"You said you wanted a media circus," said Cole. He turned to face Sten.
Stendahl raised an eyebrow. "I'm... excuse me, Cole?" he said. "When did I-"
"Back in Augusta, my friend. On the phone." Cole grinned. "And thank you for that. I probably wouldn't be here otherwise. 'Banging on the gates,' as you said I should." He gestured vaguely toward Squirrel Island. "It feels good. You know? To be doing something."
Sten nodded. "It does," he agreed. "But whomever it was that called, my friend, it wasn't me."
"But I thought..." Cole frowned. He'd felt so sure. But Sten did not seem to be lying. And when Cole thought about it, what reason would Sten have for being so secretive in the first place? It would have been much easier to just come speak with Cole and tell him his plan. "So it wasn't you?" he asked.
"This is the first I've heard of it," said Sten, shaking his head. "You want to tell me about it?"
Cole told Stendahl everything he could remember about the mysterious phone calls. The former anchorman listened intently and asked good questions, as though he were conducting an interview for television.
"You're sure it wasn't you?" asked Cole after he finished his tale.
Sten laughed. "Yeah, I'm pretty sure," he said.
Cole turned and gazed out over the water, thinking of Linda, and the kids, out on their own mission. He was glad to be doing his part. But he sure wished he could know what the heck was going on. He shook his head. "So if it wasn't you, then who was it?"
Sten exhaled loudly. "I haven't a clue, Cole," he said.
12.20
Linda leaned against the lobster tank and stared down at her body. It looked the same as it had before, though Linda didn't remember that stray lock of hair on her forehead. Her face was peaceful and composed and her color, such as it was, was good. All seemed well.
Linda pushed herself back and walked slowly around the container, observing her body from every angle. William had said that this was how he'd found her on Squirrel Island. There was something distinctly disrespectful about the way they had left her naked and exposed. As if they wished to demean her. As if they had had to demean her in order to do what they were doing. She could scarcely believe that there were people capable of such things.
She moved slowly around, examining the container itself, and the pedestal upon which it sat. The construction looked cheap and flimsy to her, like what one might see with an inexpensive fish tank. Surely not the thick glass, rubber seals, and stainless steel she had expected. And where were the mechanisms that would keep her body a constant temperature on the Martian surface? And recycle her air? And shield her from radiation? She saw no pumps, no tanks, no tubes or hoses. Just a thin glass box on a black metal stand. Perhaps all the mechanisms were hidden underneath?
"Rarely do we get a chance to see ourselves as others see us," said William. Linda whirled to find the Fisherman standing behind her, feathery white hair and Hawaiian shirt and all. He flashed his eyebrows.
"You scared me!" said Linda.
William nodded. "Shall we continue?" he asked. He raised a hand, and they blinked away.
12.21
Doobie docked The Pokey Joker as quickly as he could and tied her off. Cole, Stan, Stendahl, and Simon were waiting there to help. Ann explained what had happened and the four men lifted Gordon and carried him up to the Seagull. Gordon, having regained some level of consciousness on the ride back, moaned with pain. They lay him on the deck next to the back wall near the kitchen. Andrew left to get the nearest doctor.
"The rest of you okay?" asked Cole, kneeling at Gordon's side, looking up to Marionette.
"All good," Marionette nodded. "A bit stunned. Scared. But all good."
"I'm glad," answered Cole. He motioned toward Gordon. "What happened?"
"Some sort of force field or something," said Ann, standing behind Cole. "Knocked us on our asses."
"You got onto the island?" asked Cole.
"A little ways," said Marionette. "They've got the whole interior surrounded by fencing and razor wire. We didn't encounter any soldiers but..." she gestured toward Gordon, "he tried to cut through the fence."
"I got some of it on vid," said Eddie, patting the camcorder slung around his neck. "But then I had to help carry."
"If it wasn't for that light, I don't think we'd have made it," said Ann.
"What light?" asked Cole.
"Strange light," answered Marionette. "Lighting up our path. Went all the way along the road and driveway, past the old inn, and out along that old dock. Which was good, because that dock was really messed up. Twisted all out of shape, with deck boards missing and the whole thing leaning. And the waves were pushing it up and down. We'd never have been able to make it to the boat if we couldn't see where we were going."
