Chapter Forty-One
Declan
Idespise my birthday, and this one feels no different.
More a curse than an inevitable marker of time.
I hoped to let the day pass without any unnecessary fanfare.
But before leaving the office, I discover an orange envelope resting on my desk.
It isn’t addressed to anyone, yet it’s undeniably meant for me.
With a mix of disdain and curiosity, I tear open the glued flap and withdraw a generic card depicting a group of colorful balloons and ribbon-wrapped gifts.
I flip it open with my thumbs and am caught off guard when a business card flutters onto the desk.
In bold, black capital letters, it reads THE MASTER, accompanied by a small address and phone number scrolled beneath.
Between suspicion and reflexive curiosity, I expect to find a message on the back.
But when I turn the card over, I find a single phrase.
Master Your Destiny. I am baffled. There is no signature.
No “Happy Birthday” greeting. Just an anonymous calling card stirring conflict in my mind and tempting me to seek out this enigmatic Master.
After a slow forty-five-minute journey through four miles of gridlocked rush-hour traffic under an oppressively setting sun, my mood grows even more unsettled.
I’m not in a rush, but the prolonged bumper-to-bumper crawl deepens the discomfort chewing away at my hope for a calm end to the day.
Still, I cling to a reluctant patience until I arrive at a long, twisting driveway matching the address on the ominous business card.
I park my car and take a long, conflicted minute to gauge what I am getting into. A bad idea, I fear, but my decision was made before I pulled from my workplace parking spot.
The front door is dilapidated and unwelcoming, but upon stepping inside, the contrast is jarring.
The narrow hallway boasts floors of solid gold polished to a mirror sheen, where even the crooked angle of my tie is laid bare in its reflection.
Enormous crystal chandeliers hang from a vaulted ceiling a good three of me stacked above, and the walls shimmer with tiny specks of light like scattered diamond dust. My head reels with conflicting thoughts.
Am I seeing this right?
Overwhelmed and longing for clarity, I step back out to reassess the shabby exterior. And upon reentering, the undeniable, almost terrifying awe of the splendor inside is too vivid to be a mere illusion.
Making my way to an innocuous desk, I find a small golden placard that reads, “Please take a seat. THE MASTER will be with you shortly.” With resignation and a trace of anticipation, I turn and sit on a small golden couch that feels as soft as a cloud, even as doubts churn in my stomach.
Almost immediately, the panel behind the desk slides to the left, revealing a massive figure.
A dark-skinned man, towering well over a foot taller than me, and weighing, I don’t know how much, but a lot.
“Greetings, Declan,” he says, his voice a deep rumble vibrating through the air. His smile, framed by a hearty beard and mustache, somehow displaces the dread creeping in. Stepping forward, the panel behind him seals automatically. “I am The Master. Welcome to my humble home.”
I freeze, a tangled mix of shock and inner turmoil. Not merely because of his imposing size, but because he knows my name.
“Sir,” he continues gently, slowly extending a monstrous paw of hand, “are you alright? I do apologize if I startled you.”
“I'm—I'm just surprised.” I manage to speak, after a long, conflicted pause. “How do you know who I am, exactly?” I accept his offered hand and without the faintest exertion, he pulls me up to my feet.
“I am The Master,” he repeats ritualistically. “An oracle, if you will. I see and hear all. Therefore, I know all. I am The Master.”
“I don't mean to be rude, but that sounds awfully rehearsed.” I can’t help but tease. “I am the Master, too,” I say with a half-hearted laugh that belies the inner conflict roiling within me.
“Ha ha ha,” he replies with a chuckle that shakes the chandeliers overhead. “It seems you do not remember me, Declan. We have met before. That is why I know your name.”
“We have?” I press, my voice edged with skepticism.
“Yes,” he insists. “Do you not remember? You were with someone else that day. Perhaps that is why.”
“Someone else, huh?” I murmur, nearly accusing him while wrestling with the haze of forgotten memories. “Who was I with?”
“You and a young lady were here, together.” His reply tells me nothing.
“What?” I stutter, unable to grasp or recall such an event.
“That, too, I must set aside for now, Declan,” he says, his tone carrying a gloomy weight. “What matters most is why you are here this evening. Now, come with me out back and let us see if we can find you some clarity.”
A hidden panel in the back wall slides open, and with a sinking heart and unresolved doubts, I follow him into a pitch-black corridor. His booming footsteps and my measured breathing are the only sounds echoing in the cavernous space.
In a small back room, I’m directed to a seat beside a four-person glass card table.
The Master settles on a large stool opposite me and, with a gesture both gracious and unnerving, offers me a glass of water.
As I sit, still wrestling with my conflicted thoughts, I notice him glancing at something behind me.
I turn briefly over my shoulder, but nothing is there.
Only my own unsettled reflection in more golden walls.
“How does this work?” I ask, my voice trembling between prying and apprehension.
“It’s quite simple, Declan,” he answers, his tone layered with meaning that I struggle to comprehend.
“I know who you are and why you are here. Truths that you are not equipped to understand. Your lack of knowledge is not your fault. It’s beyond the grasp of any man.
Instead, know this—you exist in a world where seeing is believing, but where not all things can be seen.
I won’t be able to explain everything, but I promise honesty, no matter the cost.”
A surge of diverging desire compels me to interrupt him, to demand transparency. But I can’t find the words to start.
“You sit before me, Declan, on your twenty-seventh birthday,” he continues, his voice a somber echo. “You harbor a presence within you that you neither recognize nor can see. An entity that has claimed you, whether you wish it or not.”
Normally, I would laugh away such preposterous thoughts and walk away. But the force of his words pins me in a state of internal disarray. No part of me believes it, yet another part clings to the weight of his truth.
“I—I’m not sure how to respond,” I stammer eventually, the conflict within me warring between disbelief and reluctant acceptance. “But thank you.”
“You are welcome,” The Master replies, his tone both kind and haunting.
After a long moment of hesitation, I venture, “I do have a question though. Why do you claim I can’t believe what I cannot see?”
“That,” he says, his gaze drifting again to something unseen hovering over my shoulder, “as the kids say today, is a bitch. This unseen presence is something you will never fully recognize. It has eluded your understanding since you were a child. You have glimpsed terror in the shadows of night and marveled at otherworldly visions in daylight. But true acceptance of the inexplicable has always evaded you, as it does most men. You did not choose your limitations, yet you remain confined by them.” He pauses, looking again through me, as if communicating with an unseen force, nodding in silent agreement, then locking his eyes with mine.
“You have precisely one year until your existence, and that of the presence within you, become indistinguishable.”
My mind reels, and I shake my head to clear away any delusions. But a part of me, deeply conflicted and yearning for meaning, knows he speaks the truth. When the moment passes, I rise from my seat and follow The Master back to the front door.
“I am sorry that your life has been claimed for Its own,” he murmurs, lowering his head in a gesture of pity, leaving me in silent despair.