Over the Rainbow - Book One - 'The Gathering Place'

by Robert Vaughan

  Over the Rainbow

  Book One – ‘The Gathering Place’

  Robert Vaughan

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2015 by Robert Vaughan

  Acknowledgements

  To Glenn and Pahia, two of the most unlikely of muses for this most unusual of tales; to Halie for her steadfast devotion and unshakeable resolve that this story would make a wonderful book. To the wonderful and mysterious Universe, who provided the truly mystical concatenation of events that led to its’ creation. And to Liam, whose arrival helped me see it through to the end.

  To all of you, I say sincerely- Mahalo.

  Foreword

  The strange, mystical journey that eventually became the sprawling tale I titled- ‘Over the Rainbow’ began almost thirteen years ago, when a feverish bout of writing about a story that insisted it be told wouldn’t let me rest until the gist of it had been set down in words. I was an artist at the time, comfortably mired in a career as a Designer and Scenic Artist for Theater, Film and Television. But a writer? I hadn’t written anything since high school (if you don’t count a horridly trite and concatenated attempt at a stage-play during my Freshman year in college). But writing? Never crossed my mind. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy it- I did, perhaps more thoroughly than any other form of artistic expression. I just didn’t consider it as a job. But then of course, the Universe apparently had other ideas- those of course being the strange and serendipitious circumstances that I revealed in my Bio after the conclusion of Book One.

  One bright summer day in 2003, just after putting the final touches on a particularly delightful rendition of ‘The Fantastiks’, I got a call- my Dad had passed away. Cancer. I hurriedly threw my gear into a bag and embarked on the twelve-hour drive to Montana to help my Mom with the arrangements. As I was about to drive away my wife gave me a gift to accompany me on the long, lonely trip. It was a new CD by one of my favorite artists- The Blue Man Group, titled ‘The Complex’.

  Somewhere in the middle of the desolate lunar landscape of southern Idaho, I slotted the disc into the dash and touched ‘Play’. The first cut, a piece called ‘Above’ danced from the speakers. As the first notes of the melody tinkled in my ears I nearly drove off the road as a vision exploded into my awareness. It was the image of a sleek white glider- rising, rising ever higher on a warm draft of air from the Earth below, climbing gently skyward into a cloud-puffed sky. A pause in the song preceded a crashing crescendo of sound, and the glider in my mind suddenly pitched over and flashed toward the ground, on a literal and metaphysical collision-course with a battered yellow Jeep. And as it did the story blossomed in my mind, fully-finished and complete. After regaining my bearings and focusing on not becoming a solitary vehicular casualty on a lonely stretch of road, I pondered the mystical vision as the undulating wave of featureless asphalt rolled and buzzed beneath me. The details of the story unfolded in smooth, unhurried fashion for the next several hours, an audio book within my mind with vivid pictures and sounds, accompanying and comforting me for the entire duration of the long, arduous trip.

  After I arrived at my destination, I shoved the story to the back of my mind, the myriad of unwelcome and unappetizing details of righting the ship of my mother’s affairs consuming all my time and attention. But no sooner had I returned to my safe, comfortable world, the story reared its’ head again, and I found myself scribbling away madly for hours on a yellow legal pad- ideas, notes, snippets of dialogue, marginal corrections crowding the borders with a host of arrows and symbols that resembled a madman’s diary.

  Finally, I turned on my computer. A few days later, I sat back with a contented sigh and typed ‘The End’. There- it was finished. I truly thought I was done with it- a magical, mystical tale of love, adventure and romance that had come full-circle to a thoroughly satisfying conclusion.

  Nope. Not even close.

  A few weeks after my presumed completion of my unexpected return to my long-forgotten but never-lost love of writing, at precisely 3:14 AM one restless summer’s night, I was rudely awakened by a pair of unlikely characters who were idly chatting away on a heavenly beach- you will come to know them as Buddy and Walter, who insisted that the story I had told was vastly incomplete at best, that the serendipitious interlacing’s of their lives (and mine) was far from over- in fact it was just beginning to get interesting.

  Groan. Seriously, guys-? It’s like three AM- in the morning. And it’s still night.

  Unfortunately, their story was compelling enough that I knew I couldn’t rest until I had granted them their due. And by now of course I was thoroughly awake, the story still unspooling in my mind as I stared at the ceiling, the scenes jumping and merging like a strange movie on a semi-dark screen. With a heavy sigh I quietly rolled out of bed and tiptoed to the computer.

  By the time I had consumed my third cup of coffee that morning I had written the bulk of ‘Starting all over again…’- and had also laid out the course of over a dozen subsequent episodes of my tale in a frenzied and convoluted fashion on the now-unrecognizable legal pad.

  That was then. Since that time, the story has manifested itself in a myriad of incarnations; a movie, a mini-series, a TV series, and back again to a movie before finally ending up as the epic tale of ‘serendipity’ that I believe it truly wanted to be all along. Four different titles, over 250,000 words (and counting), countless iterations and too-numerous-to-count edits and re-writes, the story still continues to almost write itself, and I greet each day as I sit at the keyboard in the delight of discovering the continual unfolding of my colorful, quirky characters and the mysterious and magical interweaving’s of their lives.

