The Cotten Stone Omnibus: It started with The Grail Conspiracy... (The Cotten Stone Mysteries)

by Lynn Sholes

“You said you were told to go find me at Rimancu. Who told you?”

  The shaman spread his arms to their surroundings. “Your cries were brought to me upon the wind, your fear was swept along with the dark river below us, your pain I felt seep up from the earth itself.”

  “That’s impossible,” Cotten said. “How can it be?”

  “Patience, Mayta, you are about to learn.” With a motion of his arm, they started along the trail.

  After what Cotten thought was close to half an hour of walking, Yachaq stopped at a large rock formation with steps carved into its side.

  “What is this place?” she asked, touching the wall of carved stone.

  “To the Runa, the people—that is what we call ourselves—this place is a huaca, a holy, mystical place. Go up the steps,” he said. “On top, sit and become calm.”

  At the top, Cotten found a smooth, level plane. As she sat cross-legged on the cool stone, Yachaq joined her.

  “Close your eyes.” His voice blended with the breeze through the trees.

  Cotten obeyed.

  “First, you will cast out the thoughts that obstruct your vision. I want you to imagine yourself floating in a pool of sacred light, pure light. Liquid light. Light so brilliant it blocks out every other object. Put yourself there, in the clear, brilliant, liquid light. It bathes you in its warmth—shining, glittering, brilliant light washing over you.”

  Yachaq waited for her to follow his instructions before speaking again. “Allow the light to pour inside you. Let it come in from every surface of your body. Welcome the light into the center of your being, where it collects and spins—spinning pure light.”

  Cotten felt the intensity of the light she imagined and experienced tiny vibrations as she envisioned the light spinning inside her core. It was a sensation like none she had ever felt before.

  “Do not let go of the light,” Yachaq said in a soothing voice. “Set your mind free so it moves effortlessly, not stopping on any thought, traveling through space and time in absolute stillness. The light spins inside you, brilliant, clear. Pure energy, pristine, virginal energy. It moves inside you, the spinning growing larger, an oval now from your base to the crown of your head. Exist only in this perfect moment.”

  Cotten didn’t speak. She was overcome by the sensation. She blocked out all thoughts, concentrating only on the pureness of the light.

  “Let it spin down now,” Yachaq said. “It grows smaller. Smaller still. Smaller still. The light is fading.” He paused.

  Cotten felt the diminishing of the light, its glow not as intense, the spin slowing.

  “Release it,” Yachaq whispered. “Feel the warmth left behind.” He paused, then said, “You are ready, Mayta?”

  Cotten felt totally at peace, completely cleansed, and reveled in it.

  “Say nothing. Listen. Your mind has the clarity of pure energy. There is no clutter. Listen.”

  She sat in silence, wondering what she should hear.

  “Tell me,” Yachaq said, “what sounds come to you?”

  “I don’t hear anything,” Cotten said. “Only the rush of the river . . . the wind in the grass and brush . . . the distant, shrill cry of a bird.”

  “What else?”

  Gradually, more sounds came to her, sounds that startled her—many sounds. “The whisper of my clothes against my skin . . . a small animal moving through the grass—I hear its breathing . . . water tumbling a pebble along the river bottom . . . an insect moving among the flowers.”

  “You learn fast,” Yachaq said. “Faster than any of my other students. The spirit of nature dwells in you, does it not?”

  He knew, she thought. He knew when he named her Mayta—the only one. What’s more, he knew what she was.

  The daughter of a Fallen Angel.

  She could still hear his voice the first time he called her by the Incan name. It was as clear as the water pushing the pebble along the river below.

  Cotten Stone opened her eyes and gazed at the surrounding jungle, the valley carved by the mighty river, the mountains beyond. She felt as though she sat atop the world.

  “Your first lesson,” Yachaq said. “As I told you before, let it unfold. With practice, all answers will come from within. You will create the world in which you live. But in time. This is just the beginning.”

  Cotten turned to him. “How do you know who I am?”

  “We are all of the same energy,” he said. “In everything we do, we must respect the entire universe. We are our thoughts. Using the energy of the liquid light is the beginning—the first lesson to help you open yourself, recognize yourself as part of the source, the single energy that is everything. It will be important for you when you return to your world.” He held out his hand. “Take this. Keep it close. It will remind you that just as the condor has wings to soar, so does your spirit.” Yachaq handed her a hollow condor bone and feather fetish.

  Cotten looked up at him.

