Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  No, Cole agreed, we do not get to choose our circumstances at all, do we? We live in a world where other people think they can choose for us.

  “Have courage,” Linda said softly, as if just to him. Cole’s eyes misted over. The screen cut to black, and then to a newsroom. Cole hit the mute button, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

  “Her hair is shorter,” said Grace.

  "Is it?" said Cole.

  From down the hall came the muffled thunder of someone running and soon Emily and Iain burst into the family room. “Did you see?” asked Emily, coming to a stop at the foot of the recliner. Iain came up behind her, a shock of long, stringy hair falling into his face. He grabbed a chip from Grace’s bowl.

  “See what?” Cole raised an eyebrow.

  “Her mole,” said Iain.

  Emily turned and punched her brother on the shoulder. “I’m telling it,” she said firmly. Iain smirked but said no more. She turned back to her father. “Her mole,” she repeated.

  “What mole?” asked Cole.

  Emily rolled her eyes. “That little beauty spot over her upper lip, Dad,” she said. “Have you never noticed it?”

  Cole shook his head as if irritated by a fly. “What about it?” he asked.

  Emily’s eyes, dark and lively and highlighted by the short, straight brown hair that enclosed her face like parentheses, grew pointed and fierce, as they always did when she was onto something. Her head moved vaguely back and forth as she replied. “It was on her left side,” Emily explained. “Now it’s on the right.”

  “Was it just reverse image?” asked Cole, confused. “You know. Because of the TV camera?”

  Emily scoffed. “I’m not stupid, Dad,” she said. “It moved.”

  1.4

  Mary stopped outside Emily’s door and listened. All three kids were inside and Emily was speaking with hushed excitement. Something about “finding pictures.” Mary raised her hand to knock, then exhaled and turned away, forcing down the anxiety that threatened, every day, to engulf her. The kids were fine. She didn't need to worry. They were fine.

  She headed along the hall through the Family Suite, checked through security, and took the stairs step-by-step down to the second floor, her hand tight on the railing. It had been months since her last fall but she would take no chances, no matter how good she felt. The dizziness could return at any moment. And this sudden change in the weather, from wet, cold rain and mushy snow to humid heat, would not help. Her limp was noticeably worse today. Reaching the next level, Mary headed toward the private offices. The last door on the right was Keeley's and Mary walked in without knocking. Keeley looked up from her desk and grinned.

  "I really love you," said Mary, her heart swelling with sweet warmth for her partner. She smoothed her cotton blouse and khaki shorts and straightened her back. Being with Keeley made her want to look beautiful, and that meant overcoming her body’s tendency to fold in on itself as if to ward off a blow.

  "I know, sweetie," said Keeley with a grin. "You tell me all the time."

  Mary walked across the room and took one of the two leather wingback guest chairs in front of Keeley's desk. Her love had triggered a flood of taste into her mouth, that same strange mixture of copper and sweet apples that had been with her since the hospital. Mary swallowed it down, grateful for the reminder. Metal and sugar was an apt metaphor for her life these days. "Did you watch?" she asked.

  Keeley motioned toward her computer. "Yeah," she said, drawing in a deep breath. She reached down beside her chair to scratch the ears of her old border collie, Chapin. Mary could hear the thump of Chapin's tail against the hardwood floor. Keeley opened her mouth to speak again, but then stopped. She clasped her hands on the desk before her. "What did you think?" she asked at last.

  "She looks terrified," answered Mary. "Pale. Sick." Mary's eyes filled with tears. "I couldn't see her... her field. You know? Through the TV." She scrunched her nose in disgust. "But I don't think she's in a good place."

  "Ya got that right, sweetie," said Keeley. "Those bastards have her locked up tight. Not even Stan can get to her."

  Mary wiped away the tears and swallowed again. "I hate whoever did this," she said. "I want to..." She motioned with her hands, making a circle with her thumbs and forefingers and shaking them sternly. At last the word came: "... strangle them."

  Keeley rose and pulled over the other guest chair, then sat to meet Mary knee to knee. She took Mary's hands in her own and regarded her partner with steady eyes. "You know how strong our Linda is," she said. "And you know that what she's up to is bigger than any of those bastards who try to get in her way."

