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Out here in the cold, time becomes something plastic, a thing to which there is substance only when the focus of will brings it to life. This cold void is filled with nebulous, churning illusions. See them? Drift closer . . .let yourself brush gently against the substance of a single illusion. It is a miasma of timeless images ever reshaping themselves to actualize expectation. See how focus shifts when you touch it, how the illusion solidifies? Now pull back. Don't enter the scene. Stay focused on my voice.

Look around you. Concentrate on seeing all at once. What you see on every side are the events of your many lives. Events that, you will find, need not be set in stone.

Roger's eyes popped open. This was frustrating. The chipped gray paint on the floorboards slowly came into focus before him. His arms tingled as if they'd been asleep for a century. His cramped legs were solid stone and he had to drag each of them out of the half-lotus position. His shoulders and arms, full of pins-and-needles, protested their use in pushing his legs out straight. Unbalanced, he fell backward. His head smacked audibly into something soft and he sighed. Pure goddamn frustration.

He looked up into a pair of riveting eyes.

"A bit stiff?"

Roger flicked his eyes away so Teacher couldn't see the frustration glowing in them. He nodded against the pillow, unable to clear his throat enough to talk. A twinge of guilt flickered through his gut. When Teacher spoke, it was proper form to answer . . . verbally, not with a nod. When this thought crossed Roger's mind, he saw understanding in Teacher's eyes.

Teacher laughed. "Don't worry. Circulation will come back in a minute." Teacher stood back to give him room. "Get up. And don't worry about being frustrated."

Roger was always surprised at Teacher's insight. He knew exactly what Roger was feeling whenever they were together. More so now that they'd started this new series of lessons.

When Roger straightened his legs, he let out an involuntary howl. The pain of reawakening limbs pushed the last remnants of the mystical realm from his mind. He hobbled to the ancient couch under the window. He practically fell onto it.

Roger blinked several times, squinting against the glaring light of reality. He was exhausted. Finally he found his voice.

"How long did that go on, Teacher?"

Michael R. F. Brown had always insisted on being called Teacher, not Sensei as all other martial arts instructors did. Why? He'd never explained. Roger still wondered about it from time to time.

A smirk twisted Teacher's mouth, shoving the right side of his van Dyke beard toward his ear. "How long do you think, Grasshopper?"

Roger smiled at the reference to the old Kung Fu television show. In times of great stress -- or in this case, frustration -- Teacher often resorted to a playfulness that lightened the mood. He always made it look painless to get the whole class laughing, usually by making some reference to either David Carradine or Jackie Chan. But the whole class wasn't here in the training hall today. Just Roger. Roger would never enter the training hall again as part of a class. That had been ordained three weeks ago after he passed his second level black belt test.

"Felt like days. But . . ." He flopped his head backward onto the backrest of the couch and looked upward toward the window. "The sun's still shining." In Vancouver, a sunny day was rare in March. To Roger's thinking, it had to be the same day.

"Look closely."

Roger lifted his head to look at Teacher standing over him. Teacher nodded toward the window and pointed. "See not just that the sun is shining. See the angle of it on the glass across the street."

Teacher nodded. "Very astute. Work on those skills of observation."

He winked at Roger, then set off at what seemed an impossibly quick pace across the empty training hall, his strapless sandals flopping on the painted floor. He moved with the grace of a tiger except for a slight limp. He favoured his right knee. At the half-fridge, he stooped and pulled out two cans of Coke, then returned to plunk down beside Roger on the couch. He put one of the Cokes between them on the couch.

"Drink that. It'll bring your blood sugar back up. Always travel with at least one Coke, preferably two. Or make sure one is easily obtained at the end of the journey. That is not always easy."

That brought up questions in Roger's mind. "What if you're travelling to a place where you can't get Coke?"

"Like I said, take one with you. And if you're talking about a time rather than a place, as I said, take two."

"Why?"

Teacher's smile dimmed and he turned blank eyes on Roger. "Observation, study and analysis. Remember?" He motioned for Roger to put down the Coke. He'd barely had time for one sip. "Now, you exercise."

Teacher was suddenly on his feet, as if he'd teleported rather than stood up. "Come." He waved Roger up.

