"Steamy Realities" by R. L. Copple

R. L. Copple

"Sir," I said, looking up at the muscular man entering the steam house, "I don't think you want to go in there. Why don't you use one of the other steam houses in town?"

"What? Am I not good enough for your steam house? And who's gonna stop me? You?"

"Whatever, just don't say I didn't warn you."

He slung an extra towel over his shoulder, the other already securely wrapped around his chiseled waist. He stared at me for a brief moment, as if deciding whether he should waste his time on me. He turned and walked into the wood frame building. A cloud of steam puffed from the doorway into the freezing air; the solid oak door slammed shut behind him.

The pungent smell of pride wafted in his wake. I'd seen his kind often. The steam house had developed a reputation as a house of miracles. The sign over the door read, "Steamy Realities Steam House: Sweats out both body and soul. Warning: Only the pure of soul should enter. We are not liable for negative results." Despite that warning, most believed purity flowed from their soul and expected a miracle. They would enter, often leaving with the opposite results.

The church and town viewed the steam house differently. As a rite of passage to adulthood, young ones both longed for and feared entering the steam house. Everyone took it seriously, everyone except for those not familiar with the steam house's attempts to correct flaws of the soul.

Now fourteen years old, my father said my time had arrived. I had prayed and prepared at the temple. Was I ready? I hoped so, but to tell the truth, I wasn't sure what I would find. I hadn't discovered my place in life yet, so if this steam revealed anything to me, so much the better. My only fear was in what it would reveal. Would I like it?

My own skinny waist wrapped in a towel, I glanced back at my family standing by a store entrance across the dirt road. My younger brother Jake waved and smiled, standing on his one leg and crutches. Father had talked about someday getting him a fake leg, so he could walk. We all knew our poverty prevented such a dream coming true. Not unless God preformed a miracle.

I opened the door and paused on the edge, both fear and excitement holding me in place. I forced myself to take the step inside.

In contrast to the freezing weather outside, the heat hit me in the face. I took deep breaths, but a few moments passed before I adjusted to the hot, moist air. Wooden benches lined the octagonal interior. In the center of the dirt floor, a roaring fire beneath a mound of volcanic rocks heated the air. Fresh steam rose like a cloud; someone had just poured water on the rocks. I moved to an empty spot next to a rather large man.

He, also adjusting, breathed hard and purposefully. He looked over at me. "Hi, Boy." He paused to catch another breath. "My name's George." He didn't bother to shake hands.

"I'm Sisko," I responded. "You don't look like you're from here. Traveling through?"

"Yes, indeed I am." He relaxed and then stretched as if he lay on a sunny beach. "Right nice steam house you have here. I'm feeling more energy than I've felt in a long time." He had already adjusted to the heated air.

I smiled, but said nothing. I could already see his body losing weight and shifting to muscle. He would be happy with his stay here, unless something worse hid inside. You never really knew. People hide lots of stuff where they think no one can see. The steam and heat had a way of bubbling that to the surface and dealing with it.

Yet, while in the steam house, people couldn't see the reality they transformed into, not until they exited the building. Others could see, but they themselves could not.

I scanned the room and spotted the muscular man I had met at the entrance. Already, his body displayed less muscle. If he stayed much longer, he wouldn't be able to lift fifty pounds. He had laid back, eyes shut, half asleep as the steam heated his pores and soul.

Just four feet down the bench sat an odd man. In addition to his towel, he wore lots of jewelry: necklaces, rings, bracelets. As he chatted with the man next to him, he swung his arms in big gestures, the ornaments ringing with every jerk. I shook my head. This steam bath would likely cost him a lot.

Farther down the bench, a man sat with a book. Holding his steam-soaked book, he soaked in another world, oblivious to his surroundings. I saw in him what my father and priest had warned me about: depression. Shadows grew long over his face, as they do when the sun sets. The longer the shadows stretched, the more he focused on his book.

I moved over to him. He needed help. "Sir, do you mind telling me what you're reading?" People liked to display their knowledge.

He stared over his book at me. His eyes widened, surprised it seemed that anyone would talk to him. Then his eyes narrowed and he said with irritation in his voice, "Paradise Lost."

