Whatever the cause, and whatever the long-term effects on the boy, Ana was pleased to find that in recent days, a shift had taken place in her own perception of the boy as well. A month ago she would have been hard put to sit with her arm brushing casually against his, their faces eighteen inches apart, talking about Hemingway and drawing; the electricity of his taut personality would have left her as dry-mouthed and sweating as a teenager. On the other hand, it could simply be that familiarity had bred relaxation.
And she was relaxed with him now. She was still intrigued by him, amused and impressed and—yes—secretly in love with him, but her libido or hormones or whatever it was seemed to have rolled over and gone back to sleep, a condition for which she was truly grateful.
"How did you do this?" he asked, pointing to a drawing she had made of a tumble of rocks in the bright sun, a shape defined by its shadows.
"That's called negative space," she told him. "You use your pencil to draw around the object, treating the thing itself as minimally as you can without making it just a white blob, but working up the background and the shadows. You have to see it with your eyes out of focus, if that makes sense."
He nodded, cocking his head at the drawing before turning the page.
Ana tensed slightly as he approached the section where she had first written about him. One's own name had a way of leaping off the page to catch the eye, and she would rather he not read even the sanitized version of her reaction to him. But there was not a drawing on that particular page, and he turned past it, safely now into school and Steven territory.
When he had reached the end (a small horned lizard she had seen sunning itself the other morning) he handed it back to her.
"You don't have any drawings of people in there."
"No. People's faces are too subtle for me. Lizards are about the closest I come, and even those might not be recognizable to a herpetologist."
"The cat was good."
"Anyone can draw a cat."
"That's true," he admitted. He shifted in his seat, and Ana edged aside to give him a bit more room, under the guise of leaning forward to check on Benjamin. She sat back into the edge of her seat, and then saw that Jason was holding out something to her between the thumb and finger of his right hand. It was a very small sketchbook, about three inches by five, the wire coil of its binding bent and flattened, the green cardboard cover cracked and limp with long use. She took the artifact, opened it with the edge of a fingernail, then put it down on her lap and resumed her reading glasses, feeling around for the light button.
The drawings were necessarily tiny, the details often smudged by the treatment the book had withstood and by the graphite on one page rubbing off onto the facing one. Densely worked, the subjects varied from a figure out of some video game (horns, huge grimace, and exaggerated muscles) to a sleeping Dulcie who looked little more than a baby.
After a few pages she looked up. "Are you sure you want me to see these?"
"Yeah. I do."
She went through the book from cover to cover, seeing images of the Change compound worked into pages already containing drawings of an earlier time: A coiled rattlesnake had been fit into a blank corner next to the ear of a seated teddy bear, a spotted goat Ana recognized from an unsuccessful time in the milking barn appeared to be walking toward a futuristic airship belching flames from its engines.
She closed it and gave it back to Jason, who shifted again and made the small book disappear into an inner pocket of his jacket.
"I apologize," she said.
"What for?"
Teachers get into the bad habit of teaching all the time. You don't need to be told about making a personal space with your drawing. Sorry."
"That's okay." He squirmed again with embarrassment.
"And you draw mostly from memory."
"Yeah. You can tell?"
"In drawings this size it's easier to hide the fuzzy detail, but mostly it's that the outside objects like the goat and those dogs are more abstract than the things from your room or Dulcie. You're remembering how you saw them, not recording how they look. They're very beautiful. Some of them are very fine drawings. You should have some training."
He did not answer, and she bent forward to look into his face, which was blank.
"What did I say wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Please, Jason. Tell me."
"It's just something I do. It's a kid thing. Guys don't make, pictures."
She actually laughed aloud. "God, Jason, you have some learning to do about artists. Some of the randiest, most macho guys in the world make pictures. And earn an incredible amount of money doing it."
He looked at her sideways. "Really?"
"Really. Keep drawing, Jason. Even if you don't do anything with it professionally, it'll teach you to see the world."
"You should laugh more often," he said earnestly. "It makes your face relax." He then went scarlet with embarrassment.
"I used to laugh a lot," she said, keeping her voice light. "I'll work on it."
After a minute, he asked her, "Can you show me how to do the "negative space" stuff?"
Ana opened her own journal to a blank white page and found a pencil. "It's not so much a technique of drawing," she began, "as a different way of seeing and thinking about space."
VI
Albificatio
albedo (n. fr L albus, whiteness) Reflective power
or: Albion (n. L) Great Britain; England
It is of soft things induration of Colour white,
And conflxacion of Spirits which fleeing are.
Chapter Twenty-four
The single touchiest place by far in any "cult" situation involves children. An ex-member will come in~or worse, go directly to the newspapers-with a graphic report of child abuse, sexual or otherwise, Satanic rituals involving young children, the perverse habits of the leader and his closest associates, human sacrifice of newborns, you name it. There's no choice but to investigate it, obviously, even though any divorce lawyer can tell you how easy the accusation of abuse Is to make, how hard it is to fight, and how often it is completely without basis in truth.
