Pascale's Wager: Homelands of Heaven

by Anthony Bartlett

  “And, now, we have the most unusual pleasure of introducing a new candidate for the Immersion, someone who came forward at the last minute, but accompanied by the highest recommendations. Here is another citizen of Heaven, ready and willing to risk the depths for our sake. Remember, fellow Immortals, that if he stay too long, he will instantly be annihilated. I am proud now to introduce to you, Palmiro, from Adorno's Science Colony. Please welcome him to the passage of the Sea!”

  When he heard his name he started walking again, conscious that the camera would be trained on his face just as it had been on Sarobindo's. Another wave of applause broke from the stadium and Palmiro sensed with astonishment the eager welcome he was being given. He was conscious also of the intense light around him and the deep darkness in the circular dome above. He walked as deliberately and calmly as he could in the direction he saw Sarobindo taking. The applause died down and a charged silence took its place. He saw the famous guru reach the beginning of the bridge, pause and then start to walk. He too continued to walk and as soon he reached the edge of the bridge he waited.

  The glittering sea stretched out in front of him, far bigger than he had imagined it, more full of motion, and its scent now close and sharp with danger. He stood and watched as Sarobindo came to the end of the bridge and sank to knees, then onto his back. He heard the voice of his attendant telling him to go ahead, but he paused one moment longer to swallow what was in his mouth. The sense of it had been increasingly potent, and as the drug cleared his throat almost at once he could feel it begin its work in earnest.

  He started walking, timing himself internally and hoping he would get it right. The end of the bridge seemed distant but he was not hurrying to get there. He could see the great expanse of blue around him and it was pulling him down into itself. He walked further and then, suddenly, the bridge quivered and he could no longer see Sarobindo. He felt his breathing slowing and his movement more labored. He increased his pace by the slightest degree and it was like he was walking in his sleep, with stones attached to his feet. He pushed forward, and in a few more paces he was at the end of the bridge, grateful to sink to his knees and sit there on his haunches. He remained motionless and his breathing became almost imperceptible. He gave his head the faintest forward tilt, willing the attendant to release the slide. There was a long moment when nothing happened and then the end of the bridge pitched away from under him and he was falling headlong toward the water.

  Palmiro had his eyes closed but the moment he went below the surface, he opened them and with a great effort brought his arms forward and propelled himself downward. His chest began to hurt severely but he was conscious and alert. His eyes searched the cyan blue as he forced his arms in front once more, pulled them back and kicked his legs. He was about four or five meters down and the pain quadrupled in intensity. The light was now muted and he cast around beneath him looking for the bottom. Once more he kicked and it was like a blunt spear thrust to his chest, but he saw what looked like a human form, over to his right. Straining to get a closer look he realized it was Sarobindo, resting on a raised platform. Absolutely inert, like an effigy on an ancient tomb, his eyes were closed but the lips of the mouth had fallen slightly open, adding to the impression of death. Palmiro turned and, with a last crucifying effort, he kicked toward him. The pain was unbearable but he held the applicator out, pointed like a gun. As he came up over the body he used his last reserves to push down on the base of the device, shooting its pressurized liquid toward the yogi's nose and mouth. A murky cloud fell upon Sarobindo’s face, its weight carrying it downward until it surrounded its surface like a mask, almost as if the anti-enzyme was seeking its target. The Northerner's momentum carried him forward but he kept his hand in place, continuing to eject the last of the contents. As he did his torso made a slow-motion arc, flipping him over on his back. The diffused light of the stadium above hit him squarely in the eyes. At the same moment the pain in his chest exploded beyond its walls and he blacked out. The applicator fell from his fingers.

  He floated in suspended animation just a few feet away from Sarobindo. Very gradually his body began to rise. He lacked the yogi's habitual mastery of the watery environment, second nature to his body. Instead, the remaining air in his lungs carried him slowly to the surface. Centimeter by centimeter his spread-eagled form ascended. The minutes and seconds trickled away and the crowd scanned the surface for signs of the new yogi. He arrived about ten centimeters from the top and suddenly someone shouted, “There he is!” In a moment everyone was pointing at a place not far from where he had entered the waters at the end of the bridge.

