The Moondust Sonatas

by Alan Osi

  Still, I admired his tenacity. As thin as his subterfuge, as blatantly obvious that he’d neither read the material nor cared, he didn’t give up. No signals I threw at him would divert him from his chosen path. Which meant our conversation, if you could call it that, went on and on.

  When I neared tears, he finally went for the jugular. “Well shoot, Professor Bradford, I still don’t really get it. I just don’t know how I’m going to get the assignment due tomorrow in on time. Do you think maybe I could get an extension?”

  “Sure. You have an extra week. See you in class.” He lacked the savvy to hide his eyes lighting up. But, it was worth it to get him out of my office. Especially since I didn’t care, either.

  Tragically, as soon as he happily bounced out of the door, someone else came in. I groaned inwardly, and then took a look at him, and some mild curiosity peeked. He didn’t seem to be a student.

  He seemed to be in his late twenties or early thirties, and he wore smart, well-fitting slacks, woolen pea coat that looked like it cost about half my salary, and Italian leather shoes. Given that your average student seemed allergic to clothing under the business-casual umbrella, and would melt in the sun if not for the requisite baseball cap, he must have been something else than another nameless collegiate widget.

  “Can I help you?” I said.

  “Am I to understand you are a chemistry professor?” As he asked me this, he took a seat in the chair in front of me. Something about the way he did it annoyed me, like how his body language seemed to show he assumed control of the situation. This was my office, damn it.

  “Are you a student here?”

  “I’m a reporter. I’m here with a unique opportunity, given your access to a lab and ability to analyze a substance.” He pulled out a small bag from his pocket, the type that had a tendency to hold small quantities of Marijuana. “This powder is called moondust, and I’m doing an article on it. The first chemist I engaged to study it said it had heretofore unknown chemical properties, and I need someone to verify his findings.”

  “What kind of chemical properties?”

  “If I told you that, it might influence your results. It suffices to say that we’re anticipating its study could have major scientific repercussions and result in serious accolades for a chosen few.” He tossed the stuff onto my desk. “Take a look, why don’t you? The most basic tests should give you an idea of what you’re dealing with. If you’re not impressed, throw it away. All I need you to do in return for this scoop is, when I call, tell me what you’ve found.”

  “Just that?”

  “That’s it. Here’s my info.” He handed me a standard issue business card: it said Maxwell Smith, The New York Globe, and gave a land-line and a cell number. “Use the cell if you need to reach me. If I call you tomorrow, would Monday be too early?”

  “If I agree, you should know that I’ll only have time for a few basic measures. Nothing very intricate—”

  “That’s all we’ll need, I promise. You’ll be hearing from me. Believe me when I say this will be worth your while.”

  Oddly enough, I did believe him. In the silence he left in his wake, I considered his offer, and an urgent kind of curiosity grabbed hold of me. It wasn’t forbidden, I decided, to take office hours in the lab. As long as I put a note on the door, students (at least those intelligent enough to follow simple directions) could find me. Having a task to amuse myself felt something like a stroke of luck, perhaps even a godsend; if I believed in God that was.

  51. MAXWELL

  So far so good. The office didn’t question when I called in sick for Monday; no one could know what kind of story I had until I wrote it. And after reviewing my progress, I liked my ideas and my heading. The winds were with me.

  My chemist’s morale was the only negative development. I wasn’t sure of his problem—sitting, as he did, on the opportunity of a lifetime—but whatever bee was in his proverbial bonnet, I could handle it. He was expendable as a source, and since I needed two scientists anyway to verify authenticity, it would be easy to switch out my quoted expert.

  Everything so far was merely a prelude to today’s major action.

  I decided I would stop by Peter’s office to leave him the sample he requested. Beaver gave me a decent amount, and I didn’t want to keep it a second longer than necessary.

  My next task was more important. I needed to talk to clergy about moondust, its religious implications, the effect on the faithful—issues like these. I had a church in mind, low-key enough for my purposes. I knew it because it was near to Justine’s house. It was memorable because in our brief time together, we’d passed it a number of times, and she’d cross herself each time. When I asked, she called it a reflex.

  Talking to Justine was the worst thing I needed to do. A reporter—no matter at what personal cost—investigated in order to bring the news to the people without bias, pulling no punches. A reporter had to be leather and steel. My path was set. Justine was religious and therefore committed to a position on this question. Yet, I wanted to know that she was safe.

  And after that, conning a few street toughs would be easy. Self-loathing could only help me play my part.

  Still. I wanted to call her one more time, to give us another chance. I took my phone out of my pocket, pulled up her number from my contacts list, and stared at her name on the screen.

  I was on the train, and I must have sat, frozen, for five minutes before I put the phone back in my pocket, the number un-dialed.

  52. WINSTON

  I sat in my office. I should have been preparing my remarks for my homily for next Sunday. The church had a tradition of using the same Bible passage from Monday through the following Sunday evening. Every funeral or other ministerial act (except on a feast day) used the same text. Being ready with my studies fulfilled my priestly duties.

