There is a Ceiling Fan Spinning

Mold and mildew hung like a pungent fog, invading my seared nostrils. Fluffy carpet cushioned my bruised feet. A flash flickered across the room, throwing white light across a painting, a bed, and the man in the mirror. The sky erupted in chase, briefly drowning out the swirling hum of the fan. It was warm. A cool breeze tickled my wet cheeks. Rain streaked violently across darkened window panes. It’d be a great summer night, ripe for a hard night’s sleep, if it had been any other man standing there beneath the ceiling fan. I climbed atop a creaking wooden stool, tightened my fetter, and kicked it loose.

Water cold as ice slapped me from my dream-like state, sending a violent mixture of despair and disappointment reverberating throughout my chest. Where am I? I wondered. Between flashes of cracking whips, searing-white in their majesty, I saw a pitch-black sea, churning restlessly beneath white-capped mountains. My lips were slathered in sea salt, causing my tongue to loll in desire for fresh water. Blinking away drops of ocean water, a wooden deck appeared and disappeared beneath me. What’s going on? 

Someone rushed by me, pushing me towards a short railing to my right. I hit it hard, yelping in displeasure. There were men around me now, suddenly, each vigorously pulling at ropes and pulleys and oars – Oars?! Confused, I asked the closest man where we were. He didn’t look at me, didn’t respond, the lurching of our vessel pushing us both against the railing, then away into the darkness as I clung to a rope screaming. 

Another flash showed at least twelve men running across the deck of a sea vessel. They wore strange clothes, colorless except a single red sash around their waist, and wailed in strange languages. Each man’s face was contorted in panic and fear.

I wondered if my expression matched theirs. 

They cried out to the sky, to each other, and to the huddled deck with words incomprehensible. As they babeled desperately, recognition sparked at their sing-song voices. Theirs’ was the kind of lamentation that was only known to a certain type of man. The type of man who had seen little and lost much. Each note rang with despairing, begging, hopelessness. My heart longed to comfort them. It longed to join them as brothers, but something prevented me. Turning slowly, reluctantly as if by the will of someone else, I stared out over the swirling brine. 

Through brief reprieves of white light, behind curtains of cold rain, there strolled a figure. The gentle plat plat plat of his feet echoed beneath the raging storm. He came forward, his eyes invisible but still somehow fixed on me, stopping a mere fifty yards from the ship. I held up a hand in greeting, but the figure did not stir. A wave of white-crested black obscured him from view for a moment and I entirely expected the ghostly image to disappear, having never existed to begin with. As it passed I saw that He was still there. Watching me silently. What is He standing on?  I thought, unable to see anything beneath Him besides the churning and angry abyss. Waves crashed around Him and violent winds howled in salty torrents, but the very ocean seemed to avoid Him. It was as if it was afraid. No . . . obedient. 

“​​Phántasma!!!” One man yelped. He fell in line beside me, hugging the railing and pointing, shouting wildly. The others stopped fighting the storm, joining us as onlookers to something very strange. Something far beyond us. 

For some reason, I felt the specter’s gaze on me. Only me. Hairs raised on my neck, chills sweeping down my spine, as I realized that this ghost had expectations. Those that I was called to fulfill. Clouds broke overhead, the storm miraculously carrying on, revealing that the specter was just a man . . . but a man, nevertheless, who walked on water. His arms were outstretched as if for a hug. 

I realized then what He wanted. I’d heard this story before. 

Climbing atop the railing, grasping at a rope suspended into darkness behind me, I locked eyes with the man. They were green, like mine, but only so much more meaningful. A sensation of belonging, of welcome, overcame me, beating within my chest like a hammer, replacing my quivering heart. Mustering all my courage . . . I took a step onto the raging sea. 

Like glass, the waters received me with solidity, but I dared not marvel. Dared not remove my eyes from His, as I took my first steps away from the boat. The men shouted behind me. Something, perhaps a rope to pull me back to the ship, back to safety, slapped the water near my feet. I ignored it, marching on as the clouds overtook the moon. Darkness enveloped the world once again, but His eyes did not dull, piercing it like an arrow. 

A gust of wind tore at my clothes, stabbing me with sharp thorns of rain. My chest convulsed and I felt eyes on me far off to one side. They were heartless. Cold. Unfeeling. Searing with such hatred that tears began to pool in the corners of my eyes. An overwhelming sense of judgment, condemning me as unworthy, tied itself around my legs, pulling me down into the brine.

But I did not look away from the man. I did not stop. 

A cacophony of shattered glass coalesced before me as a mirror rose in my path, forcing the man out of view and replacing Him with myself. I immediately marched around it, feeling the waters overtake my feet. For the briefest of moments, I saw myself staring back at me. Hatred filled my heart. Violently popping like little pustules all around my body, coating me in a fiery ink. 

But still I slogged onwards, eyes locked on Him. 

