"But he's gone-"
"Then get him on the phone, please," cut in Mary. "Now. We must get these children moved as quickly as is possible."
The nurse opened her mouth to protest, then nodded curtly and picked up the phone.
Mary turned to Ness. "I should have thought of this myself, Ness," she said. "I apologize."
She turned to the soldiers. "I need you to make whatever arrangements are necessary," she said. "The children are to be roomed together immediately. And Ms. Abernathy will act as the White House liaison in all security matters pertaining to the President's children as of right now. She's going to need a cot set up for sleeping, and will need all of her meals delivered to the room." The soldiers, used to taking orders, nodded once and turned to do as Mary said.
Mary turned back to Ness. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked. She reached out and took Ness's hand. The older woman, having had her requests now met, was clearly terrified. There were tears hovering in her eyes and her skin had paled.
Ness shook her head. "I don't... I don't know what came over me," she said. She turned to the nurse. "I'm so sorry," she whispered. The nurse, looking up from her phone call, nodded her acceptance.
Mary squeezed Ness's hand. "I don't know either," she said. "But whatever it is, it shall not be trifled with. Your field has grown to such intensity that I can barely stand to open up to it, Ness. There's something inside of you that... well, whatever happens next, I think we may all soon find out just why it was you came here."
The tears spilled from Ness's eyes at that and she dropped Mary's hands and turned away to head back down the hallway. Mary watched as the older woman made her way back to those three dear children. Ness was right. Something had come over her. Something new, perhaps. Or just hidden deep inside. Something very different from the old woman she appeared to be.
A sense of relief flooded through Mary, offsetting the disturbing news of Cole's disappearance that had come to her an hour earlier. Now she was not alone in her need to care for the kids. And she would not be alone as this played out. Wherever this present moment would take them, whatever that dark tendril intended, Ness, it seemed, was burning now with a bright light to counter that darkness.
With a sigh of thanksgiving, Mary turned back toward the lounge, wondering if there might be hot water for tea. What she saw instead, when she turned, down near the double doors at the front entrance, was Keeley, just as she collapsed to the floor.
6.9
"I'm not really done with them, you know," said Linda as she hovered in the room's center. The opening to deep space called to her, an offering of escape or adventure. Or just an end, as it had served for these "Fortunates" who'd used this room for burials.
"I do understand that, Madam President," said William, who sat on the top spiral near the room's curved outer wall. "You have loved ones back home whom you wish to rejoin. And, like it or not, you are still the leader of your people. This cannot be simply dismissed."
"No."
"And yet there was truth to your words when you spoke them. When you said 'I am done with them.' I could feel that truth. So could you. What is that truth? What are you done with?"
Linda closed her eyes to think, a habit from physicality that accompanied the dimming of sensory perceptions she could now automatically effect in order to decrease distractions. After a few moments she opened back up. "I am done trying to control things that are much larger and more powerful than I," she said with a slight nod of acceptance.
The Fisherman smiled. "And what are those 'larger' things of which you speak, Madam? Do you know?"
Linda glanced around the room and gave a brief, sad chuckle. "Are you kidding me?" she said. "Where do I start? Ancient aliens? Current aliens? The climate going all out of whack? The fact that we can now barely feed ourselves? I mean... Jesus, William, what was I thinking?"
The Fisherman gave a gentle nod of understanding. "You were thinking, were you not, that even in the face of all of these things, you could somehow help your people get through them with more grace and less pain than they would otherwise?" He raised his eyebrows. "Am I right?"
Linda exhaled loudly. "Yeah," she said. "Something like that."
"But there was another 'larger' thing that you hadn't counted on," he said.
"Yes," Linda agreed. "There was."
"The death wish, of which we spoke earlier."
Linda exhaled loudly.
"The quest for self-annihilation, which I just a few moments ago called 'a deep wisdom."
The President drifted over to where the Fisherman sat and came to rest on the spiral just below him. "If we kill ourselves off, then maybe we won't kill off everything else," she said, her voice low and tentative. She glanced at him quickly, checking his reaction. She wasn't sure the idea made any sense.
