The Prophecies Trilogy (Omnibus Edition): A Dystopian Adventure

by Linda Hawley

  They called it shock. I suppose it was. I barely remember the drive off the mountain. Cosette was kind enough to take us to Aunt Saundra’s house in Bellingham. I guess someone from the rescue team called ahead and prepared my aunt, because when we arrived, she was waiting for us.

  “Hi,” I softly greeted her at the door with Elinor at my side.

  My aunt hugged us both hard, silence buffering her own grief from us.

  Finally releasing us, she said, “I’m sure you both need rest. Let’s get you upstairs, where I’ve made up beds for you.”

  “Thank you, Saundra,” I replied.

  We solemnly treaded upstairs. I stopped after several steps, and Elinor followed. I turned toward the front door, where Aunt Saundra quietly talked with the relief worker.

  “Cosette, thank you,” I offered with as much voice as I could summon.

  “You’re welcome, Ann. I’ll think of you both,” she responded.

  I tried to smile but failed. I broke eye contact with Cosette, looked at my aunt for a moment with nothing else to say, and then turned and continued slowly up the stairs with my arm around Elinor.

  “Mommy, I want to sleep with you, okay?” she pleaded softly.

  “Of course, sweetie,” I replied with empathy, gently kissing the side of her head.

  We entered the room at the top of the stairs that seemed ready for us. The sheets were turned down on the queen bed in the large room, and a vanilla candle was burning on the dresser.

  I appreciated my aunt’s kind gesture. Seeing the candle, Elinor turned to me, putting her head on my shoulder.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I whispered, with my arms around her. “We’re going to be okay. Daddy will watch over us.”

  Saundra appeared in the doorway. “I’ve got some pajamas set out for both of you, from when you stayed here before, so there’s no need to worry about anything,” she assured us. I was again grateful for her kindness.

  “Thank you, Saundra,” I responded flatly.

  “Do you want some herbal tea?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I think we’ll just sleep,” I said, looking around the room.

  “Both of you—just tell me anything you need, and I’ll get it.”

  “Tomorrow I’ll need to get our things from the rental cottage on the mountain and check out.”

  “We’ll worry about that tomorrow. Just rest yourself now. You can stay with me for as long as you want,” she protectively offered.

  Both Elinor and I dressed down quickly and dropped into bed as though we were unaccustomed to gravity. Exhaustion drew us quickly to sleep.

  After sleeping for five hours, I awoke suddenly.

  I quietly left the bed, careful not to awaken Elinor, and walked down the hall to my aunt’s bedroom. “Saundra?” I whispered quietly.

  I had always been very close to my aunt; she was kind and gentle. Besides my husband and daughter, I was closer to her than anyone else.

  She slowly awoke from sleep. “What is it, dear?”

  “Can you talk for a bit?” I asked.

  “Of course. Come snuggle here with me,” she said, pulling the bed covers aside.

  I lay in the bed with her, with her pillows behind us and Saundra’s arm wrapped around me, holding me to her carefully.

  “What is it?” she questioned.

  “At the end…” I started to softly cry. “Armond said, ‘The Herkimer. Believe…’”

  “What? What was he talking about?”

  “It was as if he was going to say something else, but he didn't have enough time.”

  “What do you think he was going to say?”

  “I don't know. Do you remember when I told you about the Herkimer crystals my dad and I found when I was a girl?”

  “Of course I remember them.”

  “I've been going over it in my mind, and I just don't understand why Armond would mention the Herkimer. Was he remembering a conversation we had about it, or something else? Those were his last words, and I have no idea what they mean.”

  “With time, Ann, you’ll understand. Have faith in that,” she consoled me. “We’re not always meant to know right away. Give it time,” she offered with a squeeze to my shoulder and a kiss on my forehead.

  I snuggled into her and allowed myself to be comforted.

