion. Yet we base many of the most important decisions of our lives on such ‘knowledge’.
B. To what degree do we shape the world in which we live with our belief? Does our belief in some way come before our knowledge of the world and therefore is it a prerequisite to such knowledge? If so, how objective is the knowledge that we acquire, really?
C. Finally, the story touches on the power of words, of language, to create and influence the world in which we live. Many ancient cultures believed resoundingly in the generative, creative power of words. Fiat Lux!

Fiction

Fresh Kill

by James C. Clar

“In those days, the world of mirrors and the world of men were not … separate and unconnected … one could pass back and forth …”
Jorge Luis Borges, The Book of Imaginary Beings

I own an antique shop on Nuuanu Avenue in the heart of Honolulu’s Chinatown. The area has seen numerous ups and downs. The latest “up” was a gentrification and transformation into a trendy, artsy neighborhood with boutiques, restaurants and galleries. Then came COVID which, frankly, hit the area hard. Numerous places went out of business, crime increased and the homeless populated the streets and alleys in record numbers. Even now, with the virus seemingly on the wane, things have not returned to pre-pandemic ‘normal’.

Through it all, I’ve managed to do well thanks to Internet sales and wealthy, mostly Asian customers who are more than willing to pay handsomely for that certain piece that completes their collection, or which adds a certain undefinable aesthetic or, in some cases, wabi, to their homes or offices. Things are even better now that customers – both local and those visiting from elsewhere – are shopping in person. I pride myself on the quality and authenticity of my merchandise. Nothing in the store is cheap and everything I sell has an established history or provenance.

The incident I am about to relate is remarkable, singular even, on any number of levels. It involves a recent acquisition; a very old bronze Chinese mirror acquired from a College Hill estate sale in Manoa adjacent to the University of Hawaii campus. The College Hill area is rich in local history and boasts numerous homes on the Historic Hawaii Foundation Register.

The mirror has been in the shop now for a little over a year. It belonged to a local Chinese family and, according to their records, it was with them when they came to the islands in the 1890s. At that time, they started what would become a very lucrative jewelry and jade business. The piece is spectacular. It stands just under six feet tall in a simple metal frame that has long since acquired a green patina. The front of the mirror itself is highly polished and reflective. There is an emblem of the Zodiac cast on the back. When light hits the front, the obverse design is reflected on the rear wall and the mirror becomes virtually transparent. The effect is nothing short of magical.

The manufacture of such mirrors can be traced as far back as the Han Dynasty and is mentioned in at least two texts from the later Tang, the Record of Ancient Mirrors and the Dream Pool Essays of Shen Kuo. While not nearly that old, the mirror in my possession is most probably a reproduction from the early 19^th century Qing Dynasty, utilizing the traditional techniques.

Myths and legends about such mirrors abound. Ancient Chinese sages suggest that animals, whole worlds even, exist inside or, rather, on the reflective surface. One ascetic school of thought shunned mirrors entirely based on the belief that whatever images were reflected by them became somehow stored or ‘trapped’ within. I lend no credence to such fantasy but, still, I must admit that I have become loath to sell the mirror that now sits in the front hall of my shop, to the left of the front door. Truth is, I am fascinated by the object, transfixed. I spend many late afternoons sitting in a chair watching the light from the setting sun play across the surface of the bronze. More than once I’d swear that I’ve seen figures moving in its smoky, translucent depths.

Strange as it may seem, I am not alone in my obsession. About a month ago, a well-dressed man in his early 60’s came into the shop to inquire about the mirror. Based on his astute questions, I assumed him to be a collector or, at least, an aficionado. He was remarkably reticent to divulge any details about himself or his background. I was surprised that, to best of my recollection, I had never encountered him before. Honolulu is in many ways, a small-town masquerading as a big, cosmopolitan city. Everyone knows everyone and the antiquities community is even ‘smaller’ in that regard. I told the gentleman that the mirror was not for sale. He pestered me to an unseemly degree and simply would not take ‘no’ for an answer. At one point I thought I would have to have him forcibly removed from the store! He’s been back at least twice since that first visit, each time with the same result.

Things came to a head just two days ago. I heard the small bell attached to the front door tinkle signaling that someone had entered the shop. I looked up from my desk to see the older man back, staring fixedly at the mirror. We went through our, by now, usual routine. It was obvious, however, that this time he was not going to leave. I reached over and touched him on the shoulder so as to usher him out the door. With that, he pushed me. I slipped and hit my head as I fell backward onto the floor.

What happened next is, admittedly, a bit fuzzy. I was stunned by the impact. It seemed to me that as the mysterious stranger turned quickly away from me, his momentum caused him to lose his footing as well. He reached out his hand to steady himself against the mirror. I heard, or thought I heard, the sound of a drain emptying. After that, he was gone. I may be mistaken, but I simply don’t recall hearing the bell on the door indicating his departure.

Since then, I’ve been tempted to inform the police about what had happened. I’m doubtful that I will bother. Something tells me that I will no longer be troubled by that strange gentleman. You see, when I picked myself up from the floor after my fall that day, I went immediately to the mirror to inspect it for damage. It was unharmed but, this time, and even given the fact that I had just hit my head, I am quite certain of what I saw. Gazing into its sooty depths I spotted a tiger. The animal was burnt orange with fuliginous stripes tracing their way around its powerful body. The big cat seemed to be feeding, its muzzle stained red as it ripped and tore its way through its prey. Whatever it had caught, it was clearly a fresh kill.

~

Bio:

James C. Clar is a teacher and writer who divides his time between the mean streets of Honolulu and the wilds of Upstate New York.

Philosophy Note:

The inspiration for this story rests on my obsessive re-reading of Borges and my lifelong fascination with mirrors. Mirrors are remarkable on any number of levels. Consider… Two mirrors facing one another reflect an infinite number of images. An ancient analogy for the multiverse perhaps? It is also worth noting that the functioning of many modern telescopes, not to mention the DSLR digital camera relies, in part, on the properties of mirrors. What if mirrors somehow retained or ‘captured’ the images they reflected? That idea, the premise of my story, is not too far from the notion of a computer hard drive… From the standpoint of psychology, mirrors are, to a certain degree, instruments of vanity. Consider a world devoid of reflective surfaces or, at least, those surfaces designed expressly to show one images of oneself. What would happen to marketing, advertising, and the beauty industry? To what degree would such a lack impact the acquisition and content of self-esteem, for example? I could continue but I’d rather have you enjoy my story.

James C Clar

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