Much more slowly than Teacher, Roger hauled his butt off the couch and stood on shaky legs. Tunnel vision threatened to push him out of reality and into his dream world. He fought it, sucked deep breaths. The blackness crept away. The training hall once again became clear.

From down on the street, three stories below, came the wail of the steam clock.

"Hear that?"

Roger said, "Yes, Teacher."

"You weren't gone so long after all. It's only nine-thirty. Now, first form."

Roger didn't feel like he had the strength to remain standing let alone go through forms. But he's learned over the last seven years to trust Teacher with everything . . . even his life. With a strength of will he wouldn't have believed possible seconds ago, he put one foot in front of the other until he stood alone in the middle of the training hall. It was all will power. Had to be. Roger was dead on his feet.

Teacher remained, hands on hips, near the couch under the window. Back lit by the glare of sun on glass, he looked to be a human-shaped hole in reality. For a split second, Roger felt terror creeping up on him. But it's only Teacher, he told himself. My teacher.

"Teacher said, It is not me, it's you."

"Excuse me, Teacher?"

"The fear."

Roger tried his best to make sense of that. The fear? What fear? The fear he'd just been feeling? He was that obvious, was he?

Teacher folded his arms across his chest. Even though Roger couldn't see his face, he could tell Teacher was smiling. "You'll figure it out. Now, attention!"

Roger put his heels together, hands straight down at his sides.

"Bow."

Roger followed the litany. Teacher called the instructions one by one. Roger made the moves: step, thrust, step, thrust, turn. With each step, with each spear-hand strike at invisible opponents, Roger felt his energy increasing. His mind stilled and ceased to bounce from thought to thought. His gut, previously on the edge of turmoil, settled and he became calm. He found the inner sanctity of oneness with the form. By the end, his strength had returned and he no longer had to struggle simply to stand. More so than ever before, he bestowed honour and trust when he made the final bow on completion of the form. His trust in Teacher felt no bounds.

The black hole in reality approached, took shape and Teacher stood before him. "Now, what did you learn?"

Images of what Teacher called The Cold Void flitted through Roger's head. The things he saw were things from the past: scenes from his childhood, the day he'd married Vicky, his first day of work at Thinktank Interactive Video. But other scenes he didn't recognize, or rather, they were familiar as if he'd lived them but he couldn't have. These scenes involved times before he'd been born and places he'd never visited.

"Teacher, I'm confused."

Teacher nodded. "Of course you are. If understanding came all at once, there would be no point in experiencing this world one moment at a time. Now tell me, what did you learn?"

Roger swept a hand through his blond hair, then scratched the back of his neck. He wasn't really sure he'd learned anything from his short visit to The Cold Void. He'd seen things, the scenes that played out before him, sometimes over and over with a different outcome each time. He'd felt the chill, the loneliness and he supposed that was why that particular state of mind was called what it was. `Void' because it was lonely, `Cold' because of the chill. As for it serving any useful purpose. . .

Concern showed on Teacher's face. "Okay, too soon for conclusions."

"Sorry, Teacher." Roger hated letting Teacher down. Always had, in fact, hated letting anyone down. It was difficult to measure up to someone else's expectations and it seemed the harder he tried, the less successful Roger was.

"This again," Teacher said as if reading Roger's thoughts again. "Come. Sit with me."

Teacher led him back to the couch and they sat. "Let me tell you a story."

He was seeing something in the old man he'd never realized was there. He had no doubt it always had been; he'd just never seen it. It was impossible to read someone else's thoughts. Sure, things could be read from a face, things that a person might not want known. But to read thoughts? No fucking way. Still, there was no other explanation. Roger didn't think he was that transparent.

Roger nodded, then hurriedly said, "Yes, Teacher."

Teacher waved his hand dismissively. "Let's not stand on protocol for now. Class is dismissed. We're just talking, okay?"

"Okay."

"A young man I once knew years ago. He shouldered responsibility well, took care of his family and honoured his parents. Reliable, he was. Responsible . . . Responsible." Teacher leaned his head back against the backrest of the couch and sighed. "So responsible."

Teacher closed his eyes and for a moment, Roger thought he was falling asleep. He wondered if he should speak, perhaps touch the old man to bring him back to awareness. Then Teacher's eyes fluttered open and he sat forward. An intensity filled his voice that Roger had rarely ever heard during his seven years of study.

