Jacob Atabet by Michael Murphy

the painting. Sensing that he wanted to be alone, I went back in the kitchen. The sweetness I felt was turning to enormous well-being. Minutes passed. Fog was moving west, revealing the great electric negligee that covered the hills to the south.
    I heard him calling, and turned to see him through the kitchen door. In the few moments I’d been out of the room the painting had changed once again. Each blood cell now seemed enormous, as if the observer had shrunk.
    “The animan siddhi. ” He held up the brush. “Just like you tell it in your book.”
    The animan siddhi is a Sanskrit term for the yogic power to shrink the focus of consciousness to a tiny point. He held the brush an inch from the canvas. “The animan siddhi ,” he murmured. “Don’t you see it?”
    The brush was poised in midair. Then he touched it to the painting. Neither of us talked as he repeated the motion. I closed my eyes to rest. It was painful to wait for his slow steady strokes. I turned and stood by the door. But when I looked at the painting again, the figure and ground had reversed. Now the city was up close and the veil of blood had receded.
    I stepped back in the kitchen. These jumps in perception were unsettling. “It’ll be just a minute,” he called. “Make yourself another cup.”
    I put the cup down in the sink. The fog was rolling out to sea uncovering the light-speckled hills. A rare wind from the east was blowing. It would be good to stand on the deck, I thought. Opening the door carefully, I stepped outside.
    The wind hit my face with a dry electric charge. Looking back through the kitchen I could see him closing a window and guessed that the air was bad for his paint. He lifted the brush and held it in front of the canvas. Held it closer . . . . then something flashed all around him. For an instant he was enveloped in a blue sheet of fire.
    He glanced at the kitchen—I could tell he was looking for me. Then he turned and wiped off his hands. I crossed to the rail. The sheet of fire, I thought, had been static electricity or some kind of illusion.
    “Darwin,” he called from the doorway. “Are you out there?” From the sound of his voice I could tell he was shaken. Up close, he smelled like something burnt, and his face was tightly drawn. “You all right?” he asked, coming out on the deck. “I’m sorry I’ve taken so long.”
    I said I felt fine. Just seeing him was all I had needed.
    “Look here.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got to ask you to leave. I’m too tired to talk. But I’ll call you first thing tomorrow. That book of yours . . .” He gestured vaguely. “It’s very important. There’s a lot I want to ask you about.” He led me to the gate with a vacant expression, and waved as I went down the stairs.
    Walking to my apartment I made a decision. The light I had seen was a static electric charge, a ripple of something like St. Elmo’s Fire. There was nothing occult about it. In this air you could build up a charge simply by rubbing your hands. I had even felt a shock when I zipped up my nylon jacket. And this wind from the valleys, full of dust and pollution from refineries and factories all across the state to Fresno and Stockton, could drain your virtue in minutes. That would account for his sudden fatigue.
    The shocks of the last several hours were washed away by the excitement I felt. He had seen that my work was important. As I went down the hill I found myself running with sheer exuberance. But as I went into my apartment I remembered that something else had appeared on the deck. I felt myself shrinking in horror. A giant bird, black as ebony, was turning toward me. Its unblinking eyes fixed my gaze, and I felt something inside me surrender. If I would let it, something said, it would tear me apart. Tear me slowly and deliberately to pieces. A shudder passed through me, part fear and part pleasure. Slowly it came down from the rail. Then it bent toward me and started to rip out my