  Mary answered with a single, slow nod, as if ashamed that she’d forgotten.

  "So you just keep loving her, sweetie. And Cole. And the kids. Keep loving us all. And I'll keep doing everything I can to find out what's going on." Keeley reached out and caressed Mary's face with her fingers. "Okay? I'm on this. And Stan is. And we're not alone. She’s the President, remember? She’s got a great many friends. We'll figure this out."

  Mary smiled weakly at Keeley's courage and power. Gone was her partner's plump figure and frilly hippie vibe. With her well-toned body, tanned face, ponytail, and dark jeans and t-shirt, Keeley resembled more a commando than an Earth goddess. Keeley helped Mary feel safe.

  "The announcement tells us that's she's still in charge," said Keeley.

  Mary squeezed Keeley's hand. "I love you," she said again. Her anger had eased, leaving her face more open and relaxed.

  Keeley rose, pulled Mary to her feet, and kissed her. After a minute, Mary buried her face in Keeley's neck and inhaled deeply. Her whole body was shaking, as it often did in the aftermath of stress. "Will you meet me for lunch?" she asked at last.

  Keeley pulled back. "You trying to mess up my work day?" she asked. She reached out and ran a finger along the long, faint scar on Mary’s forehead.

  Mary beamed shyly. "Isn’t that my job?"

  1.5

  "Look. There’s pictures of her all over the place. It only takes one page of Google Images to prove it. Her mole is on the left side." Emily tossed her tablet to the foot of her bed and leaned back on her pillows. She pulled down her t-shirt to cover her stomach. The smile on her face was one of victory.

  Grace stood near the air conditioning vent in the floor, enjoying how the cool air seemed to crawl up her bare legs. "So, what-" she began.

  "It can't be they just reversed the image," cut in Iain, "because then the Presidential Seal would have been reversed as well." He pushed the hair out of his face, revealing the large, thin nose and prominent Adam’s apple that had suddenly appeared when adolescence made claim to his body. The shock of hair fell right back into place.

  Grace shot her brother an irritated squint, then faced her sister. "So what does it mean?" she asked.

  Emily shrugged. "How should I know?" she said. "All I know is that it's wrong."

  Grace sat on her sister's bed and picked up the tablet. She touched a thumbnail to enlarge it. And another. And another. In each, Linda Travis's mole was on her left side. Grace put down the tablet and looked at Emily. "Maybe they did it with make-up," she offered.

  Iain snorted from his armchair by the window. "Oh, good one, Graceful." He stuck out his hands as if fluffing someone’s hair and spoke in a feminine voice. “You’re all ready for the camera Mrs. President, but that mole...“ He put a hand to his cheek in mock exasperation. “It’s just so, oh, I don’t know... left. Could we... do you think... move it to the other side?” Iain started to laugh.

  Grace closed her eyes and took a breath, then spoke again to her sister. “Or maybe it has something to do with her disease?” she asked.

  Emily nodded her encouragement, recognizing her little sister’s efforts to brainstorm. Grace was not one to just stop at “I don’t know.” In the almost three years since her “coma,” she’d shown an uncanny ability to see and understand what was going on around her. Things could be figured out. Trends
could be observed. Guesses could be made and evaluated. And Grace’s “guesses” proved to be correct much more often than not. “I’m not sure that makes sense,” answered Emily evenly. “I mean, whatever it is she’s sick with does seem to be showing up on her skin. She’s got that weird red blotch now. But to make a mole disappear on one side and reappear on the other? That doesn’t feel like something a flu bug could do.”

  “Assuming it’s really some alien virus or something,” said Iain from across the room. Emily noted how her brother’s hair glowed in the light coming in from behind him, how blonde it had become now that it was long. In the distance, through the third-story window, past the security fences and the silent streets, she could see the athletic fields, and further still, the airport, both now choked with tall grasses and weeds and a few small saplings. They hadn’t seen a plane land there in over a year. The military used the new strips they'd built outside the cordon.

  Grace turned and rewarded her brother with a raised eyebrow. “You don’t believe what they’re saying?” she asked.