  “Take it,” he said, spilling it into her hand. “The cuntur, the condor, as you call it, does not feed on the living. It depends on carcasses. And so you can send away the dead inside you on the wings of the cuntur.”

  Cotten held it close, then swept her hair from her face. “But I think I have decided to stay here. I could continue to learn your ways. You could be my mentor,” she said, hoping to please him.

  “Why do you think the liquid light came to you so easily? You are special. Yet you still do not accept that you are chosen?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve tried to put that out of my mind. And what if I don’t want to be special, to be chosen? I had nothing to do with this life I’m now leading. What if I don’t believe it?”

  Yachaq looked at her curiously. “We all make deliberate decisions about our lives. You can live your life however you want. But unconsciously you may make doors open that you think you have closed.”

  Cotten looked away. “It was decided for me, or so I’ve been told . . . a contract without my signature.”

  “You have a destiny, Mayta. We all do. What you make of it is within your power.”

  “I didn’t choose my destiny. My father did . . . and God.”

  “You are not really that different from any of us. We all have our place. Just as there are many paths in the forest leading to different destinations, all the paths of life lie before us each day, each minute. All the paths exist at the same time—we simply choose which to follow. Once you understand the power of the liquid light, you will see the paths before you and choose the one resulting in the most good.”

  “It just seems that so much of my life has already been chosen for me—especially in the last three years.”

  Yachaq sat quietly, watching her wring her hands as she tried to find the words.

  “You doubt yourself? Your greatness?”

  “There’s nothing great about me. And yes, I do doubt myself, my decisions. Sometimes I wonder if I really have control over my actions at all. Is it really up to me to decide if I should go home? That’s the eventuality of it, isn’t it? If I choose not to go back, something outside of my control will come along and force me.”

  “There can be no forcing. You will open the door that will lead you home, whether you are aware of it or not. Mayta, staying here will not relieve you of your burden.”

  Yachaq was right. She knew it—had known it for some time now. That was why she was born, why she existed. She knew God’s enemies—Viracocha’s enemies—were responsible for the creation-fossil hoax, for setting her up and discrediting her. But it was easier to blame herself for not doing her homework. And maybe she hadn’t. How easily she’d been led to a place so high just so she could fall. Discrediting her meant she could not expose them. Terrorizing her would cause chaos, fear, and insecurity—and, in the case of Paul, Nick, and Edelman, death.

  Cotten choked back the fear. The life she im
agined ahead was more than she could bear. “I can’t,” she said, her voice clear and resolute. “I want to be courageous and brave and . . .” The conviction faltered. “But in truth I’m only a reporter who got too big for her britches. I’m not ready for any valiant task. I’ll fail. Don’t you see? The world can’t trust me. God can’t trust me.”

  Peter Pan

  Lester Ripple cut the banana into small disks, three in rapid succession and then a pause before the next three. “One, two, three.” The pale yellow circles fell onto the bread, which was already spread with chunky Peter Pan peanut butter. Lester left the small pointed butt end of the banana in the peel and threw it in the trash.

  He gathered his supper—the sandwich, a Kosher dill pickle, and a glass of buttermilk, which was hard to find these days, and headed for the sofa and TV tray. He already had NPR on the radio, and it was Science Friday—the best.

  Lester adjusted his eyeglasses. The Scotch tape he had wrapped around the hinge had a tiny exposed piece of adhesive that tugged at a hair from his eyebrow. He grimaced as the hair pulled out of its follicle, and the glasses sat squarely on the bridge of his nose.

  Next to him on the sofa was a test he’d found on the Internet that determined a person’s “nerd factor.” So far he was batting a thousand—well, almost.

  Are you socially inept?

  Is your vision worse than 20/40?

  Do you know pi past five decimal places?

  Were you ever on a chess team?

  Do you know more than three programming languages?

  He’d answered ninety-nine questions like this, and then came the last one, which made him discount the entire survey. Actually, it had done more than make him disregard it, the last question had made Lester angry because of how it demonstrated society’s total disrespect for intelligence.

  Have you ever reached sexual climax while programming a computer past 4 a.m.?

  Didn’t that just prove his observations of today’s society? It was athletes and entertainers who got all the millions and the respect. And they didn’t need any sort of brain in their heads. And who was to blame for this? The common man. That’s who determined what and who is valued. Mankind had lost its integrity.

  So be it, Lester thought.

