Well here’s a toddy ta dee ta: I’ve decided to become the first student so named of quantum psychiatry. And by way of it something of a practitioner.
Ah, I can hear the breathless words now:
“Montresor, Montresor, what is this I here about quantum psychiatry?”
I kept to my studies, did not look up, to finish the sentence I was penning.
“Oh,” he said, “the Amontillado was better quaffed than what you vouched safe for, but after spending such a long time behind the wall you masonried me in for . . as a joke, yes Montresor? well, I must say, I went a little bug-ga-da, and have NOT been the same since.”
I did not look up, but as I kept to my writing, I threw him small boon, to let him know I was listening: “What took you so long?”
“What took me so long?” he said, like a distant echo from a far off land. “Well, I had to dig my way out with a folding knife, just in time to learn that you have proved homeopathy . . and now this! Yes, yes, I think I could use the benefit of . . what is it they say? Quantum psychiatry? Oh but la, please do tell, Montresor, please please! I must know more.”
There was a breathless moment as I carefully placed my quill in its golden quiver, and pushed my reminisces aside; pinched the bridge of my nose, digging thumb tip and forefinger into the nasal corners of my eyes, then lifting my brow in mock surprise, opened them wide to stretch them, and turned my head, and peered over my spectacles at the once fat jolly chuff, now an poorly animated emaciation, who had been pleading into my left ear, (a bit deaf) and tugging at my jerkin.
“Fortunato,” I cried, my fist coming down on the arm of the chair “you dug yourself out with your folding knife? Didn’t you find the door at the southern end of the Immurement?”
“Door?” he said, befuddled. “Door? What door?” He pronounced it achingly and sat inn the companion chair at the sside of my rolltop. “Oh no,” he said, clasping his head with both hands.
“Yes,” I said, “it leads directly to the kitchen, where I left you a glass of cold milk and a roast beef sandwiche!”
He hung his head and cried. Actually the milk had been tepid and sour, and the sandwich nothing but hot mustard on stale bread, but it’s the thought that counts.
“Oh well,” I said, “at least you found the chains soft enough. Eh?”
“Oh but Montresor,” he said, renewing his pleas, “tell me of the quantum psychiatry! What is it, how does it work?”
“Well,” I said, getting comfy again. “It’s a bit of alchemy. The use of succussed high dilutes, as used in homeopathy, to affect human behavior. For the good of Mankind, of course.”
I smiled at hnim and nodded. He looked back at me in astonishment, as if I was some kind of wizard.
“Now,” I said, not knowing what else to say, “how might I help you, Fortunato? Why shouldn’t you be my first victim . . I mean client? Client!”
“I seem to be suffering from clausterphobia,” he said, as if taking inventory. Then he rememmbered what happened
“All the doctors,” he said, “all they want to do is get me hooked on their patented petro chemical synthesis, palliate my symptoms and line their pockets with my ducats!”
“Well,” I said, “we can’t blame them for that, now can we Fortunato? They only do what they know how to do and express their ignorance, and one certainly can understand their need to make a living at it.”
I rose from my chair and took him by the hand to a couch, sat him down, and with with my hand made an application of bioenergetic Anthropomorphic Field Transmission (AFT) and a few mesmeric passes, quieted him enough for him to lie back and enter into a trance.
“Allow me to enter your mind,” I said. ”Let us walk together down an imaginary path. Springtime. What do you notice? A flower, a bird? Where are?
“The Chateau!” he said happily. “In the garden. Oh a beautfiul day.”
“See the beautiful little blue flowers flower?” I said.
“Yes, yes . .” he said eagerly.
“Monkshood! Don’t touch them!” I said. “Most poisonous.”
“Oh my,” he rejected. “I don’t suppose . . hmm, once when I was a child I became very sick afterneating a blue flower . . Montresor!”
He sat up, gripping himself, and said: “Montresor, do you suppose . . “
“Relax, my friend, lay back down,” I said. He did I commanded. ”L:et us return to where we were before. The garden at the Chateau. What is that long thing lying on the ground?”
“I see a beautiful walking stick,” he said. “I must have it . .”
“No!” I said. “It is a snake! Crotalus horridus, the timber rattler. Do you hear its shaker, like maracas?”