  Instead, I reread a favorite novel, Franny and Zooey. While it held far from orthodox views, the faith in the novel lifted my spirits. The thesis of the book is this: no matter the circumstances, we should attend to all the minute details of our lives and be our best for Jesus, who is part of all of us, who is representative of the very best of humanity. Through Him, we can connect with the downtrodden, the sinners, and all those who stand in our way. This is why we turn the other cheek, and this is why we pray for our enemies—because, although they may not know it, Christ is one with them, as He is one with everyone through God, our Father, and through the Holy Spirit. Whatever else the book held, this sentiment stood out, and was the point. And for this I read it again and again.

  Perhaps I could turn this rereading session into something more than a guilty pleasure. I could use its message as the backbone of my address, whether it be someone in confession or near death. Perhaps I could compose something on the idea of praying without ceasing. A powerful practice, to be sure.

  I began developing my thoughts on this type of prayer—its advantages, how to update it into a modern practice given the chaotic nature of our lives in this new world, and what the attempt, in and of itself, could give a person in terms of nearness to God.

  About halfway through a visitor arrived, knocking on the door. He was a youngish man, late twenties or early thirties. He had a firm, heady, confident look about him. But, his carriage made it clear that he was less than comfortable in our Lord’s sacred space. A hint of a smirk played on his lips, which he attempted to hide with uneven success. Too, his tread and bearing suggested great care, as if he consciously forced himself to avoid sacrilege. I found this attitude in many outsiders to our faith, most pronounced in those whose beliefs tended toward the very sacrilege they hoped to avoid in action. But, one cannot truly hide what is in one’s heart, at least not from any who have the ability to see past the skin of things.

  “Hello, Father, may I speak with you a moment?”

  “Yes, of course. Come in, sit down.” I made my way back toward my desk as the man took a seat in the chair placed for visitors. “May I ask why you’ve come?”


  “I’m with a newspaper,” he said. “The New York Globe. I’m working on a story about a designer drug, which poses a specific threat to religious organizations and the very concept of God. I was hoping to get something like an interview from you, to hear your opinions about it, and get a sense of the church’s view on such a thing.”

  I sighed. God was not a concept, of course. The man failed to avoid sacrilege already. “I see. Well, I’m willing to talk to you. But, for official statements, I’m afraid you’ve aimed a little low on the totem pole, so to speak. I’d have to check with the bishop before going on record, and surely the bishop would wish to represent the church himself.”

  “I see,” he said. He reached into his pocket, and adjusted something in it, and then scratched his head. “Well, if we could speak anyway, that would be wonderful, Father. Would you be willing?”

  “I am.”

  “Good, I’m grateful.” He dug into a different pocket, to pull out a packet of something that looked like cocaine. It might have been something else, of course; I was far from an expert in such things. He seemed too relaxed to have brought such a substance into a church. “I’m here about this,” he said. “It’s called moondust. Please let me tell you something about it, and accept my apologies in advance if what I tell you makes you uncomfortable.”

  He paused briefly, then continued. “From what I’ve heard, this is a new drug. I’ve spoken with a number of people who have been involved with it, and I’m told it’s unlike anything that we’ve seen in a number of really important ways. I’ll start with what the scientist told me when I went to have it analyzed.

  “As far as science is concerned, given our current understanding of fundamental laws of the universe, this shouldn’t exist. Meaning, it violates the laws of the universe constantly. It’s an impossible substance.”

  He paused then, seemingly for effect. But, of course, I believed less in the laws of science than I did the laws of God. If anything, then the idea that the substance would take the scientific community down a peg intrigued me.

  I responded, “When man finds something impossible, it is more likely man misunderstood God’s world than something happened, which could not happen. Please continue.”

  “Yes. Well, by that logic, we’ve misunderstood a lot. This stuff takes a sledgehammer to scientific theory. When it’s studied, instead of having a normal chemical make-up, say CHO4, for example, it has a different chemical make-up every time it’s looked at. But, these results can’t be real, of course. All that’s clear is that it’s no ordinary drug.”

  “Its religious implications are no less shocking. And they’re why I’m here today. I’d like to tell you about them.”

  He paused, waiting, again, for permission. So I gave it to him, “Continue.”

  “I’m going to tell you how it was introduced to me. I think that’s the best way, given the nature of your work.” He took a breath, and went on. “I was with my girlfriend when a man came up to us and asked if we wanted to experience God. It became clear that he was offering us a drug, a drug unlike any other on the black market. He claimed affiliation with no religious sect or organization. If anything he aimed to prove religion wrong.”

  “Go on.”

  “I did not take this drug. However, I began to investigate it and found an emerging drug culture. All the users of moondust I spoke to confirmed the first time the drug is taken, the user experiences God. This experience has been called essentially indescribable, but containing inhuman amounts of joy and feelings of love.”

