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The Open Eye

Allan Onik

    Ashton prized his collection of books. Many were rare and valuable. Some were banned in their time. Also, a number of them were highly sought after by collectors who would part with a sizable amount of money to obtain them (and, like Ashton, would sometimes part with the law in their pursuit of them). On a custom bookshelf, Ashton’s collection of books spanned the entire outline of his Manhattan apartment’s walls. One book, called “Morals of Epicetus, with Simplicus” was worth thousands and dated back to 1694. Another, bound and titled “Document 597” was written by an ex-CIA agent and spoke of the many covert (and classified) assassinations that occurred around the world as a result of U.S. efforts during his employment. There were only 16 copies of “Document 597” in the world. The book derived its name from the starting number of the classified document the agent wanted to reveal, and the purpose of it was to throw the intelligence agency into upheaval.
    Ashton looked through his antique rimmed glasses onto the pages of a book titled “Scalpere Saltare,” written in Latin (in which he was fluent) and consisting of the medieval torture methods of a particular king’s high executioner. He was currently on a page that involved stretch racks and pliers. Grotesque yet fascinating, Ashton thought, I never realized a body could be manipulated in such a way. It’s enough to warrant the popping of a bottle of champagne. Ashton stood up from his vintage, leather armchair and headed to his kitchen for the drink. He heard the buzzer ring for his door. Another customer probably, Ashton thought. He was the premier hunter and supplier of rare books in the area.
    He walked to his door, looked through the eyehole, and stifled a groan. Standing outside was a skinny old man in a black suit, holding a black umbrella. Ashton studied his face. You’re always somber, aren’t you, Dagmar? He thought to himself as he opened the door. Well, I suppose it makes perfect sense. Dagmar looked up at him when the door was opened.
    “I want the Auschwitz camp log written by officer Hoke,” Dagmar said.
    “No, I told you I don’t have it,” Ashton said, “It was burned in the 60’s by the British government.”
    “You’re lying.”
    “I’m not.”
    “I’ll give you 70 thousand and not a penny more, I just want it before you give it to that fool Gottfrid.”
    “Gottfrid’s not getting it and you’re not getting it. It’s gone.”
    “Ok, 80 then.”
    Ashton hesitated. “90.”
    “I’ve got my checkbook right here,” Dagmar said.
    Ashton fumbled back into his apartment. You’re the fool, he thought, you’re about to pay 90 thousand for a false duplicate. Ashton walked to a corner of his bookshelf that stood next to a window overlooking one of the city’s streets. Across the street was an abandoned, boarded-up building with a homeless man leaning against its outside wall. Ashton looked at him drinking from a bottle in a paper bag as he got his duplicate of the book. He’s always there, Ashton thought, he’s survived for a while. And so will I. Ashton returned to his door with the book. Dagmar had already started writing the check.
    “I appreciate this,” Dagmar said. “My collection is nearly complete. I hope to someday have all the officer logs from Auschwitz, and then I will start working on the other camps. I suppose you could help me with that.”
    Ashton handed him the book and took the check from his outstretched hand. “I’d prefer not to.” he said, “It’s too risky hunting for them. I can give you some names that would be willing to help for the right price though.”
    Dagmar shook his head. “I’ll only use you. You’re the best, and I trust you.”
    “I have to go,” Ashton said. He shut the door. Damn Nazis, Ashton thought, thank god for the Russians. Of all your days squabbling with the petty ideologies of your broken gang, when have you ever found real substance? Your leader was a power hungry hoax, and your life in his army a lie. He headed back to his book and his drink.

