Blast from the Past # 4: Return of the Enigma

Return of the Enigma

When the small child streaked out in front of his car, Marcus Hanes exclaimed "Jeeezus!" and slammed down hard on the brake pedal while he swung the steering wheel violently to the left. Although he'd only been travelling at about 45 km/hr, it was still all he could do to avoid the youngster. Before his car had completely stopped, Marcus was already throwing open the driver's door and lunging out.

There, in the middle of the street, stood five year old Teddy Beechum, a wide grin plastered across his brown face. He was bobbing up and down gently, clapping his hands together silently.

Reaching the boy's side, Marcus tried to take Teddy's left arm, intending to lead the child away from the path of traffic. Teddy, however, squirmed out of the way. It was then that Marcus first realized that the air was being punctured by peals of wild laughter! The roaring of blood in his ears had kept him from hearing it sooner, but in fact the laughter had been there all along. Looking up from Teddy, Marcus spied the source of the sound: two females stood on the far curb, doubled over in mirth. As he caught the elusive child with one hand, he used the other to cup his brow. Dragging Teddy off the street, Marcus approached the two onlookers. His mouth grew dry as he recognized the pair: the smaller was Faith Beechum, Teddy's fourteen year old sister, and the other was... Marcus could scarcely credit his senses, but there stood Melissa Beechum, mother of the boy whom Marcus had nearly run down just moments earlier!

Speaking slowly so as not to lose control, Marcus said to the woman, "I don't know what the Hell's so funny, Mrs. Beechum, but I'd suggest you keep your children off the streets!" He could feel his face turning red, and wondered whether it was anger or embarrassment that brought on the reaction. There was no denying that he was furious at the woman, yet he couldn't help but feel as if some sort of bizarre practical joke had been played on him.

Still laughing, Melissa Beechum turned and lead her children off in the direction of their home. Marcus watched them go, half-expecting to see Teddy dart out in front of the next car to pass by. Even when the Beechums were a block away, Marcus could still hear laughter coming off their lips.

Finally, Marcus walked back to his car. The driver's door still stood open, and the engine purred quietly. Behind the vehicle, two black streaks marked the path covered by the Chevrolet after Marcus hit the brake pedal.

Once more behind the wheel, Marcus drove the last half kilometre mile to his house at a snail's pace. His eyes kept darting from one side of the street to the other, watching for juvenile missiles that might come shooting out in front of him.

After parking the car in his driveway, Marcus carried the three bags of groceries to the front door. Holding all three bags in one muscular arm, he opened the screen door and walked into the living room. Kicking off his sandals, Marcus continued on to the kitchen.

The scene that greeted him there made him stop. The door to the refridgerator stood wide open, and a blue-jeaned bottom protruded out of the cupboard under the sink. A devilish grin appeared on his face. Tiptoing up to the kneeling figure, Marcus gently jabbed his foot into the unsuspecting rear-end and muttered, "This is a stick-up!"

The woman jolted, banging her head against the top of the cupboard while one of her legs shot out, nearly-but-not-quite kicking Marcus' feet out from under him. Seeing who her attacker was, Caren Hanes threw a plastic container of dishwashing liquid at her husband.

"Damn it, Marcus! How many times do I have to tell you -!"

As he caught the thrown projectile, Marcus said, "God, I'm sorry, honey. I just couldn't resist.. you were such a tempting target!"

He shifted his burden from his arms to the nearby countertop, allowing him to pat Caren softly on her rear-end as he spoke.

"You're such a jerk, sometimes," she replied through gritted teeth, but already she was finding her ire difficult to sustain.

"I know, I know... I'm really sorry. Listen, you won't believe what happened to me as I was driving home." Marcus proceeded to describe his encounter with the Beechums.

"And Melissa didn't apologize, or get mad at Teddy, or anything?" Caren asked when he'd finished.

"Hah! She seemed to think that seeing her kid nearly get splattered all over the pavement was the funniest thing imaginable! I mean, we've known her and Terry for years... Do you suppose they're splitting up, and maybe she's gone off the deep end, or something?"

