The Zen Protocol

The child Sebastian Destinato was a socially unwelcome circumstance labeled in the habit of the times as developmentally backward. At the age of three years people avoided eye contact with him for fear that he might speak or gesture toward them, that they might be expected to respond, that he might want something from them. They looked right through him because it was convenient to pretend he did not exist.

 Young Sebastian did not process sensory information gracefully. He became distraught at certain noises or movements. He rejected the lightest touch of another human. At the age of four he did not speak in coherent sentences. He defiantly confined himself to echoed words, randomly overheard. He was withdrawn, favored solitude and, truth be known, was relieved when people chose not to make eye contact.

Had anyone been more aware, with greater compassion, they might have realized the boy’s superpower was the uniquely powerful neurological capacity of his mind. Sebastian was blessed and cursed with an uncanny ability to recall autobiographical details from his life—dates and times and events and conversations and interactions—with intensely vivid accuracy, even those from earliest age. Smell, taste, sight, touch, sound. His lived memories were a kaleidoscope of sensation, real in every moment, in every blink of an eye.

It was agony.

Sebastian’s doubtful social development was not improved when at five-years old he became a ghost hidden within the grim shadows of a fascist’s concentration camp, a swamp of human debris and suffering, an incubator for self-consuming and unconstrained hate.

Sebastian the ghost child remembered one man in particular who yelled quite a lot. The man was noisy, his movements alarming. The noisy man was disturbed, cloaked in a shroud of fear. His psyche was shifty, it blinkered fretfully. Even at age five Sebastian could tell this man’s soul was in a lot of trouble. People called this man Sir. They were afraid of him. To Sebastian the scary man was a dark image stored in memory. He assigned the name Sir to this image. He stored another image and assigned the name Hate, though he was not sure why. He noted that the two images were related. 

Sir looked straight through the five-year old soul that was Sebastian Destinato, as if he did not exist. The young boy was invisible. It saved Sebastian’s life. Sebastian watched with deceptively perceptive eyes as Sir mercilessly ordered his entire family murdered. Something inside the child snapped, as though struck by lightning. He slipped into the background. He became thin smoke in gray darkness. A ghost. 

He learned to cope with the sounds of the camp, the low rumbling of human misery and the sharp crack of weapons followed by the dull thud of fallen bodies. Sebastian learned the smells, the odors of open sewage and burning and decayed human flesh. He sensed the shift in awareness when new arrivals first stood bewildered and uncertain while terror advanced relentlessly into their hearts.

He flowed with the horror. It did not drown him. He never allowed it to consume him. Against all odds, Sebastian survived. 

Liberation was torment. In a single heartbeat Sebastian was thrust into the terrifying chaos of ordinary human noise and emotion and civilization without warning or choice, no chance to adjust to his new circumstances. His senses screamed for mercy, his mind cried for relief. Every nerve ending was fire, a universe of electric insult, a smothering blanket of pain that drove him to the boundary that separated the agony of sanity from the wilderness of insanity. 

The man whose image Sebastian named Sir was fortunate. As reward for his service, fanatics that lurked hidden in the stagnant, seeping political sewers of the new world exhumed Sir, revived him, granted him new opportunities for position and power and authority.

Fortune also spoke to Sebastian but with a different voice, in a different language. He received his first lesson in true grace. He was sent to a new home in a hauntingly beautiful lush green valley where the nourishing fragrance of blossoming flowers lifted every heart.

But Sebastian continued to be overwhelmed by the sensory input of life and the world. He had to find a solution if sanity were to be bearable. At ten years old he began work on the algorithms that would change his life.

When he came of age Sebastian changed his name to Zen. He was not Buddhist. He chose Zen because Z was the least used letter in the alphabet and Zen was easy, even fun, to say. His algorithms became Zen’s Protocol.

