Nirvana Effect

by Craig Gehring

Seconds before that, he was thinking about some other scientific possibility. In a few minutes he would think of another.

  For now he was thinking about proteins. There was a pattern with them. He’d glimpsed them in trance while his life’s knowledge had flashed before his eyes. It had come to him when he’d thought of Gadolinium. There was something to a pattern with the proteins, some sort of periodic table of proteins. He’d never seen a pattern before; he didn’t think anyone had seen it before.

  For the first time in six years, one month, and seven days, he did not regret becoming a Jesuit missionary.

  Then again, he wasn’t really a Jesuit missionary anymore. He felt new and whole.

  He’d just faked renouncing his God and declaring a boy his soul’s ruler, and yet he’d never felt more free. He felt he was finally doing what God had meant him for.

  He hoped Mahanta would trust him with the substance again. He felt certain he would. He needs me for something.

  And I need him.

  He closed his eyes and did not sleep. Protein molecules danced on his eyelids. He almost had it, and yet it eluded him.

  9

  It was a date, thought Callista as she got into her car behind the clinic. It was around 10:00 p.m.

  After three years in Lisbaad, she thought she would have gotten used to the nights. It was no London. Since her first day here, darkness had taken on new meanings and new depths. She recalled the chilling night her headlights had both burned out, and she had to struggle home along the pockmarked road with only the diffused light of the cloud covered moon to guide her. She’d eventually driven back to the clinic and slept the night there.

  She saw James’s hand wave out of the Corvette’s window as he pulled onto the road. She started her car.

  A dark body flickered past her headlights. Dark skin and a loincloth. A woman with something in her arms.

  The woman was gibbering loudly. She pounded on Callista’s window. The doctor didn’t understand a word the woman was saying.

  Callista looked for Seacrest, but he’d already left. She screamed for him on reflex. She realized with a touch of panic that the woman had probably waited for the Corvette to leave.

  She checked the door’s lock. Fortunately it was secure.

  The woman kept pounding the windshield and shouting. She was frantic.

  Callista shouted to her, “Get away!” through the window. The woman did not stop. Callista tried the five dialects she knew besides Tamil. She got no response.

  Callista put the car in drive. She decided to try to make a break for it.

  The woman screamed even more loudly. She ran in front of the car’s headlights. Callista finally saw her clearly. She had a limp body in her arms. She looked no older than 25, her long black hair framing her face. She looked half Indian, half Chinese, with dark skin, nearly black. Now wonder Callista hadn’t seen her.

  Callista had her hand over the horn, planning to force her way past this native, but stopped when she saw the body.

  The woman was crying hysterically. She gripped the hood of Callista’s car to steady herself.

  She was holding a little boy, younger than the native who she’d treated earlier. Must be her son, thought Callista. He had the same complexion as his mother.

  For Callista, there was little choice at this point. The woman had stopped shouting. She was leaning against the car hood with one arm around her son as she took gulping, arrhythmic breaths. He tears sparkled down her dark face.

  Oh, God. Callista wrestled with the door lock and stepped out of the car. She approached the woman carefully. The woman looked at Dr. Knowles, but did not show any signs of relief. She showed the doctor the boy.

  He was limp, and some saliva had foamed out of his mouth. He was dead or close to it.

  Callista moved with all the efficiency of an ER doctor, grabbing the woman’s arm and escorting her through the back door of the clinic. “Come this way,” she said in Tamil. She knew the woman probably didn’t understand her, but the voice tone was important. Callista left the car running; there wasn’t time.

  Once in the exam room, Knowles touched the woman’s shoulder and made eye contact. She breathed deeply, in and out. She got the native to do the same. Callista needed her to calm down.

  “Do you understand me?” asked Callista in Tamil. “What language do you speak?” The woman looked at her blankly, moving her lips as though trying to work out the words. No comprehension.