  I hope you enjoy them. I know I do.

  Robert Vaughan

  Ogden, Utah

  May 2015

  Prologue

  The thatched rooftops of the sleepy tropical village sparkled in the pale moonlight, twinkling with sapphires and diamonds from the dew of a passing rain. It was a typically still and quiet night in this rural island hamlet, the only sounds being the silkily silent waves that whispered a lullaby to the shore, the gentle chorus of crickets that sang softly in accompaniment, and the occasional antiphonal bark of a lonely dog.

  But nestled almost invisibly at the edge of the jungle that ringed this cluster of huts and houses, a solitary structure stood curiously apart from the rest. A feeble flickering light leaked from its sole window and a slow trickle of smoke drifted lazily from its roof, unexpected signs of human activity on this seemingly ordinary night.

  But this was no ordinary night…

  The fire flickered softly in the metal brazier, the coals that fed it glowing red, then orange, then red, pulsating like a thing alive- as if within their very core they contained a fiery heartbeat. Above the flames a pair of aged and weathered hands slowly rubbed each other in concert, a shimmering shower of glistening powder drifting gently from them into the fire below. The sparkling dust was hungrily consumed by the rising flames, the fire flickering and jumping, tightening and coalescing into a vaguely human shape, one that abruptly flashed and transformed itself into the unmistakable form of a female dancer.

  The blazing creature of light and flame now began to move of its own accord, its flaming body waving softly from side to side, hair and arms rising and falling like the swelling waves of the endless sea, dancing in time to an inaudible rhythm. Its movements were hypnotic, mesmerizing, lithe and sinuous; an ancient dance that told an even older story, a language of movement that told a timeless tale.

  As the fiery creature danced and swayed, the weathered hands dusted the final grains of the irides
cent powder from their palms and gathered up a handful of small, dark wooden disks. They shook them loosely within their grasp for several moments- a muted, musical rattling betraying their presence; a soft conversation in gently clicking voices. And then without warning the hands abruptly parted and the disks tumbled down onto a worn wooden table where they scattered and clattered across a brightly colored cloth.

  The thin, brown hands hovered above the mysterious objects for the briefest of instants, and then quickly descended and began sifting and sorting among the strangely patterned disks- some inscribed with odd, ancient designs, still others marked enigmatically with a singular dot of white. Eventually the hands stopped in their wanderings, finally satisfied with their arrangement, and now began to twitch and dance as they drifted and darted above the scattered disks- sensing, absorbing, probing; reading their silent story, an almost invisibly golden glow now softly pulsing and radiating from the leathery palms as they glided to and fro above the table.

  And then- they stopped.

  A single crooked finger pointed out a figure on one of the disks. The image looked distinctly female, clearly reminiscent of the flames in the brazier, its lines and contours waving like a tree in the breeze- sinuous lines of 'hair' and 'arms' waving gently to one side. As the finger hovered over the strange icon, the sound of a silky female voice rippled in the fragile silence. The language it spoke was rooted in the mists of time; its’ tones lyrical, musical, mystical - almost as if singing the predictions and prognostications of the story told by the dark wooden objects.

  “There will be a girl…”

  The wavering finger moved ever-so-slightly to one side and hovered over another disk immediately adjacent to the previous, this one unmarked save for the sole dot of white on its surface. The hand reached to it and slowly turned it over. Its’ opposite face revealed the image of a masculine stick figure, an arching halo radiating above its head- the ‘Rainbow Man’.

  The ancient voice declared softly, “And a boy…”

  A muted gasp betrayed the presence of another soul in the tiny hut, and then a timid voice inquired with a hushed note of surprise, “Another- twins?”

  The other voice replied with a slight chuckle, “Yes. But not as you think. Look. The boy- downward. Their births will be separate- worlds apart, and yet- together.” The hand darted to another of the white-dotted disks and quickly turned it over, revealing the image of Honu, the sea turtle. But not just Honu alone- for on the face of the disk were a pair of the graceful creatures, each overlapping the other in union. “They will again be as one,” the ancient one said with a confident tone. “A reunion separated only by time.” The hand indicated another of the disks just beside it- a sun rising over the waves, and again she spoke, “He will come, many years from now- from across the water…” And then the leathery hand pointed to another just above that, this one filled with several strange beings of various size, curious legless forms floating almost at random on the surface of the dark disk, and concluded, “…and the Gathering will begin.”

  A long moment of silence followed, the gaze of the ageless one sweeping slowly back and forth, the hands wandering aimlessly above the remaining dark objects scattered about the table, drifting this way and that, stopping and starting, as if now unsure of their destination.

  And then again without warning they abruptly stopped.

  But this time the weathered fingers began to tremble and shake, softly quivering as they hovered above the mystical objects, the flickering golden glow from the leathery palms now alternately flaring and fading.

  The timid voice inquired tremulously, “Is- is there more?”