  We stayed with Aunt Saundra for two weeks after burying Armond in Bellingham. Since we had both grown up there, it seemed like the right place for him to rest. Even though we had lived in the Washington, D.C., area for a long time, Armond and I had always talked of moving to Bellingham when the right professional situations came up for us both. After the funeral and some time passing, I started to crave being back in our own home. There was a part of me that was reluctant to leave Armond, but Elinor and I finally flew back on a solemn plane ride, so that we could begin to put the pieces of our life back together. I wondered if I would still feel him near if we flew away, but I had to, for Elinor.

  Living without Armond that first year was like living without air. When he was beside me, the very air we breathed seemed alive—it was as if there was more oxygen. He brought everything to life. The void created by his absence was like a black hole, sucking the essence of my life away, no matter how hard I fought against it. I pleaded with God, and He did comfort me. But I knew that I was more of a woman when Armond was alive, and without him, I was simply—less. The broad nothingness never seemed to ease that first year; it only shifted back and forth from my conscious to my subconscious. I tried to live in the present, but I knew that the present could be so much more with him, and I had trouble staying in it. So I dreamed of him. I dreamed of living another life with him at night while I slept.

  I couldn’t have been who I became without the love that we had shared. It was a short time together—we were married only fourteen years—but it had felt like so much longer than that to me. We were like children, playing and laughing, but then we’d talk into the wee hours of the night about the mysteries of life.

  When he’d been gone for some time, I came to know loneliness in its earthly form. Though I knew in my mind that others had felt such loss, this loss was mine, and I felt that no one would ever understand it, and to try to explain the loneliness and pain I felt would be futile. It was a reality that I couldn’t share with anyone else. It was agonizing torture to be without my best friend, confidant, lover, and mate. From the day Armond left, Elinor was my only solace.

  In the years since his death, I thought that Armond’s last words were the beginning of a thought he had about my dad. It never did make sense to me. Could he have known what was to come? Was he so close to death that he could see the future?

  * * *

  “Sinéad,” I said, dragging myself from thoughts of the past. “Give me information on the earthquake and talk me through it while I take a bath…warm bathroom…hot bath…start the water now,” I instructed, holding tight to the Herkimer rediscovered in my hand.

  “Yes, Ann.”

  I drifted down into the soothing warmth, pouring in eucalyptus oil to induce clarity of mind. As I dipped into my deep bath and snuggled into its warmth, I exhaled the memories.

  One of the things that attracted me to buying the house in the first place was the bathroom. The high-tech bathtub sat in the middle of the room, creating an open feeling. The shower was in the far corner, surrounded by clear glass. There was a comfortable chaise lounge to relax on to the left of the tub, where I often lingered. The oasis was designed with the colors of sea-foam green and flat ivory—these were the colors that evoked in me the feelings of protection. Water was my respite, and I could think more clearly when surrounded by it.

  “Sinéad, go ahead with the earthquake data, slowly.”

  As Sinéad began to recite the information, I tried to make sense of the events with my analytical mind. By the end of my bath, the details began to settle. What I still didn’t understand, though, was how the Herkimer fit into the story.

  Chapt
er 10

  BELLINGHAM, WASHINGTON

  The Year 2015

  Michael Gettel was once quoted as saying, “There is always music in the San Juans. Listen closely, and you can hear the splashing seal, otter, and whale. …it is the heartbeat of the San Juans.”

  “Play Michael Gettel, San Juan Suite.”

  “Okay, Ann,” Sinéad agreed, queuing the music.

  It was this heartbeat of the sea that lulled me into peace through Michael's music. Not long after San Juan Suite was released in 1987, I saw him perform live in a café when my best friend, Jackie, and I were visiting Seattle. Afterwards, Jackie introduced us to Michael, even though she’d never met him before—she was always so bold. I was impressed with Michael's passion for nature and the piano, and how he harmonized the two in San Juan Suite. I found myself flirting with him until Jackie nudged me, bringing me back to reality. We were just sixteen-year-old kids, but I had my first crush on a boy. Jackie was a moral compass for me, and I was alternatively annoyed by and appreciative of her efforts. She taught me a great deal about friendship, kindness, and loyalty. Listening to San Juan Suite brought back good memories of Jackie. We did have an excessive amount of fun in the years that we were best friends.