"Strange light," agreed Ann.
"Yeah," said Eddie.
12.22
"It is strange, isn't it?" said Carl. "I mean, until you said 'aliens,' I didn't even remember that there was such a thing. And then I did. I knew just who you meant."
Ted nodded. "It's like we're walking through our memories, or our past lives, or whatever, and it's pitch black, and all we can see is what we shine our flashlights on."
Carl sighed. "You suppose that's what it's like? The life review thing. When we die?"
Ted raised an eyebrow. "I thought that's what this is," he said.
"Right."
Ted chose a card, read it, moved ahead three spaces. No more rabbit hole. "Your turn, dude," he said.
"So you guys had aliens that came to your house when you were a kid?" asked Carl.
Ted looked off to the right and stared at the wall. "Yeah. I think they started coming to my Dad when he was a kid. I remember somebody saying that. One of my aunts, maybe, though I think we mostly avoided that whole topic." He looked Carl in the eye. "I think that's one of the reasons my Dad was away so much. He was with them."
"And then they came and took you and your mother?"
Ted closed his eyes. "It was really weird, Bro. I mean, with my Mom, they just did their usual bullshit. Poke and prod and extract some eggs and all that. But with me... it was like they were only interested in my brain. I remember this one time I was lying on some metal table with them all huddled around my head, and I swear they took the top of my skull off and were poking my brain with, like, little probes and shit. They showed me this little black cube thing, and the little gray guy motions like they're going to stick that thing into my head." He looked at Carl. "And then the next morning I woke up and looked in the mirror but my head was fine. No stitches and no blood and no cuts. Just my regular head with my hair on it. Really strange."
"Did you ever, like, talk to your Dad?"
"Oh!" said Ted. "I did! I asked my Dad about it. I told him there was a little cube in my brain and asked if we could go to the doctor and have them take it out! Man, you should've seen him. Face turned as gray as all get out. Eyes got all wide. And he just..." Ted shook his head quickly, in short tight movements, and hunched his shoulders. "He did this little shaky thing, like 'get away from me I can't talk about that' or something. And he grabbed his keys and got in the car and went to his office."
Carl picked up a card, moved his piece. Ted did the same, smacking his playing piece on the board as he counted out his move. "Damn!" he said. Carl started laughing. Ted was once again stuck in the rabbit hole.
Chapter Thirteen
13.1
Gabrielle wanted to stay. These people were creepy as hell, but they didn't feel dangerous. They were no danger to her, anyway. Not with that Jeff guy around. And Gabrielle didn't really feel like walking alone at night through this unknown landscape. But then Scotty and another man threw two human bodies onto the fire: a middle aged woman and a young boy, maybe four years old.
"God's cleansing agent," said Jeff, gesturing toward the bodies.
Gabrielle stepped further from the flames. She understood that what Jeff was calling a "cleansing agent" was the alien flu, Greensleeves. And while
the sight of burning humans was disturbing enough, she had no intention of breathing in the smoke from their virus-infected bodies. Maybe these folks wanted to catch the alien flu. Let God sort 'em out and all that. But not Gabrielle.
So when Jeff went into the house to help with a sofa, and the rest of them looked otherwise occupied, Gabrielle backed slowly away from the fire and into the cool, dark night. When she reached the edge of the field, she turned and fled, running as quietly as she could over the soft, uneven ground.
Crossing the ditch to the road, she turned left, heading east toward Bowdoinham, continuing on the way she'd been going before Scotty had grabbed her. Her way was lit by faint Gridlight filtering down through the heavy swirl of clouds. After a few minutes, she stopped to look back at the farm. All she could see was a faint flickering on the farmhouse siding. The fire itself was hidden by the barn. Nobody was following her. Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief.
She was forced to walk on the pavement now. Dying pines and leaning birch trees crowded the road, reaching out in the wind like shuddering ghosts, making the ditches impassible. Bowdoinham felt as ghostly as the trees. A smattering of houses. A couple of stores. A burned out church. But no lights. No people out in the night. No sounds. And no signs warning of Greensleeves. The town must have died after the Christmas Crash.
