Over the border

by Morgan Robertson

At last I went home and sank into a troubled slumber, from which I wakened in the morning, not with any projects for the welfare of the man in the hospital, but for my own good. Hypnotic operations would restore memory; so the doctor had affirmed. My mind went at once to the successful hypnotist that I had seen at the theater, and, after a day of idleness and musing, I called there before the performance began.

I met him, explained my loss of memory, and he promised to do what he could, appointing a meeting at his apartment at twelve, when the day's work was ended, and his mind and mine were tranquil.

I was there on time. While well-dressed and well spoken, there was a slight burr to his voice and a roughness of the skin on the back of his neck that—I do not know why—betokens the outdoor, manual worker. He spoke gently to me, asked my name and occupation, and, when I told him that I was a collector, remarked that he had once been a collector himself. First seating me in an easy-chair, he faced me in another, and took my hands in his.

"Now, I am going to mesmerize you," he said, "instead of merely hypnotizing. I am going to put you to sleep by personal or, as some say, animal magnetism. It is more efficient in a case of long duration, but I never use it on the stage, because it is not necessary, and because only I could waken the subjects. Something might happen, you see—a fire, or an injury to myself. But here we are quiet and safe. Now, look me steadily in the eyes, and when you have gone to sleep I will command you, firmly, to remember all your past. That will be all. Very simple."

I obeyed him, looking steadily into his kindly, brown eyes. As I looked they seemed to grow larger, while the pressure of his hands on mine relaxed. Larger and larger grew his eyes, until I seemed to see nothing else; then a tingling sensation crept through my frame—a delicious tremor that soothed me into drooping my eyelids.

"Close your eyes now," he said, and his voice was far away. "You are going to sleep, and, when I waken you, you will remember all that you have forgotten."

I obeyed him, and for a moment or two thought I had slept; but the closing words of his command seemed to arouse me. He was still before me, but in the act of rising. He went into another room, and came out, dressed in rough clothing and smoking a short clay pipe; then the wall containing this door grew blank and white, and in a moment had taken on the exact form of the forward side of a ship's forecastle, while a duplicate door appeared in it.

Sitting quietly there, I watched the strange transformation scene, able to rise if I wanted to, but not wanting to, nor feeling the slightest uneasiness about the phenomena. The pictures left the wall, and faded into nothingness; the mantel to my right hand elongated and took on the form of a ship's rail; then with a rush all else in the room changed.

The floor rose suddenly, and became a fore-hatch, while the place was filled with sailors, known to me by face and name; but among them I could not now see the transformed mesmerist—the only man smoking was Bill Andrus, a young fellow from Australia. To complete the picture, my easy-chair changed into the weather windlass barrel, and a dash of salt spray came over the bow. Being able to move, I left my seat and got out of the way of the water. All seemed natural to me; I was at sea again, and on one of the boats stowed on the house I spelled the name of my first ship.

Of course, it was a dream, even though real to me at the time; and there was no beginning to it. I dropped into that chapter of my life with a full memory of the chapters preceding it, and I went on with it as I had lived it before, with no thought that my seat on the windlass had, a few moments before, been an easy morris chair.