Nirvana Effect

by Craig Gehring

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  Edward scoffed. He was practically dead. Yet what was another half hour at this point?

  “What is it about this inn?” asked Seacrest.

  “They know I went there my first night in town.”

  “When was your first night in town?”

  “Two nights ago.”

  “Why do they know? I thought they spotted you later.”

  “It’s complicated. Do you see them?” asked Edward.

  “What do they look like?” asked Seacrest.

  Obviously, he hasn’t seen them. I’ve got to sleep. “Two are in suits, two in casual wear. All four dark, Onge. Short. The two in suits had briefcases.”

  “Perhaps with photographs.”

  “Perhaps. I doubt it, but perhaps,” said Edward.

  “I don’t see anyone, period,” said Seacrest. He was right. The streets were pretty dead. There was no activity at the inn.

  “Let’s wait ‘til they come out. They have no reason to sleep there. They’ve got your place and probably a few other bases around the city,” said Edward.

  Seacrest looked the street up and down. “We’re pretty much in the open right here in broad daylight. If they saw you, they’d recognize you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why don’t I keep scouting it out and you go back to the car? You can catch a nap in the event it takes more than a few minutes, and I can wake you up as soon as I see any activity here. That way they won’t know we saw them.”

  “I want to tail them,” said Edward

  “I know. So do I. I want those photographs. I’d much rather the photographs than having to hide in your luggage. I could go back to plan A,” said Seacrest, his eyes occasionally darting to the inn’s door far on the other side of the street.

  I want you to have those photographs, too. Edward weighed the factors involved. He did not trust Seacrest, but he was increasingly unable to trust himself, either. He had to rest, even if for fifteen minutes. Moreover, the doctor was right. If the Onge came out, they had a better chance of recognizing him than the doctor.

  He trusted Seacrest to serve his own ends and protect what was left of his car. For these two reasons, Edward felt safe leaving the watch to him.

  He dragged himself to the passenger seat of the car, leaned back, and closed his eyes. The sun was hanging overhead, but it felt like glorious night.

  59

  Callista had little difficulty pretending she didn’t know Tamil. Their pronunciation was so bad, it was difficult to understand their questions anyway:

  “Why did white man meet with you?”

  “Who Edward Styles to you?”

  “What know about nectar?” Maybe she didn’t hear that last word correctly.

  They were Onge, she presumed. Dark faces, an apparent mix of Indian and Chinese. She was bound in a rough-hewn wooden chair. She just kept squinting at them, at whoever was speaking loudest, occasionally saying, “I only speak English. Does anyone speak English?” No one had hurt her. She hoped Edward was coming. She hoped he wasn’t dead. She felt he wasn’t. Maybe that was just hope.

  She didn’t know where she was - some sort of warehouse. They’d blindfolded her when they’d brought her in. They’d carried her up two flights of stairs to get her to this room. She knew because she counted.

  There was a single window that faced toward the city. The way the sun was seeping into the room, she figured that she was on the east side of Lisbaad. Her mind was making needless calculations. There were only a few that were really relevant.

  First of all was that she sat bound in a barren room with a concrete floor, a torn out ceiling, and at least twenty different Onge in and out all day.

  Second, they were all armed and alert. She had no hope of escape. There was only one door in the room. Who knew where that might lead. Probably past more Onge.

  Third, the Onge were buying her not understanding their language.

  Fourth, they hadn’t hurt her yet.

  Still, she felt sick. She wanted to crawl out of her skin. She didn’t let on. But at any moment one of those natives could get a funny idea in his head and shoot her with his rifle. It would be all too easy. She controlled her breathing. At least she could control that. Hysteria was not an option. At least, not yet…

  One Onge seemed to be the leader. He had a khaki hat on which made him look like a safari guide. He wore clothes as one might wear a costume; he definitely didn’t seem used to them.

  The native walked back into the room. He had a book in his hand, and he was quite intent on it. His gaze perturbed her. It looked as though his eyes were devouring his book, one page at a time.

  Finally he dropped the book on the floor and bent down to eye level with her.

  His speech was broken, pronounced horribly, but understandable. It shocked Callista. Only an hour ago, he was only able to yell at her in Tamil and five other dialects she didn’t recognize. This time he spoke English, biting out each word. “I…speak…English. You… answer…my questions. I… beat you…until…you answer.”

  She screamed. He slapped her, then put his face just inches from hers, holding her by the collar of her shirt.

  “Why…did…Edward Styles…the…white man…why he…meet you?”

  60

  For the last time, the tribe assembled on the holy grounds. The priests had been playing their instruments for a while, long enough to have to light the torches to fight off the dusk. Manassa ran into the clearing through the more obvious entrance, this time, giving an opportunity for his followers to scream and bow and wave as he walked up to his tree.

  Manassa had hung a small rope from the lower branches of the tree. It was dyed the exact color of the bark so no one could see it. Manassa used it to run up the side of the trunk before leaping up to the branch and walking out to be seen. It looked as though he’d defied gravity. The crowd went into uproar. Manassa acknowledged them with a wave. Finally, the gongs of his priests demanded silence.