"Oh, I've read that. It gets better toward the end."

His eyes froze in place, one eye opened a little wider than the other. "I've never been able to get very far. Once paradise is lost, the story's over."

"Not really."

"Yes, it is!"

I jumped back, surprised by the force.

He continued, "You're all alone, no help, you're doomed, might as well give up." He looked back into his book as if to say, "Go away."

I thought about trying again, he needed help, but the shadows grew longer. Soon he would exist as a black shadow, depression sucked in every joy of life. Not a pretty sight. He had sunk too far; I couldn't help him.

Sweat freely poured down my face. One man arose and poured more water on heated rocks. Fresh steam sizzled and rose like a cloud seeking souls to squeeze.

One man arose and walked out the door. I noticed the jackass tail that had formed on his backside. I heard him release a series of cries, receding as he ran away, his hoofs clopping on the dirt street. Even though he probably deserved it, I felt sorry for him.

I spotted three men conversing in a corner. I felt like listening while I waited, so I walked over. I wished I hadn't.

A man with a mustache was exposing his sexual exploits to the other two. A real Don Juan, based on his stories. While he certainly exaggerated, I believe he told some truth. Already his feet had turned into roots. His listeners also saw his skin transforming into a more bark-like substance.

"Sir," I broke in, "you might want to leave now. If you take root here, it could damage the steam house."

The man looked at me with a smirk; his mustache bristled. "Boy, what on earth are you talking about? Taking root?"

One of the men said, "Yes, he's right. You're turning into a tree. I would get out while you're not totally changed." They backed away.

"I don't see anything," the man said, staring at his body. No one said anything. He looked back at our shocked expressions and then ran out the door, leaving a trail of leaves in his path. He gasped as he left the building, and then a cry of anguish rolled down the street. It would get worse. If he stood in one place for too long, he would take root. I hoped he wouldn't take root in a horrible place like a bathroom. There would be no more wandering and girls for him. The steam seemed to have a sense of humor sometimes.

One of the other men looked at me. "Boy, am I changing?"

"Not yet."

"I thought one received miracles here?" the other man shook his head.

"Some do, it all depends on the character of your soul. Didn't you read the sign over the door when you entered?"

The two men glanced at one another, and gathered up their things to leave. The previous man's condition apparently gave them pause concerning the risk they took.

"Of course, if you have a good soul, good things also come to the surface," I added by way of consolation.

Their eyes widened, and then they moved with hurried steps to the door. As they left, my gaze landed on the previously well-built man, who now snored away. His massive body, I would guess around three-hundred pounds, looked precariously perched on the bench.

Maybe I should wake him? I thought, Hope he has enough muscle left to walk out the door. I laughed despite myself, but then I pulled myself up short. Such an attitude could cost a person in this place. I walked over to him. Falling asleep in a steam house risked staying too long. He might not wake up in this life.

"Sir." I shook him until his eyes popped open.

"Oh." He blinked a few times. "Must have fallen asleep. I don't know why, I'm feeling heavy and sleepy."

"To be honest, sir, you do have a great weight."

"Yea, I know! With muscles like these—" He lifted an arm and arched it to pop up his muscle. "I've worked many hours to get my body into this shape."

Instead, I saw three inches of dangling skin wobbling under his arm. "No, not like a wonderful weight, but like a whole lot of weight."

He looked at me with a smile. "Sure, Kid." He tried to get up, but fell back. He strained to rise a couple more times without success. Finally he said, "Uh, this is embarrassing, but it seems this steam has drained my energy. Could you help me up, Kid?"

I gave him my hand. With a grunt, I helped leverage him to his feet.

He grabbed his towel, which had loosened with the widening of his girth. "I need to get out of here. I think this steam is having an adverse reaction."

I nodded. Hopefully we could get him out the door before he hit four-hundred pounds. He took each step in plodding fashion, pausing to work up the energy for the next step and to keep his balance. He eventually lumbered out the door.

For a while, I heard nothing. Then, a soft and solemn cry floated into the building. No doubt one of the few times the proud man had shed tears in his life.