    Later, Ashton was making coffee when the buzzer for his door rang. He put on a robe, walked to the door, and looked through the eyehole. A man stood outside the apartment wearing glasses and a brown trench coat. Ashton thought: He’s government. What’s he doing at my door? He opened the door. The man looked up at Ashton. He held up an FBI badge with his photo on it.
    “I’m agent Briggs,” he said as he folded the badge back up and put it into his inner coat pocket. “I heard you were quite the collector?”
    “Yes.”
    “You got a lot of books in there. I like to read too. Ever read Alfred Bester? He’s fantastic.”
    “I read mostly nonfiction,” Ashton said, “is there anything I can help you with?”
    “Yes. The Bureau’s looking for a book that’s in circulation, but its nothing you’ll find in Barnes and Nobles. It’s rare and illegal. We’ve already burned 15 copies and there’s one more copy somewhere, probably somewhere here in the Big Apple. Mind if I look around your place? It’s just routine, nothing to worry about. We’ve been going to all the known collectors in the area and...”
    Ashton felt as if his face had been hit with a mallet. “Yes, I do mind,” he said, “I’m busy.”
    “I’m sorry to trouble you but there’s nothing I can do. We’re checking everyone.”
    “You’re not checking me.”
    “I can give you some time to get dressed if you want. I know it’s early.”
    “Do you have a warrant?”
    “Do I need one?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I’ll be back in 45 minutes. If you’re not here when I get back, I’ll place a warrant out for your arrest.”
    Ashton shut the door on him. He felt his temples pulsating like tiny jackhammers. He just thinks I’m eccentric, Ashton thought, he doesn’t think I have Document 597. Ashton scanned his bookshelf. He walked the perimeter of his apartment. Where is the damned thing, he thought? He found it on a bottom shelf next to his couch. Then he placed it into two airtight storage bags and stashed it in the upper compartment of his toilet. It’s the safest place, Ashton thought, it never crosses anyone’s mind that a rare book can be safely stored in a person’s shitter. Ashton walked to his leather chair and sat down. When 45 minutes passed and Briggs didn’t show up, he figured him for late. After two hours he decided something was wrong. After three he tried to calm himself. He did this by drinking himself to sleep.


    Later, Ashton took a walk on the streets of the city. In his inside pocket he carried a silver-lined PP7 pistol with an ivory hilt. It had been custom made for him by a gunsmith in Nigeria. Once, Ashton displayed it to a book collector named Walten.

Ever used that thing? Walten had asked.     A couple of stray dogs and a prostitute, Ashton had replied.     I’ll never understand you, Ashton. You need a shrink. Now, for that new book I need...<>/TD>

    When Ashton returned to his apartment there was a business card stuck to his door with scotch tape. The card read:
    Jed Summers
    Psychic Readings
    234-573-6972
    Ashton took the card off the door and looked on its back. A message was written in pen. Call me it read. Ashton put the card in his pocket and headed into his apartment. He picked “Scalpere Saltere” off of a coffee table next to his chair and walked across his room to a section of his bookshelf, putting “Scalpere Saltare” back in its place. The ending had intrigued him. It involved different styles of executions, including sawing and dunking techniques.

    The next day Ashton sat in his chair reading a new book. It was titled “Atheism Logic,” by an author named Earl M. Humphrey. Ashton was reading with vigor. His current page read:

...And so there is no doubt that the psychology of modern man compels him to cling to its belief systems in the same way that a baby clings to his favorite toy. The toy provides comfort, stability, and even a healthy dose of entertainment. The same can be said of the mind virus that has followed man since his dawn. The belief of magical beings that look over us, tempt us, harm us, punish us, or kill us is an absurdity to those who have not been brainwashed since their earliest stages of cognitive functioning...

    Ashton put the book aside and took out the business card he’d found on his door the previous day. He dialed the number.
    “Thanks for calling, Ashton,” said a man on the other end of the line.
    “This is Jed?” Ashton said.
    “Yes.” Jed’s voice was quiet. He seemed at ease.
    “You need a book?”
    “Yes.”
    “Ok. What type of book, then.”
    “It’s rare. I’d like you to meet me if you don’t mind. I can pay of course.”
    Ashton got out his book and pen. “What’s your address?” Ashton asked.
    “2236 Franklin Way. It’s east of the Trump Towers in the Franklin apartments complex.”
    “When do I meet you?”
    “Tonight at seven if you don’t mind. I have customers before then.”
    “I’ll be there,” Ashton said. He hung up the phone.
    Ashton continued his reading of “Atheism Logic.” Scintillating, Ashton thought on his current page:

Twelve monkeys typing on typewriters have the same cognitive functioning combined as one adult human writing his life story in a manner to produce religious following. The adult human may find his fancies are based not on reality, but on acute paranoia of the unknown. It essentially has the worth of the monkey’s mindless bashing of the key types due to the ridiculous nature of its constructs. It contains the worth of a mix of jumbled letters, all vying for a spot amidst the hypocrite’s beauty pageant.