  “MY PEOPLE!” shouted Manassa.

  “MANASSA!” shouted the crowd. They resounded more deafeningly than ever before. He was the savior of his people. He exalted in the electricity of their fervor. And I had been worried they wouldn’t want to move. He had elevated himself above tradition.

  “YOU ARE THE CHOSEN!” he screamed, filling up the heavens with his words

  “As are you, our god!” Manassa had to wait a long time before the crowd was quiet enough for him to continue.

  “Hear my words, my people! Today we end a chapter in our history books, and begin anew! We are the tribe over all tribes, the greatest of nations, and we begin today a challenge that will end with our taking our seats at the right hand of the unseen god as rulers over his earth! Today, we begin our march towards our eternity - immortality, prosperity, and peace! In years to come, you will look back at this day as the day we staked our claim to inherit the Earth! Follow me, my people, to the sea!”

  61

  Callista gets an Onge funeral. They burn her to ashes. Her messenger walks into the jungle with her ashes in a sieve and doesn’t come back until the ashes have all fallen to the earth. An hour later the messenger comes back with her head in the sieve.

  Her head says, “I love you.”

  Edward lurched awake drenched in sweat. “Oh, God,” he said. His head was wrapped under something. He was having a hard time breathing. He struggled up for air. He realized it was just a blanket over his head. He calmed down and slowly pulled it off.

  He was surprised to see that it was dark outside. It wasn’t just the blanket. He must have been out for hours. His body had needed the rest.

  Edward noticed that the after-pain had strengthened further. It was still nowhere near when he’d been forced to stand before the tribe and proclaim himself healed, but it was far worse than any hangover he’d ever experienced.

  It’ll be gone once I trance again. It was a weak thought, but it was true. He would be trancing until he found Callista. H
e was certain of that. Even if he dropped dead from the after-pain, he did not care. He would do everything within his power to find her.

  Consider it an experiment, he told himself.

  Where the hell is Seacrest? Edward’s faculties returned to him fully. Yes, he had needed to rest, but he had needed every moment to find her.

  The dark sky sent him into a panic. Callista might be on a boat by now.

  Manassa will learn who she is once he sees her. He’ll use her to get to me.

  I should have told her no. I should have left her out of this.

  Edward clambered out of the car after Seacrest. He almost collided into the doctor.

  “Boy, were you out,” said Seacrest.

  “Are they still in the inn?” asked Edward.

  “Yeah, been in there since noon. It’s eight, now. Figured they’re staking you out, hoping you go there. We need them to lead us to their little hideaway, so I just took care of some business.”

  “What did you do?” Edward rubbed his head.

  “I went in there and paid the little Chinese man a hundred bucks to go upstairs and tell those guys he saw the white man they were looking for. The white man poked his head in, I told him to say, then spooked and left in a hurry before China boy could go tell them. I think he’ll do it.”

  “He already took the money?” asked Edward.

  “Yeah, but I think he’ll do it.”

  “Why?”

  Seacrest kept his eyes on the inn. “He asked me if you were feeling better and wished you good health.” Edward smiled. “There they are!” shouted Seacrest. “They’re running! Hurry!” Seacrest ran to the driver’s seat. He glanced at Edward before taking his seat.

  The Edward waved his hand and hopped into the passenger seat. By all means, take the wheel. Seacrest marked time, waiting for the black sedan to drive past the alley. “Oh, God,” he said after a good minute.

  “What?”

  “They must be heading south…” said Seacrest. Edward’s head slammed back into the headrest as Seacrest floored the accelerator. The car whipped around the corner. Edward almost collided with the doctor. He had to brace himself with the dash and the seat. A horn sounded. A car swerved passed them as they picked up speed. Seacrest used the handbrake to power slide around the corner across from the inn. Far down the road, Edward saw the sedan turning right.

  “There!” he shouted, pointing.

  Seacrest flew his Corvette. Edward wished he’d had Seacrest driving the whole time. The doctor wove the car full speed through traffic and the fickle curves of the narrow road that was designed for speeds six times less than what he was pushing.

  Seacrest yanked the handbrake again to whip around the next bend. Closer, now, they saw the Onge’s vehicle turn left. Seacrest reduced his speed as he neared them. The Onge were driving pretty slowly. If he’d ripped around the corner he would have surely been spotted.

  The doctor found a slow moving truck to lurk behind. Edward kept his eyes on the red tail lights of the sedan.

  They followed for fifteen minutes to the eastern edge of town. Finally the sedan pulled up next to an empty warehouse. It seemed to have been some sort of industrial facility at one time. The Onge got out and ran under a gate that had opened for them. The gate closed. They have radio communication, now. Moving up in the world.

  Seacrest slowly pulled his vehicle up to the hideaway. They both scanned their eyes over the building. Windows stretched across the top of the third story. A couple lights were on. Edward thought he saw movement.

  “Do you see anybody? Anything?” asked Seacrest.

  While the doctor was looking away at the building, Edward popped a t-pill. The trance came almost instantly. “Callista,” he said, his eyes closed.