"I don't know, sweetheart, but it sounds like the poor woman needs help, alright!" Caren was pulling the groceries out of the bags, and paused to inspect the carton of eggs that Marcus had bought. "Oh, great," she said as she lifted the cover of the container, "looks like most of these are broken!"

Marcus snorted. "Must've happened when I swerved to miss Teddy Beechum. Oh well, I guess we'll just have to make omellettes! By the way, hon," with a smile on his face, "if you're going to defrost the fridge, you should probably turn it off first!" He kicked the fridge door closed as he walked by and out of the kitchen.

"That's funny," Caren muttered to herself, "I don't even remember opening it!"

Later that afternoon, Marcus stood in his backyard garden and surveyed the current crop. The tomatoes, carrots and radishes all looked very healthy, but the green peppers were definitely not going to win any awards this year! He pulled out the weeds that invariably found their way into his vegetable kingdom. Before going inside, he gathered a few items for the evening's meal.

As he entered the kitchen, he felt a dizzying sensation of deja vu: the scene that met his eyes was the same one that he'd walked in on hours earlier. Caren was once again on her hands and knees poking around under the sink, and the refridgerator door was opened as wide as it would go.

Careful to announce his presence early this time, Marcus said softly, while still across the room from his wife, "OK, Caren, I give up... you've worn me down... I'll buy an air conditioner for the kitchen!"

When she didn't react, he moved closer and said, in a louder voice, "Caren?"

The woman jolted, once again banging her head against the top of the cupboard, just as one of her legs shot out. Because he'd stayed a few paces away this time, Marcus didn't have to move to avoid her kick.

"Damn it, Marcus! How many times do I have to tell you -!"

"Hey, hold on! We've already done that number, remember?" He frowned at his wife. "Christ! What's the matter with you? What's got you so high-string today?"

"Oh, I dunno." Caren rubbed the back of her head where it had connected with the cupboard. She turned the hot water tap on and quickly rinsed her hands under it before the water turned scalding. "I guess I'm still a little jumpy about that guy I told you about."

"What guy?" Marcus asked as he dropped the vegetables down on the waiting cutting board.

"The one I told you about! The one who came by while you were getting groceries."

"You didn't mention anyone coming by! What did he say? How come you're so upset?" He pulled a knife out of a drawer and began chopping up the vegetables.

Caren paused. "It wasn't so much what he said," she replied, finally. "It was more... something about the look of him..."

"Well, what did he say?"

"Umm, he was looking for you. I said you weren't home, but that you wouldn't be long, and did he want to wait? He said, no, he'd come back later, and then he left."

"That's it? Why would that get you all antsy?"

"I'm not all antsy!'" Caren glowered at Marcus. "And I told you, it wasn't anything he said. Look, I know this is stupid, but you did say that your dad was dead, right?"

"What?" Marcus was stunned by the seeming sudden change of subject. He noticed that he'd almost nicked the corner of his first finger with the knife. He said, "I don't follow. I mean, yeah, Dad died when I was fifteen. Why?"

Caren looked at the floor tiles. "Well... this man who came by... he was in his mid-fifties, I'd say, but he looked enough like you to be your father." She suddenly looked up, catching Marcus with a steely gaze. "This isn't one of your stupid practical jokes, is it?"

"No!" Marcus found himself thinking of Teddy Beechum, and his own reaction to that encounter.

"Well you don't have to snap!" and she put on her best pout.

He frowned, seeming to focus on a point way off in the distance.

"This is weird," he said. "The whole day's been weird. When things get strange like this, I wonder if I -"

"Don't say it! No you don't! Don't start that with me!" Caren moved toward her husband, waving a hand back and forth in front of his far-off gaze. "You gave that shit up, remember? You promised!" Her voice was almost whining. "When we got married, you promised!"

"Look, calm down, OK?" Marcus put his arm around his wife's shoulder, and held her close. "All I'm saying is, it's been a really weird day, you know? That's all."

Letting go of Caren, he moved toward the door leading to the living room. "And for Christ's sake, Caren, would you please keep this damned door closed!" Once again, he shut the refridgerator door with his foot as he passed.

"That's funny," Caren muttered as she turned back to the sink, "I don't even remember opening it."