  “There, there, it's Palmiro, on his back. Has he drowned? Is he dead? He will never get out!”

  A thrill of horror gripped the stadium. It was a long time since anyone had perished in the Sea and the Immortals had gotten used to Sarobindo's miraculous escapes. Now, it seemed, the night could end in genuine catastrophe. Just under the surface Palmiro's eyes opened and his lungs jolted back to life, at once taking in water. He choked violently and, with sheer animal instinct, he lifted his head above the surface, coughing harshly and gasping at the same time. He could not remember exactly where he was or what was happening but something inside him told him he was in immense danger. He tried to strike out for dry land but his limbs were as heavy as lead and he was barely able move. His chest felt like it had been crushed and he could only breathe with great difficulty; he knew he had to will himself to swim. With horrible labor he began a breast stroke toward the rim of the Sea, hardly seeming to make progress. He could hear a thunderous progression of organ chords and the distant shouting of voices and in an instant remembered clearly he was in the Font Eterno.

  He felt the clock running out above him and the crowd watching and doubting he would make it. He was kicking out of sequence and breathing in short gasps, taking in water and choking and coughing as he did. But like a three-legged dog he made some headway, pushing slowly and desperately toward the shore.

  There was less than two minutes to go and he still had ten meters to cover. Some in the crowd were now counting down and he himself began to think he really could not do it. His lungs were screaming, his limbs felt they had chains attached and his heart was pumping so furiously it made his whole torso tremble. He heard a roar of voices and his eyes, straining at the edge of the Sea, caught a glimpse of a head and body breaking the surface and grasping one of the set of steps. It was the magnificent Sarobindo striding from the lake and the sight of him inspired in him one more desperate surge of willpower.

  His assistant was waving at him directing him to a set of steps. He saw the gestures and swung drunkenly in that direction. Five seconds, four seconds and his hand lunged for a rail. The assistant descended on the steps and grabbed down for his arm, hauling him vertically with manic strength. There was a deep growl and the water sank away, coiling into a poisonous gray snake, just as Palmiro's feet cleared its surface, flailing onto the steps. The whole stadium erupted in a wild roar. He collapsed forward onto the decking, while Chaos roared below.

  Lucid memory of everything returned to him immediately he hit the ground. He knew he had to get out, as quickly as possible. The stone was back on his chest, but this time fifty times heavier, and he could only breathe in small tight gasps. He struggled to his feet, leaning on the assistant.

  “Take me...to my room....”

  The assistant complied, pulling Palmiro's arm across his shoulder and half-carrying him from the stadium. The organ music was blaring triumphantly while a peculiar concentration seemed to have fallen on the crowd. They were staring at a split video screen as it tracked both Sarobindo and Palmiro. The former was standing waving, greeting his public, but he did not have his usual ramrod posture and was in fact a little hunched and unsteady. Palmiro of course could hardly stand. They looked like two fighters who had just gotten out of fifteen rounds together.

  Padma had come to the entrance of the tunnel and she took Palmiro's other arm. She and the assi
stant dragged Palmiro up to the elevator, supporting him as it ascended, and then helped him to his room. He asked them to wait for him outside as he changed. He went inside, took off the sopping loin cloth and pulled on his tunic and sandals, breathing from his stomach in short gulps that each felt like a knife point. He found the emptied vial and dropped it in the pool, then went back, opened the door and asked the two assistants to take him to the exit tunnel.

  Padma protested politely. “You are not staying for the celebration? We always have one at the end. You can rest, and you will have a chance to meet Sarobindo and the others from the Meditation Colony. They will be most interested in your technique.”

  “I can't. I need to...recover. I have a friend waiting...outside.”