"Perhaps," said William, gazing out over the room. "Perhaps that is a part of it, and perhaps there is wisdom in it. Individual humans are capable of that sort of self-sacrifice for someone they love, it would seem. But I rather doubt, given the level of disconnection between civilized humans and what they call 'nature,' that 'saving the beloved,' or whatever we might term it, is really the deepest motivation. As I said, perhaps that is a part of it."
Linda sat with that for a moment. The alien body, stiff and frozen in the spiral arm right beneath her, stared up with a neutral expression, the lifeless face of a mannequin. The animating force had abandoned it completely, and in so doing had left behind the concerns of life. No horror. No pain. No grief. No regret. Not even peaceful acceptance or relief. Nothing. She looked up at the Fisherman. "So what's the larger part of it?" she asked.
William turned and caught Linda's eye. "Do you remember what I said the Fortunate thought of this room?" he asked.
"Something about a doorway home?" said Linda.
The Fisherman flashed his eyebrows with delight. "That is how the Life have explained it," he said. "As far as we can make out, the Fortunate were creatures of the higher levels. Their primary existence did not play out in the physical bands. This ship," he continued, gesturing to the walls around him, "and these bodies, are just discarded shells, Madam President. They're just the trash left behind from a trip to the physical, if you will. Diving suits used to explore the deep oceans of materiality. They do not represent death. Just transition."
Linda raised an eyebrow. "And you think we humans are up to something similar?" she asked.
"Some are," said the Fisherman evenly, "though few hold the thought consciously, and fewer still would admit it. But, yes, I think some large portion of the dominant mainstream global culture is running toward the brick wall as fast as it can, in order to either die and relieve their misery, or to somehow break through to the other side. They seek not the death of spirit, the death of consciousness. They seek the death of physicality. They wish to shed the confines of materialism and follow their parents home."
Linda frowned. "Their parents?"
"Of course," said William. "Have I not said? The Fortunate are our distant ancestors, Madam. We are their children."
6.10
The motorcycle sat parked in the driveway, glinting in the late-morning sun, pointed toward the road as if ready for a quick getaway. Was it providence? Bait? Or simple confidence on the part of the owner? They could not tell. Stan motioned to Cole to stay behind the brick wall and then slipped through the open gate before ducking back into the trees. He stood motionless for a full minute, watching, listening. There were no sounds from the house. No barking dogs. No ruffling curtains revealing a watcher. Save for the shiny red Harley parked in the drive, the place looked and felt dead.
The house before this one, a mile or so back now, had not felt dead. Cole had, indeed, picked out from the background of forest sounds the intermittent rapping of a hammer on wood. They'd given the place a wide berth as they passed, pausing only long enough to catch a distant glimpse of a single older man in his back yard repairing what appeared to be a bird feeder. The sight had
given them some relief. If the world was still safe enough for lone old men to hammer on bird feeders, then it was safe enough for Stan and Cole, and much safer than their worst imaginings.
Still, it would not serve them to let down their guard, and they both knew it. Stan went through the gate with his weapon drawn. One old man did not a scientific study make.
After a second minute had passed, Stan glanced back at Cole and nodded. Their plan was for Cole to take a position just inside the gate with his gun drawn while Stan, experienced with motorcycles, would attempt to start the Harley. If there was fuel in it, and if Stan could get it started, he'd hightail it out of there, stopping only long enough for Cole to jump on behind him. If it all went as they planned, their trip down to Boothbay would go much more quickly than their feet could achieve. Given the day's heat, the idea of getting quickly to the coast teased them both with the hope of cool ocean breezes.
Cole drew his pistol, scooted through the gate in a hunkered crouch, and took a position with his back to the brick wall. Stan turned and started toward the motorcycle.
He got within a few feet of it when an upstairs window flew open, revealing a scoped rifle held by small hands. From the back of the house came the sound of a slamming door and in seconds an angry, fearsome mixed-breed dog with more than a little Rottweiler in it came charging around the corner. On the dog's heels came three men with pistols out and aimed right toward him. The oldest was middle-aged, balding and heavy. The other two were just teenagers, thin and wiry. All three were dressed in a similar uniform, a mix of blue denim, Carhartt work clothes, and stray pieces of military gear.