Zen thrived in the serene background, the vital quiet. He lived in the soft shadows. Years passed. Zen became older. Zen’s Protocol made him wealthy, which had a certain utility, and famous, which Zen did not understand, and so rejected entirely.

***

Today, in the aftermath of a cool breezy shower, a refreshing early spring rain that passed swiftly over Blossom Valley Hollow and left the air light with the fragrance of lavender and early blooming roses, Zen enjoyed lunch on the large covered porch of the main house. His table overlooked a view of his property, of sweeping hardwood hills and hollows, a view that extended as far as the emerald blue waters of Kauntauga Lake, many miles distant, when the haze of fog or humidity was low.

Zen munched on a sandwich—sweet fig, caramelized onion and Brie on toasted sourdough—while he watched a particularly unwholesome bit of political theater, courtesy of a popular online media forum. He did not know why he watched it. Political theater triggered him. Too much confrontational rhetoric. Zen knew—he could feel it—that they all lied and postured with empty meaning. It was painful to watch and as a rule Zen avoided exposing himself to it. But Zen was curious about this particular badly produced bit of sham.

“Zen owns patents on the most powerful data stream technologies on the planet,” said George Blight, Director of the Third Directorate of Progress, Preservation and Potential at The Directorate.

Zen sensed warning on Blight’s face, in his voice.

“Years ahead of any other artificial intelligence capabilities. Some sort of voodoo blend of advanced neural networks and fuzzy logic and human perception. Zen somehow built his own bizarre neurological abilities into all of it.”

Blight shook his head in what Zen interpreted as contrived dismay. It masked deliberate ignorance.

“Freaking magic, is what it is. Dangerous.”

He’s trying to impress someone, thought Zen.

The camera flipped to another guest at the table, who nodded at Blight’s words. He agrees, thought Zen. But his interest is different and deeper. Zen recognized this man, a stout gnomish figure tightly bound in a multi-layered gray suit.

Zen first encountered this person many terrible memories ago when the man was Sir, when Sir was merely a novice sycophant, an eager and compliant doer of duty. Zen knew that this man, Associate Grand Director of Patriotic Stratagem at The Directorate, the Honorable Benjamin Beefinweiler, had murdered his family.

It seemed to Zen that Director Beefinweiler of The Directorate still hated him. Zen was confused, because he could not think of anything that he or his family had ever done that would threaten this man. Frankly, it was getting a bit old. If Zen allowed himself to feel something about this, what should he feel?

Zen finished lunch and went for a walk. He took his new friend, a long-haired German Shepherd that several days earlier had mysteriously walked out of the woods and into Zen’s home. Zen welcomed the dog as if he had been expecting him for some time. Together they walked quietly to a clearing in the hardwoods where Zen sat on a bench. He looked out over a rumpled blanket of greening timberland in warming sunlight, broken by cold gray clouds moving fast north toward the lake district.

It rained and then it stopped. Woodland creatures bustled diligently about their business. The dog—still unnamed—roamed with interest around the edge of the clearing, investigating interesting sounds and smells.

Zen’s mobile vibrated. Zen never carried his mobile with him. But, there it was, in his hand, vibrating. He stared at it, puzzled. A private, undisclosed number. Zen did not like talking to people, so he let it go to voicemail. He felt unsettled. Anxious. The dog came to him, sidled up next to him. Zen calmed.

“Be advised that the Associate Grand Director of Patriotic Stratagem at The Directorate, the Honorable Benjamin Beefinweiler, will call this number at exactly two o’clock this afternoon.” The screechy voice on the voicemail identified itself as Frankie Flatterflum, the Associate Grand Director’s Executive Assistant. “You will be available to take this call.”

As Zen gently stroked the dog’s head and ruffled his ears his thoughts turned inwards. He surveyed the neurological dataset of all his memories. Training and discipline provided him the ability to manage his memories. But there was one memory he never mastered. In his mind’s eye he stood there once again, floating in the stench and moaning despair, the chaotic emotional thunder of anger and hate and fear and grief, in the single suspended moment that his family fell. What did he feel?