    Later in the day Ashton found his way to Jed’s apartment. He knocked on the door. A short, stocky man in a collar shirt and kakis opened the door and greeted him.
    “Hello, my name is Jed,” Jed said, “and you must be Ashton, the book hunter.”
    “Yes,” Ashton said.
    “Welcome to my place, and thank you for coming. Sit down if you want.” Jed led Ashton to a brown couch.
    Looks like an ordinary apartment, Ashton thought as he sat down. Jed sat in a chair across from him.
    “I need a book,” Jed said, “it’s a rarity.”
    “And you’re a psychic?” Ashton asked.
    “Yes,” Jed said, “I have extrasensory capabilities, so you can call me psychic.”
    “Can you read my mind?” Ashton asked.
    “Not like you could read a book. But I can determine some things.”
    “Like?”
    Jed stood up and placed his palm on Ashton’s forehead. “You’re on a dangerous path. Tread lightly. Look closely at your surroundings. Before this life, on another plane, I see you in a forest. You see only one tree. It is a leafless tree—barren, wasted. You do not see that which is around it.”
    I could have done that, Ashton thought. “That it?”
    “For you.”
    “Ok. The book details, please.” Ashton took out his pen and book.
    “The book I need contains details of the star alignments around the time of the death of Christ. The data available to the populace now in relation to that time has been hazy at best. The book is being sold in a bookshop in Rome with a seller that doesn’t know its value. The name of the book is ‘Nascita Del Sole Di Morte.’”
    “If you know where it is, why not get it yourself?”
    “I would be recognized instantly and the seller would refuse. Those with certain faiths do not take kindly to practices I perform. I’m known in many religious circles.”
    “What’s your bounty offer?” Ashton asked.
    “I’ll give you this,” Jed walked to a desk behind him and pulled out a large, black stone about the size of a baseball, and it was shiny and perfectly round.
    “What’s this? I accept only cash,” Ashton said.
    “It’s a black crystal.”
    “I’m sorry but I can’t do the hunt for that thing.”
    “If you’d like, a pawn shop would give over ten thousand for it. Here, I’ll also give you this.” Jed took a golden sphere out of his pocket.
    “Another stone?” Ashton asked.
    “Yes, it’s pure gold. Turn it into a pawn shop to pay for your travel expenses.”
    “How much is it worth?”
    “A few thousand. You also have to include its craftsmanship in its worth. Should be enough to get you there and back.”
    “I’ll accept that,” Ashton said. He took the sphere. “I guess I’ll be going now. I have everything I need.”
    “Remember what I said. You have to be careful. Something doesn’t bode well, though I don’t know what it is.”
    Give me a break, Ashton thought. If I believed in your delusions, would I be doing this at all? “I’ll be fine,” Ashton said, “I’ve been doing this a long time. Piece of cake.”
    Jed’s words echoed in Ashton’s mind as he left the apartment. When I get enough money, Ashton thought, I’ll leave all these crackpots behind me.

    Ashton read “Atheism Logic” on his plane to Rome:

The snowball of delusion continues to pick up size on its roll down the hill of religious concord. No man of science can deny the snowball’s fallacies, and no man of religion can deny the snowball’s hopeful constructions. The pagans had not one snowball, but many (All of which are now melted in a sunlit bath of reason).

    Two men dressed in robes were sitting ahead of Ashton.
    “We’ll start the prayers on Monday,” one of them said.
    “Singing first, then prayers,” said the other.
    “I’ll call the bishop, he’ll want to hear from us,” the first one said.
    Somewhere on the plane a baby was crying, which made Ashton want to tear his eyes out.

    Ashton dropped his bags off at a hotel and began walking the streets. He saw a homeless child dressed in nothing but rags. Later, he passed a man playing a mandolin. The man looked serene and hopeful. He had a glass jar with some coins in it, but Ashton refrained from donating.

    Here we are, Ashton thought when he found the bookstore he was looking for. The name of the store was “Libri del Dio.” The store was dusty, and the books looked old. A man sat behind a counter who looked to be in his seventies. He wore a white beard, and was dressed in loose, white pants and a tunic. “You speak English?” Ashton asked.
    “Yes,” the old man said.
    “’Nascita Del Sole Di Morte,’ please.”
    “It’s not for sale.”
    “I can pay you well.”
    “Astrology books are only for heretics and witches. We keep all astrology books under lock and key. They are not to be sold, looked at, or touched. Only preserved.”
    “I’ll give you this,” Ashton said. He took the golden sphere out of his pocket and held it out in his hand. Ashton had decided not to pawn the sphere too early. He originally thought he’d keep as a token.
    “So Jed Summers sent you,” the old man said. “Jed’s eyes can see in the dark, but how can you see the cosmos in a blink? No one can. Jed’s vision is but a grain of sand in the Sahara.”
    “The stone plus ten thousand U.S. dollars. Right now, in cash. It can be yours,” Ashton said.
    “Don’t trouble me anymore,” the old man said.
    Ashton left the store. I’ve been dealing with these fruit loops so long, I don’t know what to do with myself, he thought. Soon it will just be my books and me. Damn that old fart. If I lose my reputation before I get enough money, I’ll be through. Jed’s not going to be happy. Ashton had some time to kill before his flight back to New York. He found a brass bench in a nearby park and further read “Atheism Logic”:

The religious populace may claim that a god is present that is almighty, powerful, all knowing, and emotional. He may be vengeful, full of wrath, loving, or forgiving. Some may say man is made in the likeness of god, yet this contradicts god’s very theme. If he is to be omniscient and all-powerful, it is contradictory to assume that he has the emotions of mortals—with all their faults. An entity such as this must have no rationale, no psychological hindrances.