People use children as tools, for petty revenge, for manipulating someone, to build themselves up in their own eyes and in the view of society as a hero, and basically because dragging in kids makes for the biggest splash. The judges trying a custody case, and the public judging a community in the papers, can't afford to ignore claims of abuse of minors.
You as investigators are not immune from the emotional pull of the need to protect our children. However, in investigating these claims, no matter now plausible they sound, how sincere the accuser, the chief thing I would ask you to remember is the cop's first and hardest lesson: distance. You must not feel outrage, not even with the most appalling accusations; you must not leap to action, even when immediate intervention seems to be absolutely essential. You have to bear in mind at all times that in the vast majority of these cases, these children are seen by their community as they are in any community: they are the future. If you reach out to touch their kids, they will strike back, and the kids and everyone else will get in the way.
Excerpt from the transcription of a lecture by Dr. Anne Waverly to the FBI Cult Response Team, April 27, 1994
They bent over her drawing pad for about half an hour before the flight attendants began to drag the carts up the aisles again. The smell of sausages and artificial maple flavoring floated through the cabin, and people began to stir. Benjamin woke, and then Dulcie, and Ana's brief idyll was over.
They were hours yet from London, their two kids bored and fractious with the need for exercise. Books and games and drawings and stories dragged on, until finally came the faint change of their angle of flight, heralding their descent into Heathrow only two hours late.
The great plane tipped, giving them a view of a vast expanse of red brick, black slate, gray tarmac, and a dollop of river, and then they straightened out and came in for a landing. They
taxied, and they taxied some more; they came to a halt and they waited, half the passengers standing back to belly in the aisles for long minutes while the gangway was run out and first class was offloaded. Finally the jerk of motion as the aisles began to clear, and soon they were saying thank-you to the flight attendants and back on solid ground.
A lot of solid ground, carpeted and glassed-in and stuffy with the fumes of jet engines. After a hundred yards of skipping in joy, Dulcie began to lag; at two hundred yards Jason was carrying her, and Ana hefting Benjamin. She remembered Heathrow as endless, and it was.
The long, looping rows awaiting the immigration desks were next, and then the luggage hall, and both small children were limp now, stunned with exhaustion and strangeness. Ana and Jason were in a similar condition, although Dov and the others had slept and claimed to be refreshed beneath their ill temper.
Luggage piled on the trolley carts, steered through customs' gauntlet, where they all made it through undetained, around a bend and into an enormous echoing hall filled with electronic announcements and colorful motion, and there were two strangers greeting Dov, shaking hands, introducing themselves as Richard and Vicky, and taking over the baggage carts. A parking lot, windy and vast, a large van, child seats for Dulcie, Benjamin, and the other small child. Ana buckled in, checked to make sure she hadn't lost Jason, and gave herself over to the massive tiredness that crept into her very bones.
She slept across a large chunk of southern England.
Ana woke when the small bus descended from the freeway—motorway, it was called here. As cookies were called biscuits and tea was not just a beverage you drank but a meal you ate at six o'clock, and the steering wheel was on the right and roads had roundabouts instead of stop signs, a country where ordinary people did not have cheap guns in their bedside tables and the ordinary policeman was armed only with a stick, a radio, and an intimate knowledge of the patch he patrolled. There would be an equivalent to Glen here, who (if Glen was very persistent) might come to know of her presence, but Glen was a very long way off, and Ana was on her own.
But only for as long as it took her to read the signs here. (As Ana rubbed the back of her neck and shifted on the hard seat, she realized that she had clarified the decision in her mind, on the plane or while she slept.) She would finish her job, even on this strange ground, so that her report to Glen on the Change movement would be as complete as she could possibly make it. Two or three weeks ought to do it; after that she would seize Jason and Dulcie by the hands and remove them from the clutches of Change, even if it meant blowing her cover for good and throwing the Change community to the media, whose appetite for paranoid scenarios involving children was voracious. She would try very hard to take her two charges away quietly, but if she was forced to cling to the figurative gates of the American embassy under the glare of the television lights, so be it.
Then home in time for summer, with potentials and possibilities she wouldn't let herself think about.
Meanwhile, the countryside out her window was proving very compelling, lush, and vibrant with the fast growth of late spring. She had been to this country in the summer twice and once for a memorable week in December, but now she saw why the poets gushed and the painters invented new shades of green: May was incredibly beautiful, field and hedgerow and country lane bursting with the full, exuberant rush of life held in during the long, cold winter. Lambs actually did gambol, she saw in amusement as they drove past a field of bouncing white quadrupeds. A long-legged foal inquiring among the nettles at the base of a fence skittered away at their passing, his ridiculous stump of a tail flapping wildly. A neatly tended orchard of thickly flowering trees filled the low curve of a creekside hollow, giving the impression of a white cloud come to earth. They passed a small, perfect stone cottage set back from the road behind a low picket fence, its garden a riot of wildly mixed color. There were even two black kittens playing on the brick walkway leading to the rose-bowered front door, for heaven's sake. Ana raised her face to the soft air blowing in the window and felt like laughing aloud at the sheer glory of the place.