He was getting closer now, waiting only a few yards away when a mighty wave crashed into my side, flooding my ears with saltwater. The ghost of a conversation overtook me. Two people were talking, fair off beyond the waves. A voice that I faintly recognized, feminine and grotesquely beautiful, sang in chorus with a weak little boy. 

Is there anything I can be? Change? Do? Say? Become? Give up? Just tell me what to do. I’ll do it, just . . . just please love me again! The boy begged. He was stupid with grief. 

A single symphonic word sang as response, as if in mockery of the boy’s pain. 

No. 

My feet stopped moving. Tears drowned my eyes, lead weights that sucked me into the unfathomable ocean. The man watched me as I sank into the silence. No more rain. No more crashing waves. No more thunderous clouds or searing lightning. My heart raced. My lungs begged for reprieve. None answered except for the melancholic pulse of swirling salt that pulled me ever downward. 

My back found grass first. Prickly and smelling of a fresh cut. The ocean still swirled above, but I could not drown. The man was still watching me, standing now where I had sunk before. The satisfying crunch of something resounded beyond my periphery and, sitting up, I found myself in a garden of many colors. Sweet flowers punctuated my every breath, the aroma clinging to me like thick vines. 

“Hmm hmm hmmm,” someone hummed. A man was crouched over a bed of lily of the valley, each flower turning to see Him. It was as if they were listening to His mournful song. Raising my hand in greeting, I found that I could not speak. In panic, I clutched at my throat, trying to expel whatever horrors were silencing me. 

“Calm, son.”

His address overwhelmed me as He turned to face me. Remarkably, there was only light where His features should have been. 

“Care for a walk?”

Nodding, knowing that I had no real choice in the matter, I hurriedly fell in step beside Him. As we strolled, the stranger touched each vine, each leaf, each flower. The very life around Him seemed to leap at His presence, myself included, but I did not know why. 

“You and I have a lot in common, don’t we?”

I shook my head violently. I have nothing in common with this man. 

“Of course we do! What other image were you made in?”

What?

“But that’s not all, you know. We both like stories, don’t we?”

I nodded. 

“And you know what I like most in a good story?”

I shook my head. 

“I’ve always loved when a troubled kid becomes a strong adult, helping troubled kids.”

Sniffling slightly, tasting salt and iron, I could only stare at Him. 

“I have a feeling that you like that story too, but it takes a strong man to live it. You know that, don’t you son?”

I nodded. 

“But that begs the question . . . what makes a man strong?”

Shrugging, I bent over to smell an especially succulent patch of wisteria, my favorite flower. 

“Hmm,” the man smiled, cupping another wisteria bunch in His hands. The sweet scent grew in its vibrancy, my nose twitching happily. “Taking value in things that others see as worthless-” my eyes met His light, “that is where true strength lies.”

Finding worth in the worthless? 

“Yep. Worthless flowers, worthless grains of sand, worthless breezes, worthless colors, worthless hairs on the heads of billions of people, words shouted into the wind, et cetera. All those things that are here one day and gone the next–you included–all of it has immense value, and seeing that value is the beginning of true strength. Don’t you think?”

I nodded. 

“So, do you want to become strong, son?”

Tentatively, like a deer nibbling grass in a field, I nodded again. 

He placed a hand on my shoulder. It was strong, rough, callused from years of gardening. I had a feeling that plants weren’t the only thing that this man cultivated. “If that’s so, then look up for me.”

I obeyed. The translucent, swirling ocean dripped cool saline onto my forehead. It was closer than it was a moment ago, the garden and its smells shrinking around me as the figure far above grew larger and larger. He was reaching down now, water flowing freely through a large hole in His outstretched hand. As He beckoned to me the garden completely vanished. Its gardener was no longer beside me, but I could feel Him somewhere nearby, somewhere closer than before. I reached out to take the other man’s hand. His rough, callused fingers–just like His Father’s–clasped mine with a vice-like grip. Before I knew it, I was being pulled upward and out of the briny depths. The icy water licked at my skin like numbing fire as I was yanked from its comforting embrace, the glassy surface shattering as I was pulled through it and into the humid night air. 

My disgusting apartment room greeted me happily. Musty air thick with the smell of old books and moldy walls. The storm still raged outside. The gentle hum of a swirling ceiling fan drummed ever constantly, fighting the pitter-patters of sleet and rain. The air was heavy, but my heart was light. Fluffy carpet formed tiny soft walls around me, tickling my cheeks and neck. I watched as the ceiling fan spun around and around and around and around and . . . 

There was half a black belt, unbreakable leather snapped in two, hanging from the fixture. The other half lay on the ground beside me. My neck hurt. My throat was sore. I coughed a few times, pulling in huge gulps of air. A stool was toppled to the side, watching me from just beyond my feet. 

Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! Bzzzzz! 

And, despite it all, the ceiling fan kept spinning.