    A church bell rang in the distance. Ashton knew he was only a few miles from the capital of the Vatican. The Pope was probably walking in his chambers. Maybe they will pray, Ashton thought. I’ll save that for my deathbed.

    Ashton returned to his apartment building. He walked up to his door and turned the doorknob. Funny, Ashton thought, I thought I locked it. He entered and was smashed on the top of the head with a wine bottle. The bottle shattered. He fell over, his head spinning.
    “Where is it, cocksucker?” Briggs said. “I know it’s in here.” All of Ashton’s books lay ripped and strewn about the floor. His safe had been blown open with explosives. His couch was overturned and his blinds were torn from his window.
    “Don’t have it,” Ashton said.
    “Wrong answer.” Briggs kicked Ashton in the ribs. Ashton felt something crack.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ashton said.
    “I’ve been to everyone else. Everyone talked, cooperated. All your buddies, even the Nazi talked. None of them have it, so I know it’s you. The Bureau’s serious about this one. I’ve been told to do whatever’s necessary. No leash on my neck. Tell you what, talk now and you can keep your teeth. No dentures needed.”
    “Ok, I admit it,” Ashton said. “I have it.”
    “Where?”
    “It’s in my toilet.”
    Briggs walked into the bathroom. Ashton heard him open the top portion of his toilet. “I’ll be damned,” Briggs said. He walked out of the bathroom with the book, and Ashton took the PP7 out of his pocket. When Ashton shot him, the back of his head splattered against the bookcase behind him. Shit, shit, shit, Ashton thought, what to do now? He licked his arm, which was coated with a mixture of blood and cabernet. I’ll have to call Walten. Walten’s collection was in the countryside near Albany. He owned his own estate, and his own library. He also had the resources to fix many problems. Ashton had relied on him in the past, and he used Ashton to tweak his vast collection. Ashton picked up his phone and dialed.
    “Walten here,” Walten said.
    “It’s me,” Ashton said.
    “Ashton, a pleasant surprise.”
    “I need your help.”
    “What’s wrong?”
    “I just killed a fed.”
    Walten paused. “Christ. You’re fucked.”
    “Nothing I can do?”
    “You’ll have to get out of the country.”
    “But they probably have me red flagged,” Ashton said.
    “I can get you some false papers,” Walten said, “but I need you for a hunt in return. Meet me at my place. I’ll give you the details.” Walten hung up. Ashton headed out the door.

    The gates in front of Walten’s estate opened for Ashton’s taxi. The house itself was larger than the White House, and was surrounded by many acres of woods and green space. It was a Victorian house, at one time owned by a wealthy oil baron. When Walten’s butler opened the door, he escorted Ashton to Walten’s library. Ashton highly respected the collection. Walten had obtained many priceless books, all laid out in pristine condition on cherry wood shelves. The library itself equaled the width of a small house and contained antique furniture and reading lights. A few minutes after the butler left, Walten walked in carrying two glasses and a bottle of scotch.
    “Ashton, you’re in deep this time,” Walten told him. “I thought you might want something to drink.”
    “I do,” Ashton said. He poured some scotch and began to drink.
    “I’ve got you a fake passport, a fake license, new social security card, and pretty much everything else you need for a new you. It’s not guaranteed though, you can’t just kill a fed and expect to walk away clean.”
    “He would have had my balls if he took me in,” Ashton said. “It wasn’t a light book.”
    “I don’t want to know,” Walten said. “But I do need you for one last hunt, then you can deal with things however you see fit. You can move to Paris if you’d like—tap into some of your overseas funds for a while. I’ve got one more book I need. It’s in Russia, in the dead outskirts 100 miles north of St. Petersburg. You’ll have to hitch a ride up there. It’s a small village. Looks like its still in medieval times up there. Anyway, talk to a gypsy named Drelsna. She’s got the book.”
    “The name of it,” Ashton said.
    “‘Expositus Oculus.’ In English that means ‘The Open Eye.’ It’s a parallel of sorts to the Bible. Only one copy in the world. My sources tell me its very enlightening. This’ll be the last one for me. You’ll finish my great collection. You’ve helped me a lot, Ashton. Though if I could get you something that’s written it would be a doctor’s script for some anti-psychotics.”
    “What’re you wasting your time with that religious garbage for?”
    “You’re a cold fish, Ashton. Find me the book as a favor.”
    “It’s the least I can do,” Ashton said.