"Bullet! Hold!" shouted the older man as the dog zeroed in on Stan. Stan stood still with arms raised as the dog skidded to a stop right in front of him, nailing him with his fierce eyes since his teeth had been forbidden. The older man stepped up and put a hand on the dog's head. The younger two fanned out on either side of him.
The older man squinted at Stan. "You need to drop that," he said, nodding toward Stan's gun. Stan dropped his weapon to the gravel, then turned to Cole. Cole, afraid and indignant and thinking that Stan's look was a plea for him to step in, raised his pistol and began to walk toward them. "Now listen," he said, "you have no idea-"
From the window upstairs came two gunshots in rapid succession. The first hit Cole squarely in the chest, then fell to the ground at his feet without doing any harm. The second Cole snatched from the air with his bare hand.
"Hold!" shouted the older man again, aiming his voice high and toward the hidden shooter. The firing stopped.
Stan glanced up to see the gun withdraw into the upstairs window, then returned his attention to Cole. The President's husband was standing with both hands held at shoulder level, his gun in one and a slug in the other.
"Cole?" said Stan, blinking. "Are you...?"
Cole dropped the hot slug to the ground, where it came to rest near the other one. He dropped the gun. Immediately, showers of sparkling light sprang forth from his palms. He looked at Stan in disbelief, then lifted his hands and studied the bright light pouring forth. After a few moments he glanced again at Stan. "I'm ... fine," he said, his brow wrinkled in confusion.
Stan turned back to the armed men. All three stood staring at Cole with expressions of surprise. Their weapons dangled at their sides. Even the dog had relaxed back onto its haunches.
The back door slammed once more. Around the corner ran an even younger child, a girl of only twelve or thirteen, dressed like the others in denim and olive green. "Daddy!" she said as she joined the three men.
The older man, obviously her father, put an arm on her shoulder and drew her to him. "It's okay, girl," he said gently. "You did good."
"But-" protested the girl, glancing shyly at Cole. She looked up at her father and then back to Cole. "His hands!" she said.
The older man nodded, his face serious, his voice low, as if reciting scripture. "That's right," he said to his daughter, motioning vaguely toward Cole. "He's the Magic Man. The Wayfaring Stranger. He cannot be harmed, even by the weapons of old." The man looked over to Cole and removed his hat. Cole pulled his eyes away from his sparkling hands and looked at the man.
"Welcome, Stranger," the man said. He studied Cole intently, as if the President's husband was a long-lost friend he barely remembered. "Welcome back."
6.11
Ness stood in the hospital hallway, waiting as the nurses moved the kids into a larger room where they could be together. But while Ness waited, Other-than-Ness had work to do. Closing herself off from the distracting sensory input of Ness's body, Other-than-Ness cast outward with her mind, seeking the others of her kind and touching them with her thoughts. "LET US BEGIN," she said to them, the words acting as a call, a trigger, and a beacon.
Other-than-Ness scanned the planet’s vast field of consciousness some humans called the noosphere. She tuned out the human channels of mental activity so that she could more easily connect with her people. She listened for a moment. Her message had been received. Already, there was movement in the field. Satisfied, Other-than-Ness stepped back, leaving Ness to her waiting.
6.12
"Will you tell us what's going on?" asked Grace of Mihos. The cat had slunk down off his perch and now sat nose to nose with Dennis. Dennis trembled. It was all the poor old Whippet could do to hold his ground and not run away.
Mihos glanced up at Grace with a blank face, then returned his attention to the dog. "You speak as if 'what's going on' can be told in short and simple words," he said. He swiped a paw at Dennis just to watch the dog flinch, then sat back on his haunches and began to lick the paw, as if it had been dirtied. "You monkeys have always been in such a hurry."
"I apologize," said Grace. "But our stepmother is in trouble. We were on our way to try to help her."