Dog whined, concerned. Zen realized he had just named him. Dog. Feels right, thought Zen. Dog makes sense.

His phone vibrated. It was two o’clock exactly. Zen reluctantly accepted the call.

“Hold for Director Beefinweiler,” said a thin, whiny voice.

Zen held. A cool breeze foretold another spring shower on the way.

“Who is this?” said a raspy, grating voice. It might have been a question, but it sounded like a demand. “Is this Zen?”

“Indeed,” said Zen.

“Tell me about Zen’s Protocol,” said Director Beefinweiler.

“No,” said Zen. The shower came. It wasn’t much, just a thin sheet of coolness passing over. Air refreshed, it moved on.

The voice on the phone fell silent. Zen sensed that no was a word Beefinweiler did not often hear. Zen felt frustration and uncertainty at the other end of the connection, as Beefinweiler struggled for a way to punish the source of the offense. He is attempting dominance by remaining silent, thought Zen. Fascinating.

Zen, voice neutral, said: “If that’s all…” and intended to close the connection.

“Wait,” said Beefinweiler. His voice changed. Something was behind it. A plea? Zen knew vulnerability. He did not expect it here. “You…help people,” said Beefinweiler, “right? I mean, people who are…different. You know?”

“I might know,” said Zen. “But if you don’t say the words aloud neither of us can be sure, yes?”

“Uh…my grandson. Diagnosed…he’s only six years old,” said Beefinweiler. Zen heard the words choke in his throat. “He’s all I have left. My son, his parents. Died in the shooting last year. In the school, you know?” Zen wasn’t sure which school shooting he should be remembering. He heard Beefinweiler breathing heavily. Zen wondered if he was crying. “They shot all of them but my grandson was…invisible. Like he didn’t exist.”

“Say the words aloud.”

“Uh…they…uh…the Elmwood Autism Spectrum Disorder Clinic,” said Beefinweiler. Zen heard defeat. “They said—”

“I know these people well,” said Zen. “They are good people who know their business. You can trust their diagnosis. I hope this helps. Good-bye.” Zen disengaged from the connection. His skin tingled, his thinking was reduced to sharp flashes in muddy water. He felt lost. Memories rattled the bars of their cells, they screamed and threatened to riot.

Dog placed a paw on Zen’s knee. Zen looked into Dog’s dark intense eyes and felt unconditional love. His breathing and heartbeat steadied. The clutter of his thoughts cleared.

The phone, again.

“Listen,” said Beefinweiler. “You help people like my grandson.”

“Not always.”

“You and this…Protocol…” said Beefinweiler. “You do good. A lot of good.”

“Doing good is important to you?” said Zen.

“Certainly,” said Beefinweiler.

Zen struggled to sort out how he felt about this answer. He felt no lie here, yet did not doubt his own memory. The evidence was clear.

“Are you a good man, Director Beefinweiler?” said Zen.

“What…what does this have to do with helping my grandson?”

“Zen’s Protocol,” said Zen. “It helps us ask better questions and find solutions to difficult problems. With it, we can help people such as your grandson. It is also useful in other ways.”

“Will you teach my grandson how to live a good life?” said Beefinweiler.

“Zen’s Protocol has also been used to bring murderers to justice,” said Zen. “Sometimes we resolve crimes that occurred many years ago, when we were different people and lived different lives.”

“Sure. Well, I can pull a few strings,” said Beefinweiler. “Maybe I can hook you up with a nice fat government contract?”

“I already have a nice fat government contract, thank you. Several, in fact.”

“Then do the decent thing. Do the right thing here,” said Beefinweiler. “My grandson deserves a better life.”

“The decent thing? The right thing?” said Zen. “These are important to you?”

“Yes!” said Beefinweiler.

“Do you remember me? You murdered my parents. You very nearly murdered me,” said Zen. “If you had succeeded, who would you be calling today?”