  He saw her not in the present, but in memory. He broke down that flash of motion he’d seen as they pulled up, frame by frame for inspection. It was her dark brown hair, and the tip of her forehead, almost in silhouette. The features, to him, however dark, were unmistakable. They’re moving her. There was something dark on her forehead. Maybe blood.

  A moment ago, his mind had been a maelstrom of speculation and emotion.

  Now, there was no thought at all.

  “Stay in the car,” said Edward. It was not a request.

  62

  The tribe had never moved like this. A pack of twenty might go out for the first hunt in the spring, as ritual, but nothing like this. Not in living history. The ground reverberated with their footsteps. They had heard of the militaries of old in their oral histories. This, Tinti supposed, was what this was like.

  Tinti held his mother’s hand as they walked. They were moving faster than he could comfortably pace. His mother kept pulling him along.

  “Will we see Sala?” asked the boy. He hadn’t seen his friend in several weeks.

  “We will see everyone that we’re supposed to see,” said his mother. “It is all in Manassa’s vision. We are destined for greatness.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “To our new home.” She tugged him again. “Across the sea.”

  “We have a home, there?”

  “Our god has made everything ready for us.”

  “Sala!” the boy cried. He saw her at the other end of the clearing. There were a couple priests ordering men to pick up potted plants by harnesses. There were other men grabbing carts full of the plants. He’d never seen anything like them before. A couple hundred plants were lined up to be moved, much more than he could count. The priests were organizing getting them carried. The majority of the tribe just continued marching forward.

  Sala was watching her mother load a cart. She ran toward Tinti. He wrenched his hand from his mother’s and ran to her. “Tinti!” she shrieked, overjoyed. She was laughing and jumping up and down. “That was forever!”

  “Yes, it was!” he said back. He hugged her. “You’re okay?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, running her hand through her hair. He saw her hands were roughened. Her clothes were covered with dirt and mud. She looked worn out.

  “Do you want to walk with us?” asked Tinti.

  Sala looked over at her mother. “I need to stay with my mother,” she said. She looked disappointed.

  “It’s okay. I’ll see you at the water. There is a big thing we’re supposed to get on…a boat?”

  “What’s that?” asked Tinti.

  “I don’t know,” said Sala. “But it has benches. It is a cart on the ocean. Maybe you’ll sit near me?” he asked.

  “Yes, if my mother approves.” She smiled at him. He smiled back at her.

  “Okay,” he said. He ran back to his mother, who hadn’t stopped her walking but kept her eyes on the ten-year-olds.

  As Tinti ran he looked at the tribe. He’d never seen such strange looks on their faces. His mother had called it “hope” and “determination.”

  Some people looked downright scared.

  The old looked very tired.

  But the young did seem hopeful. All of the priests were young. Perhaps he would be a priest someday. He was young. He’d ask his mother about it.

  63

  Nockwe had his men begin torching the place. The village had been home for his entire living memory. The tribe never moved. An Onge never settled other lands. Home was always a thousand paces in any direction from the village center, marked by an ancient rock. The food moved, but that was why they had hunting parties. The tribe never moved.

  Change. Change. Change. His mind chanted in time with his steps. He toured his village. He would have others burn it. He would not light a single straw himself. He could not bring himself to do so. And he could not get Glis’s face out of his mind.

  He walked to where the white man had been staying so many moons ago. Nockwe remembered his threats to the missionary, to try to keep him from witnessing Mahanta’s coming of age. He wondered if things would have been different if Edward had never left that tent.

  He walked to the open area of the village
, where Dook had almost slain him. He remembered the white man’s courage. The duel would have been the end of Nockwe’s life. Nockwe knew now the white man had fought with the lightness, but he had risked his life for Nockwe still the same. The magic didn’t diminish what he did.

  Or perhaps he’d fought with more than the lightness…there are whispers that he moves and fights as our god. Maybe it’s the same for him as it is for Mahant--. He corrected himself mentally. Manassa. Maybe the lightness does something different to him.

  There were fires starting at the northern edge. It would only take his boys half an hour before the whole village was up in flames. They were quite efficient. They had been trained in efficiency.

  Nockwe found himself at the temple. He walked inside. The throne was bare, its ornaments stripped for the erection of the secret temple on the mainland. He reflected on all his meetings with Tomy, now just Tome, and Manassa.

  He walked behind the raised area with the throne. He’d only seen Manassa’s quarters a few times. He wondered what the Onge god had left to burn.

  His priests had taken his mattress. They’d taken his books. The furniture, Manassa’s servants had left. Footprints were everywhere - there had been quite a few people in here emptying the room to prepare for the move.

  A glint of metal caught Nockwe’s eye. It was situated in the dirt under where the mattress had been, near the wall. Curious, he picked it up. He had nothing to do until the village became ashes.

  Then there will be a lot to do.

  Nockwe dusted off the metal. It was a ring of sorts. It was octagonal, fashioned of polished brass. A memory flashed to his mind. It came easily; everything about Glis was too easily remembered.

  Glis stands at the front of the tribe. Nockwe and the medicine man bless his marriage with whomever he so chooses, so long as she be willing. He chooses Lila. She walks to the front of the tribe. She says she is willing. The medicine man says other words. She walks away with him.