  With Michael's music resonating throughout the house, my home came alive with the heartbeat of the San Juans.

  My house was built solely for a view of the sea. It sat on the highest elevation in Fairhaven and had a distant view of the San Juan Islands. Living here, I felt as though I could be a part of the sea without actually being on it. The large open den sat on the other side of the living space, facing west, surrounded by a row of bay windows that overlooked Chuckanut Bay. I’d had tile installed in the den and converted the space into a potter’s studio. In it were my potter’s wheel, a rolling utility cart, and an open cedar bookshelf. The bookshelf was seven feet high and held several pieces of drying pottery. The area was a clean, open space that looked both organized and inviting. Most of its light came from the wall of windows and the three skylights above.

  As I sat in the window seat overlooking the sea, I thought about Armond and the political discussions we’d had. I thought about America and the way it had changed in recent years.

  * * *

  Seven years ago was the turning point for America. From the summer of 2008 until 2009, the America I knew and loved fundamentally changed. It started with the American government buying into the largest banking, mortgage, and insurance companies in the country. In 2008, Time magazine called America a socialist country, “only with worse food.” It stirred up and scared Americans.

  I was thirty-seven, and I knew these significant changes were bad for the country. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling in my gut. Then the stock market nearly crashed and took with it the retirements of many middle-class Americans. Luckily, when the chatter started about the possibility of bailing out AIG, I had a moment of inspiration and cashed out every investment I had. It took a week to receive the checks.

  When I went to my bank to cash them for hard currency, the teller objected. Hand in hand with the crash, banks were failing, and there was fear about bank runs. I asked for the branch manager. After introductions by the teller, Paula Myre met with me in her office with the door ajar.

  “Miss Torgeson, how can I help you?” she said, chill and professional.

  “I want to cash my investment checks.”

  “You do not want to deposit them?”

  “No.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “No,” I said, crisp and sure. I owed her no explanation, and I made it clear in my tone.

  Paula raised a smug eyebrow; clearly she was used to getting her own way. I waited her out while she looked at me, considering.

  “It’s really much safer to deposit these checks. It is a large amount.”

  I wasn’t about to debate with her—or give in.

  “Why don’t you check the balance in my accounts and my history with the bank?” I said, trying to get her to understand that I was a customer worth keeping happy.

  I waited while she typed.

  “Miss Torgeson, I can see that you have enough here to cover the checks. But I would really prefer that you deposit them.”

  “No, thank you.” I waited again for her next rebuttal but then conceived a counter-attack. “Ms. Myre, is the problem that the bank doesn’t have enough money to cash my checks?” I asked in a very loud voice, making sure those just outside the door could hear.

  “Oh, no…” she said with a nervous blush, getting up to close her office door. “Absolutely not…the bank is perfectly sound.”

  “Then why won’t you cash my checks?” I questioned her.

  “It’s not that we don’t want to cash your checks.”

  “Then what is it?” I asked, getting frustrated and now willing to become pushy.

  Silence. At least a minute passed as she looked again at her computer screen.

  “Well, if you’ll just wait a few minutes, I’ll take care of this for you,” she suddenly announced with pursed eyebrows, unwilling to look at me.

  “Thank you, Ms. Myre. I’ll need that in one-hundred-dollar bills.”

  “One-hundred-dollar bills? Do you realize that’s over eight hundred bills?” Paula said, shock pouring into her voice.

  “Yes, I do,” I responded, matter of fact, staring her down. “You have an electronic bill counter, right?”