Such a magnificent pause, thought Zen. The entire world has stopped, waiting for this response, which must certainly be…what? What do I expect now? The pause lengthened. Zen sensed anger, outrage, defiance. Conflict and finally collapse.

“Help me,” said the Associate Grand Director of Patriotic Stratagem at The Directorate, the Honorable Benjamin Beefinweiler.

Zen said: “Bring your grandson to me. I will help.”

The call disconnected.

“Let’s walk,” said Zen to Dog. They wandered peacefully, without destination, through the woods. Except for the early spring breeze wishing through the leaves, the curious rustling of the underbrush and the enormous gentle sound of birds in the trees, it was silent. Zen breathed deeply. Dog peed on many logs.

“I’ll tell you a secret, Dog,” said Zen. “Algorithms and technology bore me.” Dog walked with him, eyes on Zen, his head tilted, ears twitching. “Yes. True.” Zen stopped to examine a young sapling. He sniffed it, ran his fingertips across the still silky bark. Dog sniffed it too, and peed on it. “I do not feel as other humans do. My wiring is bad, you see.” Here, Zen tapped his forehead precisely three times, using his right forefinger. “But even with my bad wiring I see the magic and mystery of the world. The grace of the world embraces us, even as we walk.”

Dog’s eyes said: I love your wiring.

“We must be open to moments of grace, so our lives do not become flat and featureless and empty,” said Zen. “Still, it is very difficult for me to find clarity in this matter, yes?”

Clarity is easy, said Dog’s eyes. Just pee on stuff.

***

Several days later the cool spring rains continued to resist the inevitable summer heat. Days were a patchwork mosaic of sun and cloud and the haze of drifting rain sweeping rhythmically over the woodlands.

Today, Zen and Benjamin Beefinweiler sat in Zen’s office. They looked out the window. Dog led Benjamin’s grandson around and around. The small boy laughed and hugged Dog gleefully.

“I’ve never seen him laugh,” said Beefinweiler, who wanted to cry but did not dare. He sat opposite Zen, as much room as possible between the two. “Is he safe?”

“He is with Dog,” said Zen. 

“You hate me.”

“Do I? Hate bleeds our soul away. I do not feel it, but I witness it pass,” said Zen. “Do you hate me?”

“No.”

“You killed my family and all those others. What was that?”

“Utility. They were corrupting.”

“And yet, here we are.”

“Here we are.”

“I will help your grandson, on one condition.”

“You want me to go to the media? Reveal my past? Resign? Go to prison, or face—”

“I want you to forgive yourself.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I…I’m not sure…”

“You are a broken man, Benjamin. I offer you the chance, the blessing, to step out and join love and life. It is in your power to do so. You mistook your own arrogance as permission to force yourself on others, such as my family and myself and too many others, and diminished yourself doing so.” Zen’s eyes were steady, penetrating.

Beefinweiler felt Zen’s strength. He was frozen there, in Zen’s eyes. He wallowed in his own suffering. He knew that Zen was offering him a way out, a way back from his darkness. He felt hope. But what would it cost?

Zen said: “All of those things you are feeling inside you right now, study them and open yourself to a better life as a better person before it is too late. You have an opportunity to heal, a grace you never allowed so many others.”

Beefinweiler leaned forward, as if to speak. He choked, his face an ugly blotched red. He cried, features contorted with despair and guilt and pain and emptiness. He had no words. Zen continued.

 “Do not ask about my forgiveness. Forgive yourself,” said Zen. “That simple act, if genuine, demands that you hold yourself accountable in true and maybe terrible ways. It may break you, or set you free. You understand, yes?”

Zen stood, walked to the door. Standing on the threshold he half-turned back toward Beefinweiler.

He said: “You may survive your own forgiveness. Or you may not.”

The door shut. Zen was gone to play with Dog and the small boy who was already healing.