“The way I see it, you can’t have background music,” she said. “It would be like having background sex. I suppose it’s possible in theory, but why would anyone put in such a massive effort to disengage with something so amazing?” It was the reason she’d made him turn off the music before they had sex.
“It’s for your own good,” she said. “You really don’t want to think you’re taking me to love heaven, only to find I’m really digging the way the bass player went into swung eighths in the chorus. Do you?” Seb conceded that he didn’t. Mee was the most amazingly focussed person he had ever met. When she decided to focus, that is. Most of the time, she seemed to exist in a hazy, detached state, her disassociation with everyday reality exacerbated by heavy pot use. Other people, when they were acknowledged at all, were slightly irritating distractions from whatever was going on behind those dreamy eyes. But music always snapped her into that incredible state of attention. And, for a while, Seb seemed to occasionally have a similar effect on her. Especially when she was listening to him playing a new song. That’s what she had been doing in the dream. He sighed, heavily. They had broken up amicably, she was still his best friend, but he knew it was always going to be more than that for him. He still loved her. And he didn’t know what to do with that. The knowledge that unrequited love was a very common problem didn’t help much when no one had come up with a foolproof way of dealing with it. Should he tell her? And risk their friendship? Or not tell her? And—one day—lose her forever to someone else.
He padded over to the window and looked out. The sky was a vast upturned basin full of stars, the moon low on the horizon. Seb had never been able to look at stars without feeling a sense of awe. Just knowing that he was looking into the past was hard to believe, even though he knew it was true. The same few facts from school always came into his mind. He had never forgotten them, they’d never lost their brain-boggling impact. The most distant star visible by the human eye—Deneb—is more than 1500 light years away. The speed of light is 186,000 miles per second. Traveling at the speed of light, you’d be able to loop the entire Earth seven and a half times per second. Per second. And, if you’d got bored of circumnavigating the planet after an hour—which would be 27,000 circuits—and decided to take a trip to Deneb, it would take you 1500 years to get there at that speed. 1500 years! At the speed of light! Seb smiled. He was glad to be alive in a universe so vast, unexplored and mysterious. Thinking he saw something move below, he glanced down into the yard. There was a naked woman standing there looking at him. She waved. It was Meera.
Grabbing a robe from the back of the door, he made his way downstairs. The rest of the house was quiet. He slid open the door leading to the yard. Cold air wafted over him as he stepped out into the moonlight. The yard was lit with reflected sunlight from the orbiting moon a quarter of a million miles away, painting everything blue, gray and silver. Meera stood in the middle of the yard, her head tilted slightly to one side, that mischievous smile on her face.
“Seb,” she said.
“Mee?” said Seb, coming to a stop a couple yards away. On the way downstairs, Seb had wondered what he would say if there really was a naked woman in the yard. And if it was Meera. Logically, he knew the first part of his conjecture was unlikely, the second near impossible. And yet he wasn’t surprised by the reality when he saw her. He just wished he could think of anything to say that didn’t sound stupid or inadequate. But he couldn’t. “What are you doing here?” he said.
“Seb,” she said again, this time taking a step forward and taking his hand in hers. Her skin was smooth and warm. The pad of her thumb stroked the back of his hand. Her eyes, almost black in the moonlight, looked into his. His throat dried up. He coughed.
“You must be cold,” he said, taking off his robe and wrapping it around her shoulders. Now he was just in his boxer shorts, he realized it really was cold - the desert air dropping to a cool fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit at night. Not uncomfortable if you’re dressed, not so great naked. He realized Meera hadn’t been shivering. She was holding his hand again.
“I came to tell you I love you,” she said, and that’s when Seb realized something was wrong. Mee didn’t talk about love. She said it was nothing to do with fear of commitment, just that talk was cheap, words were easy to say. According to Mee, if she ever made it to five years in a relationship, she would consider saying the words. So this didn’t make sense.
