The Haunted Traveler Vol. 2 Issue 1

78
air through the arteries? Oh, we laugh now and assume we
know all there is to know about this organ upon which not
only doctors, but priests, prophets, philosophers, theologians,
and mystics have speculated for millennia. Trust me, sweet
one, we know so little. Yes, for me, the heart continues to be
an object of study and ongoing mystery. It should be for you,
also.
Oh, no, the tears again. I know if I unstrap your
mouth, you’ll be naughty and scream. Sh-sh. Just a little
morphine to take the edge off. This is something you must
see. The saw? Oh, I know, it is loud, isn’t it? But so necessary,
and if listened to with the correct attitude, an instrument
as delicate in its sound as a clavichord. Look in the mirror
overhead. You’ll see that we must cut through the sternum,
right along this axis. The sternum is the heart’s armor, so to
speak. This won’t take very long, mon amie. Like unseaming
a dress. Sorry about the mess, but little good happens without
some mess, does it? There we are. Oh, this? It’s called a
Finochietto retractor. The name puts one in mind of Italian
puppet-masters. A simply medieval looking device, is it not?
Yet absolutely necessary. Splitting the sternum takes quite
some force. Hold on, dear, while I operate the crank. Don’t
be alarmed by the cracking, it is simply your ribs making
way for a vision you likely never thought you would have
the opportunity to contemplate.
Behold! Your own beating heart. According to the
sages of old, the seat of your soul, if not your intellect. I am
amazed every time . . . Oh, goodness. The salts again. There
– breathe. That’s right. A splash of water on the face. Ah,
better. Look up in the mirror. Is it not beautiful to perceive?
Watch the rhythmic beat. It is the source of iambic pentameter.
“Batter my heart, three-person’d God; for you/As yet but
knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;/That I may rise, and
stand, o’erthrow me, and bend/Your force, to break, blow,
burn, and make me new.” Ah, I am afraid that Lethe-wards