Not long afterward, Marcus was once again in his backyard. Deep in thought, he unlocked the door of his workshed and walked in. Leaving the door open, he stood for a moment in the darkness before switching on the overhead light.

Along one wall hung various power tools. Each was in immaculate condition. Marcus was one of the best carpenters in the area, and could scarcely afford to have inferior or defective equipment in his workplace. Over the years, he'd gained a considerable reputation as a craftsman.

Gardening, on the other hand, was just a hobby. Still, any professional groundskeeper would have approved of the array of agricultural implements that lined the opposite wall.

But Marcus wasn't interested in either of his collections at that moment. He strode past his wide workbench until he reached the old dresser that squatted at the back of the shed. Unlike most of the furniture in the house, this dresser was not a piece of Marcus' handiwork. It was at least forty years old, and didn't wear its age very well. Bending down on one knee, Marcus tugged on the bottom drawer. With an angry shriek, the drawer jerked outward about six inches. Another pull, and Marcus had it half open, which he knew from years of experience was as far as the drawer would go without mechanical help.

He felt around in the drawer, not being able to see much of its contents thanks to the low wattage of the shed's solitary lightsource and the fact that he was fumbling around in his own shadow; in other words, the very effect that Marcus had had in mind when he'd placed the dresser there, several years earlier. Finally, his fingers encountered what he sought: a soft parcel of clothing inside a plastic grocery bag, and a small metal box, not much larger than a cigarette case. He drew the parcel out from amidst the surrounding workshirts and overalls, but left the box where it lay.

As he walked to the workbench, he unwrapped the green plastic covering. Inside, just as he'd left it, was a pile of colourful outfits. He held the top two items up at eye level. The larger was a bright red costume with a garish yellow double C sewn on the chest. It was accompanied by a crimson upper-face mask, obviously cut from the same material as the costume.

Looking at the clothing that he held, Marcus muttered, "Now did I lose the cape, or was - "

"No, I burned it, remember?" Caren stood in the shed's open doorway, framed by the brilliant sunlight of the late afternoon. "Afraid you'd trip on it and break your neck one day." She moved into the shed. "I figured this is where you'd disappeared to."

"Now don't go jumping to conclusions," Marcus began, straining in vain to read an expression on his wife's face in the dimness.

"It's okay, honey," Caren said as she walked to Marcus' side, "I'm cool. I know what a streak of nostalgia you've got running through that body of yours." She took the costume out of her husband's hands. "Captain Courageous... Such a modest guy I fell in love with!"

"Yeah, well, I was young. It seemed like a clever play on words at the time. My heart was in the right place; my head was just out to lunch." Out of the parcel he lifted a second set of offerings. "Now this..." He held up a jet-black jumpsuit, devoid of any markings, which seemed to drink in what little light there was in the workshed.

"Mr. Magnificent.. yes, much more understated, that!" Caren coated her words with sarcasm.

"But I didn't come up with that name, and you know it! I'd outgrown the whole silly name phase by that point."

Caren reached over to relieve her husband of the black outfit. She asked, "How long did this one last, again... a couple of months?"

"If that," Marcus replied with a wry smile. "I mean, come on! As soon as the papers started calling me Mr. Magnificent in big red letters across the headlines, I knew it was time to change costumes again! Which brought me to..." With obvious pride, he emptied the green package of its final treasures: a brown hooded jacket, grey baggy pants, and navy blue mesh shirt.

"Your colour sense has always amazed me," Caren offered, with characteristic sarcasm.

"Colour schmolour! This was a work of art! Ordinary enough to let me blend into a crowd completely, functional, and yet still distinctive enough to strike terror into the hearts of villains everywhere!"

"Hah! Batman lives! Or was that from the Shadow? I still mix those two up."

But Marcus wasn't really listening. He had the same far-off look in his eyes that he'd taken on in his kitchen, hours earlier. He said, "When I made my debut in this costume, it was... I knew that I'd finally done it. I'd finally found a way to make the whole thing work. I'd finally found a way to accomplish some good, to put that powerstone to good use. Even if I've never understood why the damned thing works the way it does, or why I was the one who found it, at least I tried to do some good with it... for awhile..."