She did see two more bright spots on the horizon, both of which looked like the bonfire from which she'd come. Maybe this God of the Burning thing was bigger than she'd imagined. But both of these fires were far away. Nothing for her to worry about. Unless the wind took hold of them and they spread. It had been so hot and dry.
What Gabrielle was worried about was a place to sleep, and a source of fresh water, and some food if she could find it. She hadn't eaten since the bus, and she only had one small water bottle in her pack.
She scanned the sky but saw only the dark blanket of clouds. She hadn't seen the flying saucer in hours. With no chip for them to track, they'd have to wait until she passed through another scanner before knowing where she'd gone. Gabrielle had no intention of doing any such thing.
She left the tiny town, crossed a set of train tracks and a rusted steel bridge, and followed the road as it curved to the south, taking her past a tiny airstrip. To her right, back in the direction from which she'd come, came a bright flare that lit the clouds from underneath, revealing a huge column of smoke. Gabrielle assumed that Jeff and his friends had set fire to their barn or house. Or maybe a gust had done that for them. "God's Wind," they would probably call it.
She stopped. Up ahead, on the right, was a faint glow, like a single cat's eye, greenish-white, coming from a small white building set in the darkness of the tree line. She started moving slowly toward it, her tennis shoes silent on the pavement, watching for movement, listening through the gusting wind. Slowly the glow revealed itself: another one of those symbols, the circle with the upside down L through it. A flash of remembered images scrolled through her mind, of previous symbols, of Zacharael. She knew this mark came from him. And she knew she did not have to be afraid.
Gabrielle walked toward the glowing symbol, down a short drive and across a small parking lot. The symbol had been painted on the door of a small mobile home that had served as a hair styling salon. An old, faded "going out of business" sign hung lopsidedly in the window. It didn't look like anybody had been here in a long time.
She took the metal steps up to the tiny landing and pushed on the door. It swung in easily and Gabrielle stepped back, fearful that some animal might come rushing out. None did, so she stepped into the pitch-black parlor.
Directly across from the door was a sofa. Gabrielle set her pack on the floor and felt around on the sofa in the darkness to make sure it was clear and safe. Satisfied, she turned and closed the door, shutting out the noise of the wind. She crossed again to the sofa and sat down. The symbol on the door assured her she was safe. Somehow, Zacharael was still with her, watching out for her, helping her as much as he could. Gabrielle lay back on the sofa, pulled her jacket tight around her neck, curled up her knees, and closed her eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.
13.2
"You can't just dive back in," Linda said, her voice sharp with irritation. "You were gone for hours without explanation. And while you were gone, I took a closer look at my body in that damned container. I have some questions."
William held her gaze but said nothing. Linda closed her eyes. She was too tired to be angry. Not from the long walk she'd just taken, but from the never-ending game William seemed determined to play. "Well?" she said at last, opening her eyes.
The Fisherman looked down at his hands and sighed heavily, then looked up at Linda. "I apologize, Madam," he said, his voice low. "I do realize that I have likely burned through your supply of forbearance. I can only plead, as I have already done, the great need that has shaped my actions." He glanced at the sky, as if searching for the distant Earth, then looked again at Linda. "Things are moving rapidly back on Earth. The urgency is extreme. The clock is ticking, as you Americans say."
Linda nodded slowly. "So you're not going to take time to explain your absence," she said. It was not a question.
"I'm going to ask you to trust that all your questions will be answered if we but proceed as I have planned."
Linda shook her head in disbelief. "I hate this," she said. She pulled her feet up onto her chair and shifted to get comfortable.
The Fisherman nodded. "It is right and natural to hate being controlled," he said. "And yet, as I have explained, the situation warrants it." He nodded slowly, as if in respect. "If, when we are finished, you still believe my actions to be uncalled for, I shall submit to your due process of choice, in order to sort the matter out and make what amends I might. Agreed?"
Linda scoffed. "You know I'm going to hold you to that, right?" she asked.