  They could not stop him and felt bound to help, so they supported him again, turning to walk out into the loggia. At the same moment the elevator arrived and Sarobindo emerged, accompanied by two disciples. As the door drew back the first thing the yogi saw was Palmiro and he stared at him as if he was trying to remember something. He had lost his normal lofty calm and seemed, for the first time, uncertain. Palmiro glanced back toward him, then looked away.

  “Come on...let's go.”

  Leaning on his helpers he walked out toward to the stairs. As the party was leaving they heard Sarobindo suddenly give a convulsive cough and sneeze. Padma looked round with concern, but Palmiro pressed onward along the balcony. When they got to the stairs he thanked them and said he would take it from there. He stumbled off down the stairs holding the rail and, along the access tunnel, leaning on the walls. Eboni was waiting with the horses half way down. She helped him mount and turn back toward the exit, to the darkness outside. They were facing a long, terrible ride to the trailhead, then a perilous descent in the starlight. But whatever the risk the night was their friend. It would cloak their disappearance and once down in the canyons they would ride without stopping to the camp. He was fearful his lungs would never return to normal or he might collapse entirely. But he knew if he could hold out as far as Danny's camp then he had a chance. In any event, Heaven was no longer the same place, he felt most certain of that.

  12. CHANGING PLACES

  In the few days since the dramatic events surrounding the death of Zena and Magus a remarkable change had come over the canyons. Physically they had altered. There was the dark scar where Magus' cabin used to be and the silent pile of ash where Zena had been cremated. The sensations the two places provoked were far more powerful than mere scenery: one horror and anger, the other respect and something else, something profound, hard to put in words. These reactions were definitely part of the change that had taken place, but they were not all.

  Where before there was endless oppression, a form of living death, now there was almost total freedom, together with a constant feeling of peace and joy. Everybody felt it, and there was no one who did not come visibly to life in its atmosphere. The residents who had spent almost their whole time—if it could be called time—in the cantina, slumped on the tables, now sat out on the steps, or in the tent, looking around as if they’d found themselves miraculously transported to a beautiful resort. They smiled and greeted each other continually by name, confirming again and again this was what they were doing, and who in fact they all were.

  Everybody's speech improved and they began to talk among themselves more naturally and spontaneously. They talked about the colors of the canyons, the wild flowers among the rocks and the birds that made their home there. They talked about their clothes, how to clean and repair them and even make new ones, using the good cotton sheets found in Magus' store. They talked about each other, about how well a certain person was looking, or the talents that others had. Some of them started making things to give as gifts. It was Zoltan who began it.

  He found a twisted stump and whittled it away until it looked like the head and wing of an eagle. He gave it to Francisco. Then Greta found some wool and bits of felt and made a small, knitted doll which she presented to Pascale. Everyone wanted one, so she unpicked a sweater and soon was turning out a stream of pleasant faced woolen figures. Best of all, a Spanish guitar had been discovered in Magus' store and someone passed it to Ravel. He took it in his hands and gently plucked its strings. After that he did not put it down and in the next days he began to produce from it an increasingly beautiful, haunting sound. Any time of the day if you visited the tent you would hear passages of classical music being teased from its strings. People sat around mesmerized. Only the need for sleep could bring the concert to an end.

  The only person who did not quite react with joy was the cook. His name was Pepin and when Magus' cabin was raided and set on fire he could not believe it, declaring it an outrage and there would be hell to pay. No one was listening, not even his assistants, and all he could do was watch it happen and run up and down stamping out cinders falling next to his store. Later that evening after the sparks had died out he wandered sullenly over to the trove of items taken from the cabin and found the food and liquor. He couldn't believe his luck; it was like the heavens had opened and rained their blessings on him. He downed a whole pound of chocolate, unscrewed a bottle of straight Bourbon and within half an hour was stone drunk on the canyon floor. Magada found him in the morning and threw a bucket of water over him.