"This young man worked hard. Whenever trouble would come up for his family or his parents, or those he worked with, he would shoulder the responsibility. He would set things straight again.

"Then one day, while dropping his wife at the drug store for some cold medicine, she turned to him and said, 'I want a divorce.' You can imagine his surprise. Here was a man who did everything for his family. Then she started to get out of the car. He was confused by her request and so he grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the car. He wasn't a violent man. On the contrary. He wanted clarification. Why did she want a divorce? How could he possibly give anything more than he already had? His wife didn't want to talk about it then. She said, 'Wait until I get back.' She wanted to go and get the cold medicine, you see and the drug store was about to close.

"When the young man finally agreed to let her go, she opened the car door. Just as she put one foot out of the car, the young man saw movement beyond the open car door. It was a snowy day. A car was sliding toward them from the street, out of control. The young man grabbed his wife and yanked her back into the car, pulled her right onto his lap. Just as the other car slammed into them.

"The passenger door caved in. It was pushed all the way to the middle of the car. If the young man hadn't yanked his wife in, she would have died. As it was, she had two badly broken legs and spend over six months recovering in the hospital.

"Now, you might think that the young man would congratulate himself on saving her life. But that was not how he saw it. He believed that if he hadn't forced her to stay in the car, she wouldn't have been hurt at all. And I suppose that is the truth of the matter.

"They did divorce. The young man struggled with thoughts of how he had nearly gotten his ex-wife killed. Responsibility became obsession. He became obsessed with trying to prevent bad things from happening to people. Not just his family and students, but everyone. If someone walking along the other side of the street tripped and fell, he found a reason for it to be his fault because he didn't prevent it. He nearly tore himself apart.

"Then one day, he discovered through his teacher The Cold Void. He worked long and hard to use it in straightening out his life. Today, he is a much happier man."

Roger sipped the Coke he'd abandoned earlier while he listened. As Teacher's story came to an end, he thought about the implications. When he finally turned to Teacher, the old man was gazing at him with a half-smile.

"Speak, Roger. You look like you've come to a conclusion."

Roger cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "I can use The Cold Void to change myself?"

Teacher nodded. "Go on."

"Make myself better?"

"Good, better, best . . . These thoughts mean nothing."

"What do you mean?"

Teacher held up one finger as if to stop the question. "If I hand you a fish . . ."

"How does that teach me to catch for myself? Right."

Roger sighed deeply. It was a question Teacher often asked of his students. Roger himself had been asked it more times than he could remember. He sat back and tipped the Coke to his lips again. He knew what Teacher wanted. Roger had to think for himself; it was part of the training. If a student can't think on his feet, what good is he to anyone? Even himself. That was the usual follow-up to the question about the fish.

What Teacher meant in this case, though, Roger couldn't see. The story had been interesting, sure. But what did it have to do with him? Better his life? But if the concepts of good, better, and best meant nothing . . .

All he'd wanted when he first came to the training hall of Michael R. G. Brown, Teacher, was to learn how to protect himself on the street. That was all. Karate. He'd heard that Brown's teaching was the best, an inner temple style that left no room for doubt if mastered. Going beyond the physical training, well, that wasn't what he had in mind. However, Teacher had made it clear that he wouldn't test Roger for his black belt without further commitment to study. He realized that the belt itself was just a symbol. The training was what mattered and Teacher never offered to test someone unless that person was ready. So he knew that getting the belt was no more than a formality. But, this was the further study he'd committed to?

Visions of The Cold Void were once again alive in his head. He thought about what it had been like to touch the scene of his marriage day, how the scene instantly restarted but with Vicky's hair pulled back and tied instead of being loose and flowing over her shoulders. That was how it had been in the pictures they had of the wedding, loose and flowing. It was also how her hair had been the first time the scene had played in The Cold Void. The second time, it had been tied back.

"How is that possible?"

Teacher's face was grave. "You must be careful how you proceed. I don't teach this to everyone who comes through my front door. With good reason. Only those who both need it and, in my humble opinion, will not abuse it."

Roger shook his head. "I can't see where this is going, Teacher. I mean, don't get me wrong. The Cold Void is very interesting and all that. But I don't see why I need it."

Teacher crossed his legs and leaned closer, as if about to impart a secret. "You're happy in your life?"