William cocked his head playfully. "I would expect nothing less, Mrs. President," he said, acknowledging her power and position.
She looked at the Fisherman, her face a frown. "I guess you should proceed, then," she said.
"Right," said William, straightening in his chair. He looked away for a moment in thought, then began. "So... one way to approach the reality of the aliens is through the philosophical," he said. "Which is to say, we start with the nature of reality and work our way backwards." He wiggled in his chair with obvious delight. "Are you aware, Madam, that during your lifetime, the foundational paradigm on which you stand - that is, the basic understanding of the nature of reality itself - has shifted dramatically?"
Linda raised a shoulder a bit.
"Didn't get that particular memo, then?" asked the Fisherman. "Didn't read about it in Time or Newsweek or The Wall Street Journal? Didn't hear about it in a Presidential Daily Briefing?"
Linda sighed and shook her head. "No, William," she said. "Should I have?"
"In a wiser world, Madam, you'd have felt the Earth move. But the ground has been shaking for well over a century now, and few have fully understood what the trembling underfoot really means. Even folks like yourself who have actually touched the evidence have mostly failed to make the leap from the old paradigm to the new, so wide has the chasm grown between the two. Such is how it usually goes when a scientific and philosophical revolution occurs. It takes a while to unfold."
Linda nodded thoughtfully. "Okay," she said. "So we've all missed something hugely important. Keep going."
The Fisherman cleared his throat. "But that's just it, Madam. Just because you didn't get that memo doesn't mean no one did. And those of us who did get it, especially we rich Satanists in our tuxedos, took it quite seriously. Remember that what I'm telling you is greatly condensed. Suffice it to say that new data, insight, and analysis from such disparate fields as physics and quantum mechanics, psychology, spirituality, philosophy, parapsychology, neurology, ufology, et cetera, have rendered untenable the realist or materialist paradigm, paving the way for a rising idealist paradigm to take its place. On the way out is
the notion that reality consists of such things as 'matter' and 'energy' that are 'out there,' existing independent of our consciousness. On the way in is the notion that mind, or consciousness, is primary, and that all of reality is contained within consciousness, not the other way around. At this point, at least in my estimation, it's all over but the shouting, of which there has been a great deal already."
Linda squinted her eyes slightly. "Wow," she said, blinking repeatedly. "That's quite a mouthful." She closed her eyes for a few moments to think, then opened them again. "So it's a 'thoughts create reality' sort of thing, then?" she said. "It reminds me of some of what Obie said."
"Indeed," agreed William. "Though not in that oft-disparaged 'the Universe is my shopping mall' way that people associate with the New Agers. This new formulation of the old idealist philosophy does not automatically grant superpowers to every fellow on the street."
"Which is the part of 'thoughts create reality' that people laugh at."
"Exactly, Madam. And to the extent that some people have promoted this misunderstanding of the evidence, the laughter has served as a healthy correction, I think. But to the extent that this laughter serves as an outright dismissal, it misses the mark. It's easy to laugh at an extreme distortion or obvious mistake. It's much more difficult to look closely at the more nuanced reality behind the many mistakes and distortions, and give that more subtle truth a fair consideration."
"So saying that 'mind is primary' does not mean that I get to be in control of reality," said Linda. She closed her eyes and focused on Cole back on Earth, attempting once again to blink back home. She failed. With a shake of her head, she looked the Fisherman in the eye. "Obviously," she said with a smirk.
"Right. There are other levels of mind at work in the universe beyond those of any particular conscious individual, as you just experienced when I stopped you from blinking back to Earth. There's the collective human consciousness. There are levels of both personal and collective unconscious. And there are the levels of what Huxley called 'Mind at Large.' All of these combine to create what one philosopher calls 'consensus meta-reality,' a sort of group mind or shared dream, in which we have some power to navigate and create, but over which we cannot, as single individuals in most circumstances, exert absolute control. If you're in the physical, and if you step out in front of a consensus meta-reality bus, even though it arises from consciousness alone, it will still crush you, regardless of the number of affirmations you chant in its face." The Fisherman flashed his eyebrows in a playful way.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 42