There was a sound from the other side of the building. The crunch of tires on shale. Seb looked back toward the house. Walt was back from his trip to Red Rock. What the hell was he going to say to him?
Suddenly, there was a familiar voice in his head.
“It’s not what you think,” said Seb2.
“What? What’s not what I think? And why do I have no control over when I can speak to you? Or vice-versa?” said Seb.
“Well, there’s good news on that front,” said Seb2. “You should be able to speak to me any time from now on. And, hey, don’t get upset about me disturbing your romantic scene here. I am you, after all.”
“Fair point. Now answer my question.”
“Mee. It’s not her. Look at her.”
Seb turned back to look at Meera. She was still smiling, the robe half-open, revealing the swell of her breasts. Why is that so much more erotic than when she was naked?
“Seb,” said Meera again. Then he felt the pressure of her thumb disappear from his hand. As he looked at her, a sequence of events lasting less than a second, which had become familiar to him that afternoon, unfolded. Mee’s ‘body’ collapsed inwards, skin and hair instantaneously become millions of particles of dirt. All that was left was his robe on top of a slightly raised mound of earth.
“You did it in your sleep,” said Seb2.
“What? I dreamed her into existence?” said Seb.
“Yup.”
“But she was perfect. How is that possible? I couldn’t make anything better than a troll that looked a bit like Donald Trump earlier.”
“That’s not quite true, though. You could have, you just decided to stay at Walt’s level. He doesn’t have to know everything about us.”
“I don’t know everything about us,” said Seb. “Am I going to be dreaming homunculi into existence every night?”
“No, I can stop it now that we know it’s possible. I was as surprised as you, even though I know more about our abilities now.”
“You keep reminding me you’re me,” said Seb, “but I don’t know what you know.”
“You do, it’s just that our consciousness has divided. Otherwise I think we would have died on the mountain when we were given Manna. Er, something else I need to say about that, actually.”
“What?”
“There’s another one of us, buried deeper.”
“Another me? Oh, god, tell me I’m not just suffering some kind of psychosis and this whole thing is in my head.”
“You know better than that. But I can’t really communicate with the other one. Let’s call him Seb3, for the sake of argument. He’s there, he’s necessary, I think he absorbed everything we couldn’t. But he’s not like us.”
“Not like us how?”
“He feels less human. But more human.”
“Loving the meaningless aphorisms.”
“Hey, a cheap shot like that might work on someone else, but you’re just wasting time using it on me.”
“Fair point.”
“He’s at such a deep level, it’s hard to get anywhere near,” said Seb2. “I want to get closer to him. But I can’t, and I’m scared to try. There’s something…ancient. And there’s terrible pain. And joy.”
“Great,” said Seb. “That’s all clear, then. Glad we had this little chat.”
He heard the front door open back in the house. He picked up his robe, brushed off as much dirt as he could and put it back on.
“One more thing,” said Seb2.
“Yes, Columbo?” said Seb.
“Go with your gut. I think we’re right n
ot to trust Walt.”
The door slid open and Walt stepped out into the yard. He was full of energy, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. Seb remembered how lit-up he’d been after filling up at Red Rock before.
“Beautiful night,” said Walt. “Bit cold for a walk, though.”
“Oh, I couldn’t sleep,” said Seb, stepping forward to cover the new mound of earth, although it was unlikely Walt would notice a new one among the handful they had made that afternoon. “And I love looking at the stars.”
Walt stood beside him. “Yes, they sure are pretty,” he said. “Makes you wonder if we can really be alone in the universe, doesn’t it?”
Seb thought of Billy Joe. He remembered the touch that healed him and gave him these strange, barely explored abilities. The touch of a being from an unimaginable place. Maybe somewhere even further than Deneb. “Yes,”he said, “it sure does.”