  Callista gently took the child’s limp form into her arms and laid him on the exam table. He was dressed in a loincloth and wrapped in an off-white homespun. Callista watched the slight rise and fall of his chest. She checked his pulse. It was far too low.

  All the while Callista made her exam, the boy’s mother hovered. The mother could not look at him for more than a second; she could not look away from him for more than a second. She was perpetually touching him and releasing him, gulping back her tears only to let them loose again.

  Callista opened the boy’s eyelids and flashed a light in his pupils. He was out cold.

  On a hunch, Callista pulled out a needle from the cabinet in the room. The woman reacted violently to the glint of steel, throwing her body between her and the child.

  Callista held out her hand, refusing to react. She demonstrated breathing deeply again. The mother calmed herself, and Callista edged past her to the boy. She pricked his finger and tested the blood. The results were conclusive almost instantly.

  He’s in a diabetic coma.

  Callista pointed at the child, then made a sleeping motion, then pointed at her wristwatch with an upturned eyebrow and a shrug. The woman didn’t understand. Callista needed to know how long he’d been out. She sighed. It was irrelevant, anyway. The treatment would be the same.

  Callista made a “stay here” motion. The mother nodded. Callista sprinted down the hall to the medicine closet. She pulled out the IV equipment and hauled everything back to the room.

  The woman was stroking her son’s hair. Her tears splashed his face. She was still trying to choke back her sobs.

  Callista hooked up the IV. The woman restrained herself from another reaction to protect her son. She was terrified, though, whimpering and moaning.

  Knowles checked the boy’s vitals every half hour.

  It was an exhausting night. The three never left the room. Knowles sat in her swivel stool, watching the boy breathe and the mother hover. At any moment, with his blood sugar that low, he could go into cardiac arrest. She had to be ready to resuscitate him the instant she didn’t see those little lungs rise and fall.

  The woman caressed his face and brushed his hair. She kept muttering to herself in a foreign dialect.

  Callista felt an empty edge as the adrenaline drained from her body. It would be easy to fall asleep now, were there not a little native boy half-dead on her exam table. Tonight would not be a question of what would be nice or comfortable, but rather a question of what is necessary.

  The doctor had no one to relieve her. She would stay with the boy until he was no longer critical. Time was not a factor. In the little exam room, with the door closed and the mother pacing, the world seemed timeless.

  Callista kept counting breaths. She forced herself to stop looking at her watch.

  At six in the morning, the boy’s chest stopped.

  Callista was shocked. She launched out of her swivel chair to the boy. His blood sugar had bounced to a livable range. As the night gave way to morning, Callista had been sure of recovery.

  The mother panicked at Callista’s sudden motion. She gasped and rushed to her son’s side.

  Before Callista could reach him, The boy took a deep, grasping breath. His eyes popped open. He tried to roll to his side.

  The woman grabbed her son and hugged him fiercely. She kept squeezing him, crying and yelling aloud. The boy didn’t say anything, but tried to squeeze her back.

  He looked around the room. He saw Callista and pulled back. The woman glanced from her son to see
what he was reacting to, then muttered to him soothingly.

  He looked at her dazedly, then back up to Callista. He smiled a weak, toothy grin. He hugged his mother again.

  Callista couldn’t help but smile. She was so tired her bones ached, but she still felt the rush. That boy is alive. The little family was smiling now. The mother still hadn’t stopped crying. She held her forehead to her son’s forehead. This is why I do medicine.

  After a while, the native woman nodded at Callista. They did not share a language, but no words were necessary. Callista got a pillow and propped it under the boy’s head, motioning that he should go back to sleep.

  The little boy started snoring quietly. The woman hugged Callista. Callista hugged her back. The woman started crying once more. She cried hysterically. Callista didn’t let her go from their embrace until she had cried it all out.

  Though Callista had never had a child, she knew exactly how the mother felt.

  10

  Once Edward finally slept, it was difficult for him to pull out of it. He would return to consciousness for only moments at a time. Tomy putting a cup to his mouth. A woman feeding him stew.