  Iain scrunched his nose as if smelling something foul. “I don’t trust what anybody says these days, Sis,” he said. He gestured outside with a sideways tilt of his head.

  Emily nodded her agreement. The whole world had gone crazy in the past year and a half and nobody seemed to know what the heck to do about it. They lived in an oasis of normality compared to most people, here in the Presidential Home. There was food to eat and oil in the furnace and electricity most days. And there were soldiers all around them, keeping them safe. Out there? She shuddered to think about it. Especially now, with the early summer heat and people still shocked by Sebago Lake. It was a wonder huge crowds weren’t storming the place, demanding their stepmother’s head. Maybe that’s why they took her away? Emily glanced over at her sister. “Did they just make up that 'alien flu' thing so they could take Linda away and keep her safe?” she asked.

  Grace closed her eyes and inhaled. Emily watched closely. Sometimes, when asked a direct question, her sister could just pull the right answer out of thin air. When they first heard about the disaster in Zakryto in Siberia, Grace knew immediately that it was a sudden release of methane that had killed all ninety-seven of the village’s inhabitants, even though she didn’t really know what methane was. And she knew that it would happen again, which it had. Grace opened her eyes and shook her head. “They took her so they could control her,” she said, her voice soft and low.

  Emily took her sister’s hand. “And do you know who 'they' are?” she asked.

  Grace paused for a moment as if to check in with the cosmic search engine, then wrinkled her brow in frustration at the lack of hits she got. “No,” she said. She glanced at her brother, then spoke to Emily. “Sorry.” She reached out and grabbed the stainless steel bowl near Emily’s pillow. Ness’s tortilla chips were all gone. Grace ran her finger along the bottom and then stuck her greasy, salty fingertip into her mouth.

  Iain cleared his throat and both girls turned to face him. “So... that mole,” he said. “What does it mean?”

  “Let’s see if we can get her online," said Emily. She leaned over and picked up her tablet. "We’ll just ask her!”

  1.6

  “Hep!” called Keeley. Chapin pulled his nose from the tattered denim jacket he’d found lying on the sidewalk, looked around in bewilderment, lifted a leg, then ran back to his human. Keeley gave him the hand signal to heel and Chapin fell into place at her side. She turned and started across the parking lot, three Secret Service agents in tow, an equilateral triangle of dark suits, neat hair, sunglasses, flak jackets, wireless earbuds, throat mics, and assault rifles. The noontime sun beat mercilessly on the city center, baking the concrete and pavement underfoot. Keeley, glad she’d remembered her sun hat, quickly crossed to the shadow of the Burton Cross building. She did not want Chapin to burn his feet.

  An image of Mary popped into Keeley’s mind and she felt a stab of guilt. Mary would be in their private rooms now, waiting and wondering, lunch ordered and on the way. But that could not be helped. Keeley was too angry right now. Too jumbled. Too confused. And Mary was so fragile these days that Keeley was loath to burden her lover with her own troubles. And then there was Mary’s new “sight” that allowed her to see what she called people’s “fields.” Keeley was not sure she wanted to be seen that deeply. Not right now.

  The agents scanned the area as Keeley rounded the corner and peered up at the State House. The city inside the cordon was a protected space, a “green zone” in which the bare-bones government staff could live and work, with the full protection of the U.S. military. As such, the people living there enjoyed greater access to fuel, energy, and consumables than did most Americans elsewhere. It felt, at times, almost “normal.” And yet there were dangers, which necessitated Keeley’s protective detail. It was a more dangerous world than ever, as military leaders were fond of reminding them, filled with everything from hungry folks competing for supplies to crazed lunatics wanting to strike back against the government they blamed, from enraged citizens seeking redress for their losses to international operatives (or even extraterrestrial?) hoping to destroy or expose or blackmail the American President or her people. Keeley was grateful for her security people, and felt safer in their presence.

  The Maine State House loomed up before her and she started toward it. Not long after most of Washington D.C. had fallen into the sinkholes, and Linda Travis had made it clear that she did not intend to rebuild the city any time soon, Sam “Sparky” Lane, the newly-elected Governor of Maine, a rebellious independent with a penchant for shit-stirring, invited the President to move her base of operations to the Maine State House. “It’s not like anybody’s been using it,” he quipped, a reference to his campaign message regarding his predecessor. “You can even have your own bathroom.”