I checked back with the jewelry man. He now wore necklaces, rings and bracelets crafted of flowers, moving soundlessly as he continued to wave his arms back and forth. His listener appeared more attentive to his flower-laden wrist than what he said. If the steam held true, it could also mean much of his wealth had turned to grass and flowers. Here today, gone tomorrow.

"Sisko, wasn't it?" A man stood beside me. He appeared ready to leave. "This was great, I'll have to come here more often when I come through."

Then I recognized him. "George?" The overweight man I first met, yet now he sported a muscle set any bodybuilder would be proud of.

"Ah, good! Not everyone has a knack for remembering names. Thanks." He shook my hand with gusto. Then he skipped out the door. I soon heard a "Wow!" and a loud laugh with a few shouts of joy.

I delayed leaving, though I had stayed long enough. I feared to go out. What would I find? Would I finally learn my direction in life, or would I be horrified? I stared at the door, gathering the courage to walk through it. I knew my family would be outside, eager to discover how I'd faired.

There's no reason to put it off, I thought. You'll have the rest of your life to deal with whatever it is you are. Staying longer will only worsen a bad reality anyway.

I arose and with gathering determination stepped to the door. I opened it and paused at the threshold. I could see my family waiting. They don't seem to be reacting yet. Maybe I'm okay.

"Hey Kid, shut the door. You're letting out the heat!" someone said from inside.

I stepped out. The cold wind, reacting to the steam rolling off my body, tingled my skin. I examined myself. I looked normal enough, though older, like I'd aged. A good sign, meant I harbored a mature heart. But what else? Surely there must be more.

"My, you've grown in there, Sisko." Mother held me in her arms and then squeezed me in a hug. My father patted me on the back. He seemed satisfied nothing horrible had revealed itself, but I expected more.

While mother hugged me and my hand lay on her shoulder, I noticed what had changed. On the third finger of my left hand, a ring of solid gold glimmered in the sunlight. Intricate engravings of an ancient language decorated its otherwise plain surface.

"Am I married?" I pulled away from mother and displayed the ring on my finger. I tried pulling it off, but it wouldn't budge.

A voice behind me spoke, "Yes you are, but not as you are thinking."

I spun around. The priest stood smiling at me. I lifted the ring on my hand for his inspection.

He continued as he examined it, "Not married to a woman, but to God's service."

"I've not heard of this order, Father. What service is this?"

He moved his eyes to meet mine without moving his head. "The steam revealed you have a heart for helping people. So, He gave you the means to do so in greater ways." The priest let my hand down. "The inscription on the ring says, ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.' If you use the ring to help others, it will be a blessing to you. But if you use it for your own benefit, it will be a curse. So don't use it without careful thought or you will wish you had never been in the steam house."

I held my hand at eye level in wonder. "How do I use it?"

"Through your prayers. It isn't so much a magic ring in itself as it is a reminder of the commitment between you and God. He will give you whatever you need to help someone. Sort of like Samson's hair gave him strength."

Stunned, the responsibility hit my heart like a gale. "Thank you, Father." I turned to my brother Jake and lifted him into my chest. "You won't need those crutches any more." I placed him down on two solid feet.

He smiled, then laughed and ran along the dusty street. Mother and father stood wide-eyed and mouths open, but joy etched their faces.

Joy filled my heart. Not only for Jake's healing, but I discovered my purpose for existing after all. I didn't find it in the steam house; it already existed inside me. I simply couldn't see the truth until the steam revealed it. The reality I should have known all along: we are one another's keeper.

R. L. Copple is a father to three children and a husband since 1982 to his wife, Lenita. He earned a B.A. in religion from Southern Nazarene University in 1984, has served as a pastor, and written on many religious topics on a small scale, including his own web site for Christian Orthodox questions and issues. Having a lifelong interest in fiction, it was 2005 that he focused on writing stories to capture the imagination, beginning with writing a YA sci-fi adventure novel, which is still in the editing process.

Cover: "Dragon-Claus: at the end of a Monster list"

Steamy Realities

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