  The Onge “god” was waiting at his side when Edward finally came to.

  Edward tried to pull himself up. Mahanta held a steady hand to his chest and didn’t let him. “Relax,” said Mahanta. “There’s no need to rush.”

  Edward took the advice. He felt like he had a bad hangover. “I feel a lot better,” he said.

  “That’s good,” said Mahanta.

  “We need to talk,” said Edward.

  Mahanta smiled. “You’ve been out cold for three days, and you want to talk.”

  Edward looked startled. “Your English…”

  Mahanta smiled more widely. “I’ve been practicing.”

  The drug…of course…

  Mahanta explained unnecessarily, “I’ve read your books a few times and practiced while you were out. I thought I’d learn something from your medical texts that I could use to help you recover.”

  “Yeah? Did it help?”

  Mahanta shrugged. “It helped my English, at least…” Now it was Edward’s turn to smile. “Is the pain gone?” asked Mahanta.

  “Pretty much. I’ve got a headache, but I’ve had worse hangovers.” Mahanta cocked an eyebrow. “I wasn’t always a priest, you know.”

  Mahanta nodded. “And I wasn’t always a god…” The humor was lost on Edward - the incident a few days ago was too fresh and too abhorrent.

  “Am I safe now?” asked Edward.

  “As safe as I am,” answered Mahanta. “Our ruse worked wonders on the attitude of the tribe towards the white man.”

  “So what is this substance that you gave me?” asked Edward.

  “Well, in terms like your medical books, it tears down some sort of subconscious barrier. It lets you use your entire mind, your brain, your nervous system, all of it.”

  “And in your terms?” asked Edward.

  “In my terms, it allows for the attainment of infinite mind, oneness of mind, body, and soul.”

  “What does it come from? How did you find it?”

  “My tribe has been using a particular hallucinogenic plant sap for centuries. I learned a bit of chemistry from your white predecessor here. I distilled the sap. Blind luck.”

  “It’s the discovery of the millenium,” said Edward. Mahanta was silent. “What? What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing. You have many questions and I don’t wish to over-excite you. But yes, it could change our world. That’s why I need your help.”

  That’s why you let me live, thought Edward. But why?

  Edward sat up. He was surprised how relatively easy it was to do so. “My help? Why my help?” he asked.

  “You are a Jesuit, aren’t you?” asked Mahanta.

  “Yes. Why, do you think the Catholic Church can help you?”

  “No, but you can. You are a Jesuit, so you are well-educated. And you are well-read besides. I need a fellow scientist. I cannot research alone.”

  Edward could not help but laugh in disbelief. “Alone? We need a team of scientists. We need to bring this discovery to the scientific community. This needs to get researched…it will change the face of science…”

  “No, Edward,” said Mahanta.

  “What do you mean, ‘no’?” Edward asked, looking up at Mahanta’s stern face.

  Mahanta shouted an order to man near the entrance of the temple. He left. Edward and Mahanta were alone in the hut.

  “Edward Styles, I did not want to discuss this with you yet until you were fully awake with a meal in your stomach, but I guess now is as good a time as any.”

  Edward just watched him. He didn’t know what was going to happen. He glanced at the doorway. It was a long way off to make a dash for it.

  “I am sure you have mulled over the scientific ramifications of this drug. Probably you realize them far more than I do, since you’ve been in a university and I only have books. But have you given any attention to the social and political effects this will have on society?”

  “Sure,” said Edward. “It will revolutionize everything.”

  “Edward, think.” Mahanta started at him intently, as though he were again fighting a panther.

  “I thought. What do you mean?”

  Mahanta sighed. “Perhaps you might have a better mind for science, but I apparently have a better knack for survival patterns. All we do here, every day, is survive. Survival of the fittest.”

  That got Edward thinking. “You think…” he started.