    When Ashton arrived in St. Petersburg he got his bags and took a taxi as far as it would go. After reading on the plane, he was now on the last page of “Atheism Logic”:

...The defected of the population fail to support the logic of creationism. Why would a higher power create beings of vice, dereliction, or misfortune? The rationale of a human can be subject to inconsistencies when not placed properly within the scope of the scientific method. Already the faults of such documents as the Bible and Quran have classified them by some scholars as artifacts of modern mythology. Man has ruled the earth for two million years, and his questions are still unanswered—though the truth is staring him in the face.

    “This is as far as I go,” the cab driver said as he pulled to a halt on a dirt road surrounded by a grassy, open plain. “I’d suggest you don’t get out. If anything were to happen, you’d be a goner. No one’s coming out here to get you.”
    “I’ll be fine,” Ashton said. He paid and stepped out with his suitcase. He began to walk. His leather shoes were not made for long walking, and his feet began to hurt. He began to sweat. The sun was setting, and sky was turning purple. He could see woods far on either side of the dirt road he was walking. I hope there are no wolves around here, Ashton thought, Walten can be such a pain in the ass. Soon a green pick-up truck started up the road from behind him. It was a dilapidated truck with wooden beams creating its sides and its back. Three gypsies sat in the back wearing brown and white rags. Ashton waved it down. “I have money,” he yelled. The truck stopped. “American dollars,” he said.
    One of the gypsies waved him onto the truck. She had only three visible teeth and her hair was frizzed.
    Ashton got in back. The stench, he thought, smells like something died back here. Soon they reached a small town composed mainly of a few straw huts. What caught Ashton’s eye the most was a large, stone tower about four stories high that stood in the back of the town. The tower was crafted in a unique fashion with a spiral edge that reached its top and came to a point with an inverted cross tipping it.
    Ashton got off the truck. “I’m looking for someone named Drelsna,” he told the gypsies as they left him. “Ever seen her?” He was beginning to feel thirsty.
    “She sits in the sky,” one of them said, pointing to the top of the tower.
    Walking toward the tower, Ashton passed a goat stepping in the muddy ground. I feel like I’m in wonderland, Ashton thought. Where’s the surface of the rabbit hole? The setting sun had disappeared behind some clouds and the sky, which was now orange, displayed a dim full moon. Ashton got to the door of the tower, and a small man wearing a cloak opened it. He was wearing a hood and his face was concealed in shadows. “She awaits you at the top,” he said. Ashton began to ascend a spiral staircase. There was no railing, so Ashton made sure to lean towards the walled side. This place is creeping me out. Just got to get the book and leave, he thought. He got to the top floored level and opened a door. A woman in a dark robe sat at one end of the room. She was wearing a black robe similar to the one worn by the man who opened the door. She was also much better groomed than the other gypsies. She had long, black hair and green eyes.
    “I need a book,” Ashton said, “Expositus Oculus.”
    “We’ve been waiting for you,” Delsna said.
    “The man who sent me will pay anything you like. Just ask, and I can arrange it.”
    “Only you may have the book,” Delsna said, “It is yours for free. The stars say you are destined for it, and this is no accident.”
    “Sounds good,” Ashton said.
    When Drelsna left the room Ashton assumed she was getting the book. He heard a click when the door shut. He waited a few minutes, and then tried the knob. It was locked. Oh god, Ashton thought, what’s going on? He walked to the far end of the room and something caught his eye. It was a small, black book. Ashton read the inscription. “Expositus Oculus,” Ashton thought, it’s here.

    After two weeks of being locked in the room he read the whole thing. It was all that kept his sanity. A pulley brought food and water up to the window of the room, and he defecated in a bucket in the room’s corner.
    After two years he memorized the book word for word. It spoke of ancient times, the origin of life, and spiritual matter. It regarded evolution, but Ashton noted that the book dated back far before the birth of Charles Darwin.
    Ashton’s nails were black and cracked from scratching at the door and one day one of his teeth fell out. It was black and rotten. I believe now, Ashton thought. His suit had turned into rags. He walked to the window of the tower and looked out. He didn’t see anyone. He felt completely alone. The last page of his new book reverberated in his mind:

The lights in the heavens, with their signs, can only be seen by those who choose to see them. They are there, with their guidance for the earth, and its inhabitants—its beings of light. Every touch by these beings creates a ripple in the cosmos. Every vision by these beings changes the cosmos, and its many dimensions. The sixth day is the day of the great unification, for nothing in the cosmos is separate from another. This was created for good.

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