  President Travis, drawn by her love of the Maine coast and her desire to re-invent the way her government operated, thought it was worth a try. Cole and his children, already pulled up by the roots from their home in rural Vermont, and not yet having established new roots in Montpelier, were up for the adventure. "It might be wise to live in a place with bigger skies," said Cole, motioning toward the Green Mountains that surrounded them. "If you know what I mean," he added with a wink, pointing to the stars above. Linda had accepted Governor Lane's offer the next day. Keeley had joined them three months later and taken the position of White House Chief of Staff, replacing her murdered predecessor, Steven Bickle.

  Keeley wiped the sweat from her forehead with her hand. Her plan had been to hole up in her State House office for the afternoon. But she found that, now that she was out, she had no desire to go back inside. This March heat wave, coming as it did on the heels of a bitter cold and snow-packed but abnormally short winter, felt good to her today: a chance to stretch her legs, a chance to work off some calories, a chance to sweat and rant and wander off, and a chance to think.

  She circled the State House on the south side, noting the girders of the unfinished addition on the east side as she passed. The steel and concrete structure, begun the month Keeley had arrived and designed to give both the Governor and the President a little more "breathing room" once the honeymoon was over, rose against the sky like monkey-bars for giants. No doubt there were unfinished buildings like this all around the globe now, their destinies thwarted by the Christmas Crash, stark reminders that even giants can be toppled when the money disappears.

  Keeley crossed over State Street and down the grassy slope to the pathway that looped around Capitol Park, turning left to head north. "Off and away," she said quietly to the dog at her side. Chapin leapt away greedily, heading straight across the park grounds as if on a mission. The expanse of mown grass stirred Keeley's nostalgia, a word now on everyone's lips, with so much of the world they had known having fallen away. She had no idea how the groundskeepers kept this park as neat and tidy as they did, what with their fuel rations cut so drastically. But she understood why they
did it. Such as it was, Augusta, Maine, was now the Capitol of the United States of America. If life was to somehow "go on," it had to start here.

  Life was certainly going someplace, but Keeley had little faith that anybody really knew where. The traffic around the State House was sparse, and consisted mostly of military motorcycles. Foot and bike traffic was even more meager, the few denizens of this mostly empty city no doubt holed up in restaurants, taverns, or basement "cool clubs" to escape "the midday slam." Temperatures had been hitting afternoon highs above one-hundred for over three weeks now, re-writing the rules of normalcy for March in Maine and bringing out clouds of black flies far ahead of their natural schedule. Global dimming was another term on everyone's lips these days, as the interruption to the global industrial machine in the wake of the Crash made readily apparent the heat-shielding benefits of dirty skies. As the atmosphere had cleared, the true extent of climate change had been revealed. Not even the chemtrail program, which they no longer tried to hide, could keep up with the warming effects of a runaway rise in greenhouse gases.

  And out beyond the military cordon? Jesus, Mary, and Ronald McDonald, what a mess. How could one even begin to wrap one's mind around it? At least half of the American population was now safely and comfortably housed in or near the government-run “camps" and "shelters,” if one were willing to rewrite the definitions of "safely" and "comfortably" to include such things as the lack of healthy food, clean water, and adequate protection from both heat and cold. And the people themselves were stunned and beaten, suffering from PTSD and malnutrition, from debilitating grief and the loss of both identity and direction. They'd seen gang violence and the heads of "boomers" on spikes along city streets. They'd seen massive crop failures, runs on banks, lengthy blackouts, and epidemic diseases. They'd seen riots and suicides, famine and hoarding, terrorist attacks and lines at the gas stations and soldiers patrolling their neighborhoods. They'd seen seawater sluice down the streets of Miami, Boston, New Orleans, New York, and hundreds of smaller cities and towns. They'd seen their own neighborhoods go quiet and their towns fall empty. They’d seen the Alien Grid in their night skies. They'd seen the end of the American Dream. And they'd seen that their government was powerless to stop that end.