  “I don’t know if—”

  “Are you telling me that you don’t have enough cash in the branch?” I repeated, in the same tone.

  “We do…we do. Just a moment,” she said nervously.

  I waited while Paula opened the door, closed it behind her, and disappeared into the vault. Clearly she was trying to keep cash in the bank, no doubt having been coached by her executives.

  Paula returned twenty minutes later holding a bag. Finally, I thought.

  “Eighty-nine thousand dollars is a lot of cash,” Paula said again.

  “It is. Didn’t I do well with my investments?” I said with a smile, ridiculing her.

  She didn’t answer as she gazed at my cash, looking as though she’d swallowed back a snide remark that was brewing in her stomach. After a deep breath, she began to count out the bills from her desk. When finished, she exhaled loudly but still said nothing. She returned the cash to the bank bag, then handed it to me.

  “Did you want security to escort you to your car?” Paula reluctantly offered.

  “No, thank you,” I responded, putting it into my messenger bag.

  I stood and turned to walk out.

  “Have a good day, Miss Torgeson,” she replied, as though her collar had been starched and was pressing into her throat, choking off the words.

  I didn’t look back.

  I hope I never see you again.

  The following week, I went to a different branch of my bank and withdrew all but fifty dollars from my savings and checking accounts. I tried to make my withdrawal through the drive-through window to avoid another teller coup d'état, but I was made to come inside and wait in line. Since my withdrawal was ninety thousand dollars, I did have a déjà vu moment with the second branch manager. I’d mentally prepared myself for the dialogue this time. There’s nothing like a bank meeting their customer’s expectations. It’s a good thing that I was withdrawing it all, because the way they behaved made me want to close my accounts anyway.

  It was only two weeks after I secured my cash in the safe in my Washington, D.C., townhouse that Time magazine, in September 2008, published the article “How we became the United States of France.” The article pointed out how we nationalized our financial system and some of the auto companies, how our social security system was going belly-up with baby boomers retiring en-masse, and now there was talk of national health care.

  America literally bought the bad debt of financial institutions all across the country, which sent a shock wave through the whole world. The stock market bounced back and forth like a ping-
pong ball. Many Americans lost their homes to mortgage foreclosures. A massive recession continued through 2012, even though at one point the government vowed that the USA was recession-free.

  After President Obama involved the United States in civil unrest around the world, gasoline prices started to soar. He couldn’t seem to do anything right, though it seemed he was trying. Even the glory of his 2011 successful kill order for Osama Bin Laden didn’t help his image for long. Behind the scenes in the White House, there were sinister executive orders being signed by him, destroying the individual freedom of Americans. Under the guise of protecting America, Obama supported an RFID chip in every driver’s license and government-issued identification in America. Since it was a federal crime to tamper with a government-issued ID, all Americans could be tracked down at the government’s whim, through this ID.

  * * *

  Suddenly I felt a weight pulling me down, thinking about my country’s past. “I’m funking out here,” I chided myself.

  “Sinéad, play my favorites from the Talking Heads, starting with ‘Once in a Lifetime.’”

  “Okay, Ann.”

  The lyrics started.

  “Louder, Sinéad,” I said.

  “Okay, Ann,” Sinéad responded, raising up the volume a notch.

  My head started to bob as I got off the window seat.

  The house came alive with the music bouncing from wall to wall. I could feel the energy pulling me out of my funk.

  I started to form a plan to go for a drive out on Chuckanut, following the shoreline of the bay. In my closet, I dressed in a pair of black SecondSkin pants and a generous yellow cotton top that showed a hint of cleavage and touched my middle thigh. I imagined the winding drive in the convertible with the music blasting in the crisp spring air.

  Moving to the bathroom, I stood brushing my hair. “Sinéad, what's the weather like for the next two hours, driving south on Chuckanut Drive toward Skagit County?”

  “It will be in the midseventies for the first hour, then fifty-two degrees toward the end of the second hour, with clear skies.”