"And you even came up with a half-decent name for yourself, on the third attempt! Even I liked the sound of The Enigma. It wasn't as pompous as the other two, and it had a nice ring of mystery to it... do you hate me sometimes for making you give it all up, Marcus?"

At first her words didn't register on him. Then, as they sunk in, he looked up quickly, to catch her gaze. "Oh, Caren, honey, no! I knew you were right. That's why I didn't put up much of an argument against it. It was one thing for me to galivant around, risking my life, as a single man... but when we decided to tie the knot, I realized how unfair it would've been for me to keep up that kind of lifestyle. You would've felt like a cop's wife, only ten times worse." He held the brown jacket up to his chest, and said, "Of course, no cop ever got to dress this snazzily or .." He stopped because Caren had gasped, and was holding one hand up to her mouth.

"That's it!" she whispered. "That's what's been bothering me all afternoon! That guy who came looking for you, I remember thinking that he was dressed pretty strangely - a long raincoat, and here it was a beautifully sunny day with no clouds in the sky - but it didn't click until just now! He was wearing one of those under the raincoat! I'm sure of it!"

"Did you actually see it?" Marcus asked quietly.

"No, but... no, that's it! That's what it was! My mind's eye saw it, but it just didn't register! Oh, Marcus!"

"Well, c'mon honey, it's no big deal. Up until a few years ago, you could buy one of these at any King Value, for God's sake! You know how popular The Enigma was! Hey, maybe the guy's a fan."

"Think, Marcus! Nobody but you and I know that it was Marcus Hanes parading around in that costume!"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. But I mean, if someone really put their mind to it, they could probably track me down. The powerstone always kept my face disguised, with or without a mask, but still... there must've been other clues."

"Oh God, oh God, I've got a bad feeling about this! Shit, shit, shit!" She began to weep, large tears rolling down her pretty cheeks.

"Hey, whoa there girl! You're flying off the handle here! Everything's okay. Listen, go back in the house, and I'll be in as soon as I clean up in here." He glanced at his watch, straining to see the hands in the dark. "Look, it's just past six. Why don't you put the news on, and I'll be in to help with dinner in a few minutes. 'Kay?"

She nodded, and started to leave. He grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around to hold her close. The tears continued to flow.

Watching her make her way back to the house, Marcus shook his head. In all the years that he'd known Caren, which included six in marriage and two years of dating, he'd never known her to be high-strung or given to fits of paranoia. And yet today she'd been positively...

Back in the house, Caren had meekly followed her husband's suggestion and turned on the television. She sat transfixed in front of it, as the local station interrupted its broadcast of Mind Teasers to report on several incidents of bizarre behaviour, ranging from a sixth grade teacher who'd encouraged his students to engage in strictly-homosexual intercourse, to a well-known philanthropist who had dumped seven hundred thousand dollars in small bills off the roof of the Hampstead Building downtown. New reports were coming in almost continuously, the anchorwoman declared in slightly too-high a voice. And Caren's tears continued to flow.

In the workshed, Marcus was unaware of the strange stories being enacted around him. He was folding up his old costumes and placing them back in their bag. Moving to the back of the shed, he put the green package back into the drawer he'd removed it from, and was about to force it shut, when the doorway was once again blocked by a silouette.

"I'll be right there, honey," he said, and then he gave the drawer a huge shove. As always, the drawer screamed its protest at being moved, but surrendered to his strength.

As Marcus turned, a male voice said, "You must help me. I haven't much time."

Marcus started! He'd been so sure that it was Caren who'd been in the doorway that he hadn't even bothered looking in that direction. Now, as he regained his composure, he could see that it was indeed a man, and that he wearing a long raincoat. He couldn't make out any definite features, though.

"You must be the man who was by earlier, looking for me?" He turned his statement into a question at the last moment, but wasn't sure why. His mind was racing, trying to remember everything that Caren had said about her visitor. It was the brown Enigma jacket and... what else?

"Yes, yes," the other man replied, impatiently, "I spoke to your wife. But we mustn't waste time. Quickly, look at my face."

His curiousity piqued, Marcus moved closer to his guest. He had to get quite close before he could make much out in the poor light. Once he got a good look at the other man, however, he gasped. Except for a few wrinkles and a long scar on the right side of the older man's face, it was like looking into a mirror!

