EPILOGUE
If you truly want to obtain a certain thing, then you must first become a certain person. Once you have become that certain person, obtaining that certain thing will no longer be a concern.
Zen Master
“Good news,” the voice on the radio announced. “The wreckage from that three-fatality pile-up on southbound 85 has been hauled away. All four north-bound lanes are open again and the three miles of parking lot it created ― from downtown all the way to exit 95 ― is finally starting to loosen up.”
Frozen in traffic, Lyköan cursed under his breath even though there was no one else in the car to hear the oath. Without the talents of a Michael Valentine Smith he was never going to make it home on time.
The sun had set more than an hour ago. Ahead of him a broad ribbon of taillights meandered like embers into the rolling landscape. Another unusually cold winter evening in the suburban hills north of Atlanta. Lately, some climatologists had gone so far as to suggest that the planet might be on the verge of a new ice age.
“Ninety-five point five,” Lyköan requested. The onboard audio-input slave complied. He was hoping for a little music to pass the time while he was stalled here, dead in the water.
Tonight the cold bites deep
Out walking ’cause I can’t sleep.
Held fast in the grasp of these angry streets
By a name that the whispering wind repeats
With a sigh and a scuttling edge of grief
Its sad song of desire and disbelief.
Months had passed since his encounter with Apsu and Hadad ― events that apparently had never taken place here where he had ultimately been deposited. From what he had been able to piece together, without revealing any of the lunatic memories he still retained, there had been minute alterations in the sequence of events ― a simple timing differential that, from a number of hints he had since been able to gather, must have occurred about the time he and Nora were fleeing Bristol.
Graveyards and squad cars pass by in the night
Beckoning sirens somewhere out of sight
Silence and sorrow embracing the tune
I wait for an answer that never arrives
Praying that it finds me soon.
He couldn’t ask too many questions without sounding like he had completely lost his marbles. Which meant he might never learn the exact circumstances that had created the particular uchronion in which he now found himself. How important was knowing anyway? Whether Brit Intel had shut down the Node before Pandavas was able to infect the world or something had transpired in the Thai final solution scenario to alter the outcome ― tantalizing clues continued to arrive in drips and drabs innocently through the idle comments of others ― in all likelihood, millions of minute alterations had been involved. He doubted he would ever discover more than a handful. Even the part he may have played.
O how that lilt in your laughter slew me
Just like this wind it blew right through me
Insisting on all that might have been
And nothing that Time did not intend
No one explains what snuffs out the flames
Or why what remains always turns out the same
And we, we never learned who to blame
Did we? Did we? Did we, Karen Lynn?
What was that? That name? Who was singing this song? It sounded like that old has-been, Dixon. Was he still alive? His voice was sure shot. But “Karen Lynn?” Impossible. Karen Lynn Lyköan was buried on a peaceful hillside outside of Albany near where she had been raised. Lyköan had visited her grave less than a month before ― to satisfy his curiosity and make his peace with that past. It was time he laid down that burden and bid that ghost adieu. Let the ghosts go bother someone else. He had had more than his fill of their demands.
In the process he had thrown off the Celtic cringe. Once he had accepted that it was illusory to expect a certain direction from life, that the flow of destinies was not restricted to this consciousness anyway, it had been easier to deal with everything. He was slowly learning to take life in stride and accept whatever happened. Except for this goddamned traffic.
Pulling into the drive at eight-thirty-two, he left the car outside the garage and walked through the front door. This was not his home, but maybe soon. He and Nora ― mostly Nora ― were planning an April wedding. Spring would be the perfect time for such a celebration. A new beginning. Maybe it would rain. That would be perfect, absolutely perfect.
Scolded for his late arrival, he sat down at the kitchen table and dug into the proffered plate of leftovers with an explanatory excuse. Even reheated, everything tasted wonderful. As though in a dream fugue he heard himself carrying on small talk with smiles and easy laughter ― but for an instant he had drifted elsewhere.
The visions still haunted him, but had somehow become far easier to ignore, even now as he watched them dancing upon the frost-bitten windowpane behind Nora’s smiling face. Perhaps they would always be there, a reminder of what he had for that instant been ― and what he was now. They were a reminder of where he had ultimately journeyed and from whence he had returned.
Buddhist theory holds that the universe perpetually cycles through four periods: formation, existence, destruction, and non-existence. If that were true then the destructive and non-existence phases had been incredibly swift. What he might expect from this new formation had yet to be revealed.
Karen and that other Egan would forever remain those unreachable membranous vibrations away. With Pandavas gone it was impossible to find passage to that farther shore. The truth was, he no longer had any desire, were it even possible, to attempt the journey. He had grown content with the idea of making do with only one imperfect world. Life was far less complicated that way.
Looking at Nora across the dining room table, her two daughters playing in the other room, their giggling voices carrying throughout the house, Lyköan knew he could live with that. Live with that and be happy. While not the Elysian Fields, it was as close as any man could ever hope to come. He had experienced the great beyond and survived an even greater adventure. Neither had been quite what they were cracked up to be.
Samsara had arrived like an angry rogue wave upon a placid sea. After the tumult of its passage, life felt no different from the reality that had preceded it. Maybe it shouldn’t. Were the horrors of the spiritual environment pushed back a bit farther into the shadows? It felt that way, but who could say with any certainty? Existence was still infinite, unknowably enormous, and no less baffling than it had ever been.
* * *
The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.
Emerson : Brahma
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
While The SONG of SHIVA has truly been a labor of love, every creative endeavor demands a great deal of genuine hard labor as well. Being respectful of the demands of Karma, therefore, I would be remiss if I did not thank the many generous and talented people who deserve a good deal of credit for the story that resulted.
If the characters and events portrayed between curtain up and epilogue resonate with anyone, most of the credit should go to Don Meserve, a dear friend since childhood, who spent countless hours as fearless manuscript editor and believability engineer, restraining my tendency to excess.
Doug Allaire, Brett Huston, Paul Addison, Dennis Báthory-Kitsz and my brother Patrick have provided open eyes and scores of uncompensated hours, pouring over a seemingly endless series of preliminary drafts, pointing out everything from minor typographical errors to significant plot inconsistencies. Each of these stalwarts deserves more thanks than I will ever be able to deliver.
Warren Hammond, author of the gritty KOP series of scifi/detective novels, who read through the lumbering first and second drafts without complaint, offered invaluable advice on how the story might be tightened and thereby improved. Through Warr
en, I was able to gain the eye and ear of New York literary agent, Richard Curtis, who offered encouragement and graciously made recommendations that reinforced much of Warren's advice.
Finally, I would like to thank Dave Millwater, confirmed orientalist and also a dear friend since childhood, who provided the initial generative spark from which The SONG of SHIVA ultimately sprang, as well as nearly all the Thai transliterations of fictional people and places that, I sincerely believe, add much to the narrative's authentic sound, feel, and general air.
To each and every one of you, my earnest and heartfelt thanks.
The SONG of SHIVA Page 49