33
Seventeen Years Previously
St. Benet's Children’s Home, New York
As Seb’s body drifted inevitably back to sleep, he fell forward before jolting awake and shifting his weight on the wooden prayer stool. He half opened his eyes. The gray-blue pre-dawn light soaked Father O’Hanoran’s office in surreal monochrome. Seb clenched his leg muscles and tried to find a position on the narrow stool that was even slightly comfortable. Father O seemed to be experiencing no trouble at all sitting still, he was a silent Catholic Buddha to Seb’s right, his only movement the slow rise and fall of his stomach.
Seb mentally went through Father O’s instructions again. Posture upright. He straightened his spine self-consciously, wondering if Father O was aware of the many times he had almost fallen off the stool as sleep beckoned. Hands still, placed in your lap. Breathing normally, just being aware of your breath. Seb wondered if anyone was capable of breathing normally when their breath was the only physical movement they were making. When his training had started, nearly four weeks previously, he had spent most of the thirty minutes seeing how slow he could make each breath. He figured he was taking two breaths a minute. He wondered if that was good. Possibly exceptional. Then he wondered what the world record was for breathing slowly, if there was one. Probably not. Then he remembered the last instruction Father O had given. When your awareness moves away from your breath, bring it back by sounding your word. Seb had chosen ‘silence’ as his word. He idly wondered what Father O’s word was for a while, then realized he had become distracted again. He sounded the word. Silence.
He had agreed to daily practice, thirty minutes, for one month. In five days time, the month would be up, but Seb knew he would be continuing his practice. The Christian word for what he was doing was Contemplation. Other wisdom traditions called it meditation. Father O called it Paying Attention. Paying Attention was the best description.
“That’s all it is,” Father O’Hanoran had said, nudging Seb awake after the first 6:15 session. “But mysticism, the pursuit of reality filtered—for the most part—through different religious traditions, is notorious for its problems with communication. The word ‘mysticism’ itself is proof enough of that. It’s suppose to signify an encounter with the mystery at the center of existence, but the root of the word is more commonly associated with the idea of something strange, unexplained. These days, if we say something is a mystery, we usually mean it’s a puzzle. When the mystics talk about mystery, they mean something beyond our grasp, yet also the very essence of what we are. Language falls short when it tries to describe this. But here’s the important bit. Language doesn’t fall short because what it’s describing is so complex, but because what it is attempting to speak of comes before language. A truly authentic encounter with reality cannot be spoken about, it can only be experienced.”
The first time Seb heard Father O talk like this, he was bewildered. But he had nowhere else to turn. He had expected the priest to respond to his crisis by recommending confession, penance and absolution. He had even tentatively asked if he was going to have to take more of an active role in church. Father O had left it entirely up to him. He said that Franciscans such as himself were encouraged to “preach the gospel, using words only if absolutely necessary.” Sometimes the things Father O said just gave Seb a headache. But he kept coming back.
And now, sitting on a tiny wooden stool, his buttocks numb and his body cold, he unexpectedly found the constant background noise of his mind to be fading. It was as if an early morning mist was clearing as the sunlight burned it away. The gaps between his thoughts slowed. Millisecond gaps lengthened, became half a second. Then, for the first time, on a frosty morning one Fall in the half-light of dawn, half a second opened out into what might have been five, twelve, twenty seconds of pure awareness. Seb was just sitting. Afterwards, when he tried to recapture what had made this the single most authentic moment of his life, all he could manage was the fact that this was the only time he could remember simply being - not doing, not thinking, not planning, not judging. Just being. And it was perfect. He looked forward to many more such moments. If he had known they would only occur once or twice a year if he was really lucky, and never with the intensity of this first time, maybe he would have given up. Maybe. But probably not. Because, while it didn’t help him forgive himself for what he’d done, it seemed to open out his perspective to a point where he knew that he was ready to carry on living, accepting his actions, accepting the guilt, just not obsessively judging himself or trying to rewrite history. He would take on the probably impossible challenge of accepting each moment as it came and dealing with it. Not in some New Age bullshit way, but in a grounded, pragmatic, real way.