The first sign of wrongness Ana would have missed completely had she not been seated directly behind the driver. A police car was parked in a lay-by at the side of the lane. Ana might have dismissed it—a local patrol choosing a pleasant spot to have their tea break—but for Richard's vigorous two-fingered gesture at the official vehicle that punctuated his slowing, putting on the turn signal, and turning off through a set of electronically controlled gates and into a worn track so overgrown, it was more tunnel than drive. No one said anything, but Ana was quite certain that in England two fingers jabbed into the air was not a sign of "V is for victory."
They bumped along the track for ten minutes or so, waking up the little kids, but Ana had no ears for Dulcie's cries of protest, because near the beginning of the drive, off in the undergrowth near the gates, she had seen a man dressed in camouflage clothing; in his hands he held something very much like the bulky shape of a shotgun. She opened her mouth, and shut it, but when she looked up she saw Richard's eyes on her in the rearview mirror. She turned to soothe Dulcie with a story about the lambs and kittens she had seen, furry, warm things to counteract the sudden cold tendrils that had begun to unfurl along the pit of her stomach.
The van emerged from the undergrowth and lurched through a section of slightly better road with fencing on both sides before entering a graveled farmyard where the spring weeds were winning. The buildings showed signs of recent labor, new windows and paint renewed in the last two or three years. All of these seemed to be outbuildings, and indeed the van did not stop there but continued around and past some more fences until it pulled up at the towering backside of what looked like a large country home belonging to a slightly down-at-the-heels family.
Ana thought the building was probably early Victorian, a blunt, purposeful edifice built of a harsh red brick that a century and a half had not dimmed. The kitchen door was standing open and three or four dogs and a large number of cats were scattered about, looking vaguely expectant.
Dulcie made for the cats as soon as she was freed from the van. Jason stood gaping up at the vast and uninspiring redbrick wall that loomed above them, punctuated by four rows of windows and surmounted by a gathered stand of half a dozen chimneys. Ana waited until the driver was by himself at the back of the van, pulling out luggage, and then she approached him.
"Richard, was that man in the woods a policeman?" she asked.
"Better not've been. If he was, there'll be hell to pay. We keep them out—we know our rights, they know our boundaries. Doesn't stop 'em from sitting at the back entrance, writing down plate numbers and playing silly buggers."
"Oh. But I thought… He did have a gun, didn't he?"
"Keeps the rabbits down," he said dismissively, and then over Ana's shoulder he shouted, "Where do you want this lot?"
"In the dining room," a woman's voice answered. "We can sort them out from there."
The bags were whisked inside, followed by the people (Dulcie protesting when a cat was plucked from her arms). They passed through the long kitchen, immediately comforting in its familiarity and the post-lunch clutter, although to Ana's eyes the corners could have used a good scrub. She wished they could have stayed there for a while, been handed a stack of dirty plates for what she remembered the English called the washing up, but they were ushered straight through, past three kitchen workers who stopped to watch their passage. One of them was a tall, straight, blonde girl with a peaceful face and oversized rubber gloves on her hands. She openly watched Jason walk past her; he in turn ducked his head to say something to Dulcie; Ana smiled absently to herself.
There was no TRANSFORMATION mural in this dining room, just a lot of mismatched chairs and tables in states ranging from new and cheap to old and rickety. The room had probably begun life as a ballroom, a place for the Victorian father's numerous daughters to display themselves and catch their husbands, but the decorative wallpaper, velvet
drapes, and gilt-edged mirrors had all long since been removed from the walls and the wooden dance floor was worn and speckled with white emulsion from a clumsy paint job. It echoed; the noise in there during a meal would be riotous.
Richard dumped the last of their things and vanished. In his place a familiar tall, dark-haired, ascetic-looking figure walked into the room. Ana had been correct to suspect, when she saw the way the Change members in Arizona acted toward him, that Marc Bennett held a high rank in the organization, because here he was to give them their welcome speech—although very little welcome did it contain. He waited imperiously for their attention before he began his carefully composed talk, delivered in portentous tones.
"Before today, you have known Change as through a glass, darkly. Here, you will see what Arizona will eventually become, years from now. You stand at the very center of the Change movement, and you will find things here very different from what you're used to at Steven's place." ("Steven's place," thought Ana; was it imagination, or had that phrase sounded dismissive?) The Change compound you're used to is just getting started, and it has a long way to go before it makes Transformation. We've been here almost three times as long. Steven began his transformation here before Jonas sent him to Arizona, and he comes back here to continue his own Work.
"Age, of course, is no guarantee of either wisdom or authority." Bennett flicked a brief glance across Ana, the oldest person in the room by nearly a decade, and she felt herself bristle at the implied judgment. "However, here you will find a degree of concentration, a level of physical and spiritual activity that the Arizona community cannot begin to approach. We have been here for twelve years, and not a day has been wasted time.
The Birth of a new moon Page 28