  He paused. I felt breathless. I remembered, suddenly, a confused woman whose confession I heard. She told me much the same thing. “It is impossible to experience God from a drug,” I said. “The Bible tells us that even if it were possible, one cannot return to this world after the face of God has been revealed.”

  “Father, I agree with you—but, then, as I told you before, everything about this substance is impossible.”

  “I see,” I said, feeling an uncertainty I’d not known in years.

  He continued. “The real concern here is that every indication points to moondust hitting our society with the ferocity of a wildfire during a drought. Not only is it not illegal. But, because it’s impossible to chemically describe, it can never be criminalized. And, from what I can tell, the druggie element of our society, which is bigger than most people realize, is taking to this stuff like Scooby-snacks. This situation has all the ingredients for an epidemic.”

  Or, I thought, in the silence left in the wake of his words, a plague.

  “Does that worry you, Father?”

  “It is the church’s holy calling to be the bridge between the Divine and the earthly, for all God’s children. Does it worry me that there may be a false church, in powder form, deluding masses of innocents? At least sin-inclined youth? Over the years there have been many. My faith is unshaken; it is not my place to worry. There are always tests for us. God gives them to us so we may prove ourselves worthy of the bounty of Heaven.”

  “Tell me, Father, what does it mean to prove oneself worthy of Heaven? How is it done?”

  “We must rise above the original sin of Adam and Eve. Jesus was born to cleanse this ancient stain through his sacrifice. But, we must follow Him, we must find redemption in his name. Those who seek God through a powder do not. They are being led astray.”

  “Do you think, then, Father, that moondust is of the Devil?”

  I needed to choose my words carefully here, even off the record. The Devil tends to be a difficult subject, always. Was he the deification of evil or evil anthropomorphized? A subtle, but important difference, and even within the church, there were many different ideas. “Honestly, I believe that question is academic. This drug you describe is evil because it deludes those who take it. Is that not enough? If we consider the Devil the root of all evil, anything evil must have roots in the Devil. But, I believe it is enough to say that what you described is dangerous and will harm a soul in a most violent way. It is something which must be fought against, for we all indeed are our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers.”

  “And what would you suggest we all, and especially the church, should do about it? What do you think the long-term danger to society is?”

  “Jesus taught us that, while we must turn the other cheek, we also must stand up to evil wherever it exists. We can do this with love and godliness, the way he did when he prevented the murder of harlots by asking anyone without sin to cast the first stone. As to what the danger is? It is difficult to say. In matters like these, we can only attend to our actions, not possibilities. This is a tenant of faith: trust in God and God’s world.”

  “So you’re not worried.”

  “Again, it is not for me to worry, I am to represent His will.”

  “How do you think the church should stand up to moondust?”

  “With love, not judgment.”

  “What do you think will be the effect of moondust on the people who take it, regarding the afterlife? I mean, where will its users go when they die?”

  I sighed. “There is redemption for all who seek it. But, for those who do not seek redemption, there are actions that can be taken that will hasten one’s journey toward purgatory. It is hard for me to imagine taking this drug you described as being anything but counterproductive.”

  The man looked in my direction for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. And then he stood up. “Thank you, Father. It’s been very good to talk to you.”

  “You’re welcome. I will bring this before Bishop Houston. And I will tell him you wish to speak to him.”

  “Yes, do that,” he said, and handed me his card. “Have a good day.” He walked out of my office.

  I thought I had been rather convincing while speaking to him, sounding very sure of myself, saying more or less the right things, and answering difficult questions with a mix of diplomacy and candor that spoke well of my station. But, in truth, I was lying when I said this phenomenon didn’t worry me.


  It wasn’t the reporter’s words that spurred my disquiet. But, the woman whom I’d seen days ago, the one who was led astray by this substance. The agitation in her voice, the anguish expressed. Something had to be done. We could not abandon good people, such as her—who for whatever reason were susceptible—to the fate that awaited on the other end of an inanimate false prophet.

  On my desk lay the small baggie of powder that the reporter showed me. I suppose he left it by accident. It seemed deceptively innocent, quietly obeying the pull of gravity. But, the greatest evils often wore a cloak of purity.

  53. MARK

  Hailey showed up first. Percival ran late as usual, even though this was his gig. But, I would never hold it against him, especially not today. People were chasing him. The winds of his life blew fiercely.

  “Do you know what this is all about?” I asked Hailey.

  “Oh brother. He didn’t tell you, either?” She responded, with the usual meaningful, distant smile on her face. She had her gorgeous mysteries. I loved to photograph her, when she let me, which wasn’t often.

  I said, “Well, he mentioned something about a windfall from his current troubles. But, that was it.”

  “I know. That was the weird part. You know all about the picture and stuff, right?”

  “Of one of the guys outside of his apartment? Yeah. I would have thought he’d be more concerned about that. Perhaps he’s found some Zen.”

  Hailey laughed. “Hoping you’re having a positive influence on him, are you?” She put her feet up on my coffee table, now. “Good luck with that. But, if you want to have a positive influence on me…”