While Marcus stared, his companion said, "Now the truth begins to dawn on you, I think. I've come from the future - your future, my present - to enlist your aid! Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Marcus Hanes, otherwise known as The Enigma!" With this, he flung off his raincoat to reveal what Caren had suspected: the unmistakable costume that Marcus had just moments ago packed away.

Slowly, Marcus said, "Now, I'm a pretty open-minded sort of guy, but... You expect me to just take your word for the fact that you're me... from the future?"

"I know that this must come as a great shock, but I really do not have the time to prove my identity to you, in the way that you might wish. In my time, there is a master villain named Gestalt, who has all but taken over control of Free America. I, and a few others like me, are all that stand between Gestalt and total anarchy. There is no way that I can adequately prove any of this, but you must trust your eyes. Look at me, and then ask yourself: who else could I be?"

Marcus remained silent.

The older man continued, "I've come to your time because tragedy has struck. My powerstone has been destroyed! I wouldn't have thought it possible, and yet it happened. I didn't know what to do, until a friend of mine supplied me with the means to travel back in time and retrieve the stone while it was still whole. In my time, such things are possible, though certainly not yet commonplace. I can't tell you any more than that, and even that much may have done extensive damage. But I'm desperate! You must let me take the stone back to my time!" He stopped, and looked at Marcus. "The life of my wife - your wife! - depends on it!"

Marcus could feel the shed spinning around him, as he tried to take all of this in. He could almost touch the urgency that was flowing out of the other man. His own palms were wet with sudden perspiration.

"Well?" the other man implored him. "Will you help me? Will you trust me? Will you give me your powerstone?"

"Of course I will," Marcus said evenly. "Just show me where it's hidden."

"What?" The impatience turned to anger. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing," Marcus replied, turning to walk back to the old dresser. Then, suddenly, he swung around and caught his guest with a solid right hook! The man went down like a rag doll. Even before he hit the floor, however, Marcus saw the impossible happen: the man's facial features swam, and flowed, and finally settled on a visage that was completely different, and one that Marcus had never seen before! Even the Enigma costume faded away, to reveal a red jumpsuit adorned with patterns of concentric circles.

"Rather ordinary looking guy, isn't he?" asked a voice from outside the shed. As Marcus watched, another man filled the doorway. This one looked just like the other one had, prior to the punch!

"Another one?" Marcus stepped back. "How many of you are there?"

"Just one. Your friend on the floor there goes by the name of Gestalt. It's a rather silly name, but then again, he's a rather silly man. And it was certainly pretty silly for him to think that he could impersonate me, wouldn't you say? Especially trying to impersonate me in front of myself, so to speak. I don't think it's ever occurred to him that, no matter how well he copies the facial appearance and voice, he's just not going to pass for somebody else when he insists on talking like some comic book character!"

"So just who the Hell are you, and why are you wearing my face?" Marcus could feel the same burning in his cheeks that had followed his encounter with the Beechums. No matter how many practical jokes he pulled on people, he'd never liked having it done to him! And this was starting to look like one enormous practical joke, at his expense! "And please don't try telling me that you're actually me, from the future!"

"On the contrary, you're about to tell me that I'm from the future, and that I'm you. Hard to believe, isn't it?"

Marcus started to say, "Now that's an understatement!" but stopped as the other man joined in, saying the exact same words, and finishing the sentence that Marcus had started! Marcus said, "How did you do that?" only to once again hear the same words issuing from another pair of lips.

When Marcus clenched his jaws in frustration, his companion said, "You know, I really do remember how annoying that was! When he did it to me, I was beside myself, so to speak, and then he said, 'You know, I really do remember how annoying that was!' It could've been the beginning of a real life infinite loop, but..."

"You really are from the future, and you really are me..." Marcus said, in a whisper.

"See? Can I predict the future, or can I predict the future? Of course, it's a cheat; I've already lived it, after all!"

"Then this is all real? What about him?" Marcus nudged the unconscious figure on the floor with his toe.