“Maracas! Oh dear me, I rememeber now, I was bit once by a snake while in the Americas!” he said. I made a note under loquaciousness.
“Montressor,” he said, sitting up once again, holding himself and staring at me. “You are amazing! How did you know?”
“Now, now, dear Fortunato,” I said, “Unhand yourself. Lay yourself back back down. . . there, there, good now. Close your eyes. Now tell me of your anamnesia . .”
He opened an eye. “My what?”
“Your anamnesia,” I said, “the past life remembered . .”
Both his eyes widened and glazed over: “The past life remembered . . I . .I . .”
“Your traumas, Fortunato,” I said. “The things that have hurt you, physical, emotional, mental, your fears, your life, Fortunato, your life . . “
“My life,” he mumbled, and sputtered, then like a gathering storm, spoke of the recent immurement, then of the unintended insults he had born all of his life, and the intended ones, too, the betrayals, the robberies, the beatings, and another (one I hadn’t heard about) immurement; and a duel; drunkeness; a disease contracted at a bawdy house; a jab from a physicians needle that left him feeling poorly ever since; the separation of his parents; a particularly unjust spanking; a near drowning; his first immurement (good God) and a difficult birth. I made another application of AFT and it set in and began to do its work: in a deeper trance he recounted trauma experienced while in the womb! His father’s misgivings at being a dad; his mother’s fright . . and then traumas from previous lives!
When I awoke he was snoring peacefully. I looked at my watch.
Late!
I jumped up and shook him awake. “Fortunato, Fortunato, your time is up!” I said.
“Wha? What?” he said, trying to sit up, rubbing his eyes.
“How much do I owe you?” he said.
“I’ll send you my bill, ” I said. “I must first go over my notes, and then when I am ready, I will determine which remedies you need from the chemist, and prepare a schedule for their taking.”
“Oh, very well, ” he said drowsily as he toddled to the door.
I helped him out into the street where his carriage was waiting.
“Don’t worry, Montresor, ” I said, “the chancre will soon leave you and the dementia will clear up.”
“All that?” he said as the dirver snapped his whip and the carriage lurched forward, throwing him back.
“All that, and more,” I said, yelling after him waving at the empty street.
I quickly turned and hurried back in to pour over my notes, refresing myself with the secret recording I had made of his answers, furiously scribbling notes, diving into repertories, examining keynotes, paging through materia medicas.
I found Kent most helpful, and Boericke and Tafel most often in concordance, filling in where Kent stumbles.
Then Chappell, and Bailey, Morrison of course, and I’d be nowhere without Griffith’s new Materia Medica.
Goldfish . . hmm. Black obsidian, Chalice Well. Berlin Wall.
Thymus gland! Ah yes! And Amethyst!
Then suddenly, it was done, my first nude, the masterwork with all its rights of of primogeniture, my first born.
And speaking of cardinals, first, of course, I had to coisder where in the week to start in with the chronoeopathy, and when. Do I risk it first in treatment, last or during?
Do we begin on Sunday with Aurum, or end on Sunday, and with what potency? Is Sunday the first day of the week? No! Begin on Monday,the day of relection, with Argentum and Silica, the Mirror Remedy. Let Fortunato see himself as he is . . intersperse the routine with the individulized, his birth remedies, his constitutionals, miasms, chronics and acutes, and the anamnesis, marching toward the Golden Hour, on the Day of Perfection . . YES! The Grand Finale!
My course was clear. On Monday I would administer the Mirror Remedy with Q potencies . . start with the brain, the organ of the mind! . . I must take copious notes . . and usher in a New Age of medicine! to that end, finally, as it inevitably must come, with medica sine materia, ultimtely non material medicine, the healer who works with his mind alone !
“My own suspense was almost unbearable — my blood was leaping through my veins, and my thoughts were crowding and trampling upon each other. Twenty moments to live — fifteen to live — ten to live — five — three — heaven and earth, how the time galloped! — and yet that man stood there unmoved though he knew that the sheriff was reaching deliberately for the drop while the black cap descended over his quiet face! — then down through the hole in the scaffold the strap-bound figure shot like a dart! — a dreadful shiver started at the shoulders, violently convulsed the whole body all the way down, and died away with a tense drawing of the toes downward, like a doubled fist — and all was over! 
on the indictment jury, and control of who sits on the petit juries is restrained.