  In silent response, one of the hands shakily descended and tentatively- indeed almost reluctantly, turned over a final disk. Revealed on its’ surface was a crude, jagged scratch, a bolt of lightning, dividing a 'man' in half. A sharp intake of breath betrayed the unmistakable fear in the words that followed, “Oh-! Kane-hekili!” The ancient voice paused as this revelation echoed into silence, and then it continued- slowly, deliberately, a distinct note of caution underscoring the next words. “There will be great danger…”

  A quavering tone of fear colored the other voice as the words tumbled out. “To-? To the girl?”

  “To all,” the ancient one declared flatly.

  Above – Part One

  Far above the chaos and cacophony that were the streets of Lower Manhattan, an ancient ritual was taking place in the airy confines of the seventy-third story penthouse club. From this God’s-eye view atop a glittering skyscraper, far removed from the mere mortals scurrying in squalor below, a quiet celebration was underway, one as old as time itself, as old as the notion of royalty had existed, perpetuated by the myth of privilege and divine right that has persisted to this very day.

  It was the anointing of kings.

  A chamber quartet played a soft Vivaldi tune as silent waiters in starched white uniforms glided skillfully among the colorful guests, their glistening silver trays piled high with exotic canapés and bubbling crystal flutes, bending and offering their wares to deliberately ignoring lords and ladies whose attentions were aloof and distant. Elderly dowagers and ancient old men were scattered about the room, perching limply on elegantly brocaded and gilded furnishings, nodding off or nursing drinks, evidence of their youth long dissipated.

  A group of suits, exclusively men, balding and middle-aged, were clustered before a massive marble fireplace, their rumblings and gestures slow and deliberate, forced by necessity as a result of the tight constrictions of ill-fitting jackets and strained-to-bursting cummerbunds.

  Business, as usual, was the order of the day.

  Walter Matthews, the second of his line, was unmistakably the elder statesman of the group. With his silver-white hair and ruddy complexion, it was clearly evident that he had achieved that point in his orbit where a life of leisure was now the pinnacle of his existence, a world where sailing yachts and polo ponies where the sole focus of his attentions. He slowly scanned the room over the rim of his glass, which was at present nearly empty of the twenty-four year old Glenfidditch he had reserved especially for this occasion. He sighed contentedly in response to his observations and then turned to address his son, Walter, third of his line (hereafter referred to merely as ‘Walter’) a wry smile and twinkling blue eyes underscoring the barely concealed irony in his voice.

  “Never thought I'd actually see the day that you managed to salvage that one,” he said as he gestured with his glass across the cavernous room, slowly polishing off the remainder of the amber liquid to conceal his private amusement.

  Walter glowered over the rim of his own glass, knocking back the few remaining drops with a scowl. His gaze travelled across the distance to join his father’s on an ornately Baroque wooden archway in the distance, its entrance framing a boisterous and rowdy scene within. But among the clustered group of twenty-somethings gathered around an intricately carved antique pool table, only one was the focus of his attentions-

  His son.

  Christopher Robert Matthews, newly minted Harvard MBA, was drunk, very drunk, or so it would seem. His mortar-board was tilted and askew on his head, and he wavered and wobbled as he tipped a foam-laced glass to his lips, propped up on either side by a pair of ridiculously beautiful sorority girls, who by their looks appeared to aspire to nothing more ambitious than being future trophy wives, vapid arm candy that Chris was idly fondling with an air of detached boredom.

  A rousing chorus of cheers and jeers suddenly burst from the room, briefly piercing the soft strains of Vivaldi, and Walter snorted derisively, jerking his attention back to his father. “That makes two of us,” he said, casting his gaze about for someone to refresh his drink.

  “So, what are your plans for him?”

  “Oh- the usual. Rough him up in the trenches, give him a feel for the business, then toss him into the fire, temper him a bit...”

  “Sounds familiar.”

  “It should. It's exactly what you did t
o me.” At Walter’s insistent gesture, a waiter glided silently to his side, refilling his glass with almost invisible ease and then disappearing just as quietly, a white-clad ninja with a silver tray. Walter took a long, slow, contemplative swallow and continued, “I sometimes wonder if he ever really wanted to…”

  “Wanted to what?”

  Walter frowned into the distance. “To graduate- it was almost as if he was trying to sabotage it to the very end, you know? He would get top grades- best in his class, and then blow off school for a week so he could go chasing after the first hint of powder in the Alps!”

  Walter the second replied with a wry chuckle and a raise of white eyebrows, “Well, they say the apple never falls far from the tree...”

  Walter turned and countered defensively, “Hey! I never-”

  Walter II interrupted him with a raised glass and a slow wag of his head, “Sorry, my boy, but it's true... For you, it was sailing. I was never really sure which was more important, the lure of the water or the allure of the club, but it’s true.” He sighed resignedly and continued, “Fortunately, parents exerted more- control back in the day. If you had been brought up now, you'd have probably done the same damn thing.” He paused in silent contemplation of his empty glass and full life, and then added wistfully, “Things were just different... then.”

  The conversation faded as the mutual gaze of both Walters returned to the elaborate archway, where the sounds of youthful exuberance and a driving techno beat now pulsed and pounded, fracturing the soft strains of Vivaldi under their relentless assault.