"Well, as I said, that's Gestalt. He's from the future, just like me, but he's not quite the world conqueror that he built himself up to be in that little story he told you. In the future, a lot of things are going to change. Quickly. For me to try to describe it wouldn't be fair to you, because you have to live through the changes to be able to accept them. Any picture I could paint for you of my time would seem ridiculous, or terrifying, or hopeless. But it's not really all that bad. It's just... different. And one of the differences is that mutations aren't all that... uncommon. Gestalt there is an example of that sort of thing. He has this strange ability to absorb characteristics of people around him. I guess he came up with the name because he figured that his power would allow him to become greater than the sum of the individual pieces, or something. But his type of character is showing up more and more, and so my type of character - sorry, our type of character - is having to deal with them. I mean, I came out of retirement in my fifties... that gives you some sort of idea what my world is like."

Marcus asked, "And time travel? It's possible in your time...? Obviously, or you wouldn't be here, but how -?"

"Actually, time travel is still pretty much an unknown in my day. But a friend, who goes by the typically-preposterous name of The Time Commander, is able to accomplish it, and is even able to understand it, I think! He was tricked into sending Gestalt back in time, but it didn't really matter. I knew, from memory, that Gestalt was going to try it, and that you'd fend him off, just as I'd fended him off twenty-odd years earlier. I also knew that unfortunately the displacement of time caused by all of this would create all kinds of bizarre behaviour in your time. I'd lived through that, too... I still sometimes see Teddy Beechum race out in front on my car in my dreams! 'If it happened once, it'll always happen. Time travels a circle,' the Commander always says. Or maybe he means, 'Time travel is a circle.' I've never worked up the courage to ask him. Just like I've never worked up the courage to ask him just how bad things can get, when a time traveller arrives somewhen and starts causing all of the strange behaviour I mentioned. It definitely seems to get worse, the longer he stays. But I've never understood why, considering that it changes nothing, in a sense. You can't travel to a time and a place that you weren't already supposed to be in, like me and Gestalt, here, today, so why it should prove so disruptive is beyond me... but disruptive it is! No wonder the Commander is so careful about how he uses his powers. And now.."

"Now?" Marcus was still fighting to understand all that had just happened to him.

The time traveller said, "Now, I pick up this worthless pile of wasted talent, and return to my own time period. Now, you go back to Caren and make dinner, and get your life back to normal. And tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that, you'll think about what happened here today, and what it means for the future. And one day, years from now, you'll get to relive these events, from the other side of the table. And then you'll get to say, 'You know, I really do remember how annoying that was!' And you will remember, too."

Just as the final word came out of his mouth, the older Marcus began to disappear. With him went the still-sleeping Gestalt, leaving behind the shape of his figure in the dust on the floor.

Marcus stood in the shed, suddenly alone. Already the past few minutes were taking on a dream-like quality, with only the man-shaped outline in the dust at his feet to prove otherwise.

Later that evening, after dinner had been made and devoured, and the couple had watched the black-and-white version of Casablanca, the late news came on. Caren was already asleep, but Marcus watched intently, as the reporters told of the day's many strange items, already coined by some pundit as the Saturday sillies. He tried to sift through the tales, looking for stories of birth defects, mutations, or time travellers. For that one night, at least, there were none. The future, it seemed to Marcus, was still off in the distance, where it belonged. But that distance was shrinking at such a frightening pace.


"If you want a picture of the future, imagine a boot stamping on a human face - forever."
- George Orwell, 1984

"I beg you, I plead with you to take a solemn oath: though your children will be twisted, and dull-witted, and slow of speech, there will remain somewhere, for long enough, a place where children grow up healthy, bright and sane..."
- John Brunner, The Sheep Look Up

"The world's stable now. People are happy; they get what they want, and they never want what they can't get. They're well off; they're safe; they're never ill; they're not afraid of death; they're blissfully ignorant of passion and old age; they're plagued with no mothers or fathers; they've got no wives, or children, or lovers to feel strongly about; they're so conditioned that they practically can't help behaving as they ought to behave."
- Aldous Huxley, Brave New World

"Which of us is responsible? Who makes the world? Perhaps the world is not made. Perhaps nothing is made. Perhaps it simply is, has been, will always be there... A clock without a craftsman."
- Alan Moore, Watchmen