  “Once someone knows about this drug, that knowledge will get to someone else. That will leak to someone else. Eventually someone who recognizes its value will expend the necessary effort to obtain it. And that will mean everybody who knew about it is dead. It’s a simple equation, Edward, one that I’m surprised you haven’t already arrived at.”

  Edward was tongue-tied. He wanted to deny the truth of what Mahanta said. Deep down, however, he knew. This discovery was like a billion dollars in a suitcase. Who could you trust with it?

  Only this is worth trillions.

  “Well, what do you propose, then?” asked Edward.

  “It is not a matter of my proposal, right now. I wish to have you on my team, to help me research this drug. I will trust you with it, within reason. And you must trust me, within reason. But first, before all of this, you must come to decide that this is what you want. You have some hard decisions to make, Edward. You must make them tonight.”

  “Like what?”

  “You’ve sworn an oath of allegiance to your Jesuit General. Not even your pope can supersede that. But this project must. You’ve sworn yourself to a regimen of prayer and meditation. For that we have no time. You’ve sworn to abide by a Bible and commandments that may have no place in my jungle world and in our scientific method. If you agree to start this project with me, not even God himself will be able to get you out of it until it’s done.”

  “Until what is done?” asked Edward.

  “That’s the question you should ask yourself. You must sort out what you want done, and whether it’s worth it. It’s your choice. Good night, Edward.” Mahanta walked out of the hut.

  Edward lay back down on his pallet to think.

  11

  Where is that idiot going? thought Dook as he watched Tien creep from hut to hut.

  No moon lit the village that night. Were Dook not a hunter, he wouldn’t have been able to spot Tien at all.

  Dook didn’t trust him. He spied on Tien from the outlying brush. Surely Tien was up to no good. Dook hadn’t directed him to do anything since the last debacle.

  Idiots are not to be trusted.

  Tien approached the chief’s hut. Its larger size and little flag demarked it from the rest.

  Dook debated with himself. Either Tien is ambitious and wants to assassinate Nockwe as amends for his errors, or else he has turned and wishes to join my enemy. I’ll break his neck either way. Maybe t
onight. Let’s see what he does.

  Tien slumped to the bamboo door of the hut, and knocked gently. Only the chieftain had a door.

  If it’s a murder he’s after, Tien makes the worst and most polite murderer I’ve ever seen, thought Dook.

  Tien glanced furtively behind him. Dook resisted the urge to duck. There was no way he could be seen in the brush, but the movement might have given him away.

  Getting no answer, Tien knocked again, fidgeted more. Dook could tell he was getting spooked.

  Tien knocked one more time. He started to lurk away. The door opened slowly, and Tien jumped up nearly a foot as he turned back in surprise.

  “Tien?” It was the voice of Nockwe.

  Maybe I should kill them both now and frame Tien…But Nockwe is awake, and in his own home…I only have my dagger tonight. Who knows what traps Nockwe has in wait…

  There was the matter of Nockwe’s wife, too, nearly as fearsome an adversary as Nockwe, himself.

  Tien nodded in answer to Nockwe.

  “Come in, Tien,” beckoned the chieftain. Tien entered the hut.

  Dook was shocked. Tien was low class. Dook would have never let Tien into his own hut.

  The door closed behind Tien. The long lance of light from the hut’s candles folded back into the dwelling. Dook ran to a perch beneath the window opening of the hut where he could hear their conversation. Tien spoke in hushed tones, but Nockwe answered him loudly.

  “Nockwe, I am here to warn you. Dook…”

  “You put your life in danger by your presence here, Tien,” said Nockwe. He coughed. Though obviously sick, he still sounded commanding.

  Maybe I was right to wait.

  “Still, I am loyal,” insisted Tien. “Dook wishes to kill you. You and the white man. By challenge if you grow sicker. By other means if he must. But he wants your flag.”

  Nockwe wheezed and coughed louder. He said nothing.

  “I will challenge him to protect you,” said Tien.

  “He will kill you,” replied Nockwe without hesitation. “Thank you for your loyalty, but do not waste your life.”