"Until you were swallowed by the Murk," said the cat with a snort. "Some help."
"Can you tell us about this 'Murk'?" asked Emily.
Mihos sighed deeply. "You guys really should have sprung for a guidebook before setting out on your little vacation," he said with a shake of the head. "You couldn't be more lost, could you?"
Emily gestured around the room. "Could you start by telling us where we are?"
Mihos raised his shoulders. "You're in my home," he said, as though it were obvious.
"And where-"
"My home. You know? Astral plane and all that rot. Third star on the right and straight on 'til you smell catnip. The great scratching pole in the sky." Mihos stared up at Emily, his eyes slack with boredom.
"But where-"
"You do understand that the idea of ‘location’ doesn't mean the same thing here as it does back on good ol' Terra Firma, don't you?"
Emily opened her mouth to respond, then thought better of it and just nodded.
"Good," said Mihos. "Now we're getting somewhere. Time. Space. Distance. Location. Matter. Even the notion that you are in a body right now. Throw 'em all out and start fresh. In this time, we are in my home. In another time, you were lost in the Murk. I found you there and pulled you out of it with my special cat-lasso." Mihos raised a paw over his head and circled it like a cowboy. "That's a joke. You know that, right? Batman?"
Emily nodded again and Grace knelt down to scratch Dennis's ears. Iain, arms crossed, stood back and observed. His eyes were narrow with judgment.
"So how did you find us?" asked Grace. "And why did you help us?"
Mihos chuckled sadly. "Gods only know," he said. "The Great Ones said to help you and I did. Finding you was easy enough. The Murk's a nasty one but he's also pretty stupid. He doesn't even think to cover his trail. And we cats are good in the dark."
"So-"
"The Great Ones say your mission is important," said Mihos, interrupting Emily.
Grace nodded her agreement. "We need to find Linda Travis and set her free," she said.
"Whatever," said Mihos. "You can be selling Girl Scout cookies as far as I'm concerned. Doesn't matter. The Great On
es say jump, I ask 'how high?' Know what I mean?"
"Who are these Great Ones?" asked Iain, stepping forward.
Mihos glanced up at the boy, then back at Grace. "Your brother?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Yes," said Grace.
"He seems a bit of a dolt," said Mihos. “Is he?”
Grace shook her head. "He's a good guy," she said. "He's smart and-"
"Yeah, yeah. He ain't heavy and all that." The cat looked up at Iain and blinked. "The Great Ones, young man, are obviously none of your damned monkey business."
"But-"
"If you have to ask, then you can't afford it," said Mihos with a sniff.
Iain shook his head and slunk back a step, his face clenched and dark.
"So this Murk is a being of some sort?" asked Emily. "And he's a bad guy?"
"Oh I love that," said Mihos, laughing loudly. He nodded once, with finality. "Yes. The Murk is the Bad Guy. You three are the Good Guys. I'm the funny but complicated magical animal mentor that comes in to help you on your way while providing comic relief. All we need now is a quest and we've got ourselves a show, kids. Who's gonna play me?"
"So you're going to help us?" asked Grace, focusing on the part that applied.
Mihos returned to licking his paws. "The Great Ones seem to think your 'Linda Travis' person will play some role in the unfolding train wreck you monkeys seem to have created. As we cats like to keep one paw in the physical, so to speak, and as we consider the planet you call 'Earth' our ancestral home, we have some stake in the matter. We'd rather you not blow the whole stinking place to bits, ya know what I mean?" He looked up at Grace. "So, yes, little girl, I'm going to help. Mihos, son of Bast, Prince of War and Protector of the Innocent, is going to help. That okay with you, Princess?"
"Is there some reason you have to be so sarcastic?" said Emily.
Mihos cuffed Dennis on the nose, turned and raised his tail to stick his bottom in the poor dog’s face, then walked slowly and confidently to a sofa near the wall. With a lazy leap he settled onto a cushion. "Would you believe me if I told you that I'm filled with shame and terribly insecure?" he said, as he kneaded the upholstery with his claws.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 20