  He came around suffering from a blinding headache and terrible stomach cramps. He cursed her and swore solemnly that from now on everyone could cook for themselves: he would never go near the kitchen again. Katoucha straightaway seized the opportunity, asserting she'd always thought the food disgusting and she could do a much better job. She said there were edible herbs, roots and berries in the canyon, and the original native peoples had eaten the beans of the mesquite bushes. She promised if they foraged for items like these they could make the diet much more interesting. She began directly, making sure not to overcook the vegetables and mixing in a bunch of wild onions which she dug up. She also took into the cantina all the food and liquor left out in the canyon, lest anyone else be tempted again.

  Still, when people saw that Pepin was now on his own, sulking and separated from the general happiness, they persuaded Katoucha to find a way to get him back to the kitchen. She sighed and rolled her one eye, but gave in. In fact, she had just the idea to make it happen. She went to Pepin and suggested they might take turns cooking, but even before that they should plan a massive feast using the delicacies from Magus' cabin. There was no point hanging on to them, for what better occasion could there be to celebrate than the present?

  At the prospect of another gaudy night with chocolate and liquor Pepin was quickly reconciled. He abandoned his boycott and agreed to share the cooking. They set the date of the banquet for two days’ time. As for the menu they would slaughter one of the cattle and roast it outside on a barbecue spit. Plus Katoucha would flavor squash and corn with wild peppers and scented grasses she said she could find in the canyon. They would open the bottles of wine and share toasts for the whole company. Afterward, they would eat canned oranges and peaches from Magus' store and finish with chocolate, cigars, whiskey and brandy. It would be the first feast for residents celebrated in the canyon, a first in their collective story, and an experience no one would ever forget. The mouths of the two cooks were already watering with the flavors to come.

  In the days following the fires, Pascale continued her normal routine, rising early and going to the cliff top, then coming back down to hang out in the communal tent. Things felt very different for her in each place. In the tent it was no longer necessary to get the conversation rolling: it sprung naturally to life. While Ravel played his continuous concerto in the background people began spontaneously to recall details of their past. So many of these had disappeared from their minds and from existence itself. Now they came welling up from oblivion.

  Orwell remembered growing up as a child on a farm, the cattle coming in a line for milking and the warm sweet smell of the dairy in the morning. The farm was flooded by the rains and they had to
abandon the land. At school he had excelled at engineering and had risen to become part of the team planning the Global Weather Shield. He had been one of those chosen for immortality, and he accepted because he was sure that after a time attempts would be made to recover the lost spaces of the earth. When it became obvious there was no policy in Heaven for recovery, Orwell started a street-campaign downtown, speaking and handing out leaflets. And that very quickly got him sent to the Ranch. Now, he said, for the first time since he was a boy he was beginning to feel close to the land again.

  Alaqua agreed. She told how she came from one of the aboriginal races and had worked for an environmental campaign protesting the Global Shield. The protest claimed the Shield would leave indigenous peoples totally exposed and without any help. The authorities replied there was no other way, and then they told her she had been chosen for immortality. They said that individuals like her had been selected in order that native peoples would be represented. She had agreed, but without fully understanding what was intended. Once she got to Heaven she was unable to fit in, retreating into herself, preferring only to sleep, or wander in the semi-desert. Very soon she was sent to the Ranch. Now, for the first time, she had begun to feel a contact with those tribes of the earth left behind. She thought the residents in the canyon were like one of those tribes.

  These stories did nothing to lessen the jubilant feeling among the residents. Rather, they helped give it fuel, always ending up with a statement of how the present situation in the canyon had changed everything and how the speaker felt so incredibly happy. The tent had become a place of transformation, gathering a kind of aura around it, bigger than any one individual or all the individuals put together. Unless people had work chores to do, everybody was certain to be found there. Almost automatically its space had been converted into a care center or field hospital, where Orwell, Francisco and Elise could be looked after. As a result Zoltan and Eliot soon set about driving in more tent poles and stringing lines for blankets to extend it. Pascale felt enormously at home in the tent, able to relax and listen to what people were sharing and to the music in the background. Like everyone else she had never felt happier or more at peace. In contrast, it was up on the cliff top that she was obliged to confront her deeper questions.