"Absolutely. I've got a good job now, a great wife. What more could I want?"

Teacher frowned, his eyes boring into Roger's soul. Under that gaze, he felt it impossible to hide anything from this man. "I see. Well, how about this? You bear with me for two weeks. Go back to your life for now and see how happy you are. How happy those around you are. Look carefully. We'll see how you feel about things when the two weeks are over. Okay?"

Roger wasn't sure he wanted to commit to even that much. Two more weeks meant at least two more sessions, more than likely two more visits to The Cold Void. He had to admit he was intrigued. The Cold Void was a strange place, an unknown that seemed to reflect everything about him, about his life. Plus some. All those things he'd seen, scenes from what could only be a village in the depths of the European Dark Ages, a small market stall outside the Coliseum in ancient Rome, and even beyond that to the building site of a step pyramid. Where had those images come from? He had to wonder if stepping into The Cold Void was worth what he might get out of it. He wasn't sure if he dared commit to coming back for another Saturday morning lesson.

Teacher was suddenly on his feet again. "Enough for today at least. Your family is waiting and I have errands to run. See you next Saturday."

That last wasn't a question. It was a statement. Teacher expected Roger back, no question. Roger sighed. He really didn't want to do this. Being completely honest, he had to admit that he was scared.

"Teacher, what the hell does this have to do with martial arts?"

"You'll see. Come back next Saturday."

Anger flared up in Roger's gut. "No, Teacher. I don't see the point of this."

"Can you not trust that all will become clear?"

Roger stared at him in amazement. Teacher's demeanour hadn't changed much. He still looked like the ancient warlord he'd known for seven years. But there was something different in his eyes, a hint of pleading. Or disappointment. Roger couldn't tell which.

Roger stood and gave Teacher a deep bow, hands placed just so on his thighs, eyes on the floor at Teacher's feet. It was the ultimate show of respect. Roger gave it willingly, despite his anger toward the old man. "I'm sorry, Teacher. This Cold Void is too much for me right now. Maybe in another year."

Teacher grunted. "Same thing I said."

"What?"

"Too much for me right now. I said that to my teacher forty years ago. I'll tell you the same thing he told me."

Roger shifted uncomfortably. "What was that?"

Teacher picked up the empty Coke cans and headed toward the trash can by the half-fridge, his slight limp the only thing between him and gracefulness. "I'll be here. Come if you want."

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Teacher has an uncanny feeling not is all right in Roger's life. Too many unanswered questions in his past. Roger's unsure if he wants to enter The Cold Void again. It's dark and forbidding. Shortly thereafter he and his wife, Vicky, exit a theatre while discussing his past. He's jumpy amd clearly upset when the subject of Eddie comes up. Excerpt follows ...

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"I know lots of people whose parents divorced, sweetie."

"Yeah? And how many of them had to go through hell just to get out of childhood? Couldn't even go to the bathroom without . . ."

She stroked his arm. "What, baby?"

"I . . . Nothing."

"Tell me, Roger."

"It's . . . not important. I was just thinking about the night he caught me naked sandwiches in the bathroom. That's all."

"Naked sandwiches?"

Roger whipped around. "What?"

"You said 'naked sandwiches.'"

"No, I meant 'making sandwiches.'"

"Roger . . ."

Something inside his head exploded. "Leave me alone!" He turned and half-ran to the corner. Then he was on Broadway, heading west.

He walked three blocks along Broadway just to get rid of the pent-up energy, then turned onto a side street. Walking through the residential area south of Broadway, he started to calm down. By the time he came to a darkened tennis court, he couldn't remember why he'd gotten so upset. Thinking about Eddie. Talking about him, that was why. She didn't have to push so damn hard. He stopped short near the chain-link fence surrounding the tennis court and stared at his shoes. He felt like a fool. He hadn't seen Eddie for twenty-eight years, but the man still had control of his life. And now he was letting Eddie's memory come between him and Vicky.

A thought came barrel-assing up on him so hard his stomach turned to ice. He glanced at his watch. It was after midnight. And Vicky was alone on the street.

He turned and ran back toward Broadway. Jesus! How could he have been so stupid?

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Roger frantically searches for Vicky. What he finds forces him back to The Cold Void. Startling events await him ...

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