Father O sighed, crossed himself and stood up, using the corner of the desk to help lever him into an upright position. He crossed to the corner of the room and flicked the switch on the kettle, fumbling in the jar for teabags. He had developed a slightly pretentious liking for Earl Grey tea at Seminary in Wisconsin and, when he left, discovered to his surprise that his palate craved the delicately floral taste. He poured two cups, knowing Seb would only drink his through politeness. He watched Seb open his eyes, noted the stillness. He waited a few minutes in silence as the tea brewed.
“Don’t talk about it,” he said, handing Seb his cup.
“About what?” said Seb.
“About what just happened. Words can often cheapen the experience.”
“But how did you-?”
“Brother Lawrence would have called it the presence of God. Buddhists would say you had an enlightenment experience. Whatever you call it, it’s as if you’re wearing a badge announcing it. Just drink your tea and I’ll see you in class later.”
Seb drank his tea.
34
Las Vegas
Present day
When Seb woke up the next morning, everything had changed. He felt it as soon as he opened his eyes. Even as he emerged from the last, confused dream of the night, he knew something was different. Since adulthood he had always needed ten to fifteen minutes to transition from sleep to wakefulness. Coffee was usually necessary. He had always assumed he was exceptionally slow at waking until he met Mee, who seemed to pride herself on the forty-five minutes it took her to manage any communication more coherent than a grunt.
But 6:30am rolled around and Seb opened his eyes, sat up, swung his legs off the bed and stood up. Wide awake, despite interrupting his sleep with a visit from a Manna-created ex-girlfriend. After padding to the bathroom, he sat upright on the end of the bed and closed his eyes, sounding his word. Silence.
“No real need to do this any more,” said Seb2.
“I know,” said Seb. “I feel that. But I want to do it. Some habits are worth keeping.”
“Fair enough,” said Seb2.
“It feels different. Having you here to talk to whenever I like.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“True. You can’t judge it good or bad, it just is. Now, can you stop telli
ng me I already know the answer to everything you’re thinking? I may be you, but it doesn’t make it any less irritating.”
“Ok, ok,” said Seb. “But it’s not just having you here that’s different. I feel like I’ve made a decision. It’s time to go. I need to be on my own. Well, we do.”
“Agreed,” said Seb2. “Something I want to show you.”
“What is it?”
“Open your eyes.”
Seb did as he was told and found himself back in London’s Richmond Park, where Mee had taken him all those years ago. Again, the sun was low in the sky and icicles hung precariously from the branches of ancient oaks.
“This really will take some getting used to,” he said.
The huge park was deserted as before, the silence unnatural and unnerving. Seb suddenly had a thought. If this place existed only in his imagination, then…
A herd of red deer burst through from a copse to the west, led by about a dozen big stags, their antlers silhouetted against the swollen sun as they ran within a few feet of where Seb stood, the thunder of their hooves and the mist from their breath in the cold air bringing the whole scene to life. Seb smiled. Seeing a slight movement to his left, he turned. Seb2 was smiling as well, nodding his approval as the animals headed into the trees. He started walking toward Pen Ponds and Seb walked alongside him. As they got to the edge of the water, Seb2 ignored the bench where they’d sat on their previous meeting. Instead, he carried on walking straight onto the surface of the water and—this time—Seb accompanied him without breaking stride.
“Almost a shame no one’s here to see it,” said Seb as they made their way across the pond. The water felt exactly as he thought it would. It was like walking across a trampoline, each step sinking slightly before the elasticity pushed back against his weight.
“Of course it’s like you imagined it,” said Seb2. “You’re making it happen. We just need to get you to the stage where you can reproduce this in reality. It’s no different, it’s just your perception that holds you back. You still think much of this is impossible. And while you think that, it will be.”
The World Walker Series Box Set Page 26