  He took a bite of his sandwich and focused his attention to Science Friday. He listened intently. The dialogue was about the future of computers. The person being interviewed was Dr. Benjamin Faigel.

  Lester took a big swallow of the buttermilk to wash down the sandwich while registering the radio dialogue in his head. Faigel was leaving something out. Something important. Lester was going to have to call in to the show.

  He chewed another bite of sandwich three times—one, two, three—slid his hands down the front of his shirt to wipe off any peanut butter or banana remains, then stood and went to the kitchen wall phone.

  He dialed the number for Science Friday, which he had written on a tablet on the counter. He couldn’t let this program go on without mentioning how he had already demonstrated qubit operation of a silicon circuit using standard fabrication techniques. He had proved that it could be done. The key was having a high number of operations within the characteristic coherence time of the qubits to control the coupling between qubits . . .

  “Yes, this is Lester Ripple,” he said when the NPR operator answered. “I need to speak to your guest.”

  Sunrise

  Prayer is the key of the morning and the bolt of the evening.

  —MOHANDAS GANDHI

  Cotten couldn’t sleep. The liquid light experience had intrigued her, making her want to try it again. If she practiced, maybe it would bring her peace, as Yachaq promised. It certainly worked for Yachaq—and for those few brief moments that it had provided some tranquility for her. She wasn’t sure what he meant by saying she could create her world. This had to be the kind of meditation so much of the New Age culture was about, but it seemed to go beyond what she had seen and heard, she thought. Maybe it was the Andes, the mysticism of the Incan culture, the distance from civilization, and of course Yachaq’s guidance that had captivated her. She wanted to try it again—this time alone—and see if she could conjure up that same harmony she felt with Pachamama. She wanted to recreate the serenity, make it last longer and go deeper.

  Cotten sat up on the cot. Sunrise would be the perfect time.

  The village was quiet. A faint scent of smoke from a nearby cooking fire, long turned to embers, was all she smelled. In the distance, a dog barked once. She could slip away to the huaca and be there at dawn.

  To protect herself from the cold, Cotten slipped on the Incan poncho given to her by the women of the village. Stepping from her hut, she looked up at the full moon. Plenty of light. All she had to do was follow the trail. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she should wait until sunrise and have Yachaq accompany her. No. She wanted to see if she could bring about the same experience on her own. She felt drawn to it—almost compelled.

  Heading quietly across the center of the village, Cotten searched for the path Yachaq had shown her. The eastern sky was already changing from coal to charcoal—dawn less than an hour away. She saw the faint outlines of the mountains against the sky.

  Cotten was determined to be sitting upon the rock, ready for her passage into the wondrous liquid light, when the sun moved up the sky and silhouetted the great Andes peaks. She wanted to be there as the world first felt the warmth of the new day.

  Navigating the path was easier than she thought. Still, she moved slowly and cautiously, fearing that a fall could result in not being found for hours. She had already spent long enough recuperating from her last fall—she wasn’t ready to go through that again.

  Finally arriving at the huaca, she stood at the outcropping and quickly climbed the carved steps to the top.

  The glow from the east grew brighter as she took in a deep breath. The cool morning air invigorated her, bringing energy and excitement to her spirit.

  Cotten thought back to the way that Yachaq had taught her. Once again, she imagined herself floating in a pool of the liquid light. It became so brilliant that it blocked out the ever-brightening dawn. Cotten felt it flooding her center, spinning down into her core, cleansing her of all but the pure essence of the light.

  She allowed her body to be fully immersed. Soon, she heard the sounds of the river and the forest, a few animals moving in the underbrush, the whisper of the wind, the distant call of birds, the—

  Suddenly, a voice interrupted. “Es ella? ”

  Cotten jerked back. Her eyes flashed open, immediately becoming blinded by a bright light. She brought her hand up, shielding her eyes from the pain of the light. As her vision slowly adjusted, she saw three figures standing before her. One held a paper in his hand, holding it up and appearing to compare what was on it to her. The other man’s flashlight beam was trained on her face.

  “Sí,” another one said, looking at the paper and back at her. “Se parece a ella.” He peered up at Cotten. “Sí.”

  “Parate,” one of the men said. Then, with a heavy accent, he said, “Up.”

  Getting to her feet, she saw that the three men held weapons—submachine guns—aimed at her.

  One motioned for her to proceed down the steps, punctuating his command with the barrel of his weapon.

  Cotten did as she was told.

  As soon as her foot touched the ground, strong hands twisted her arms behind her, spinning her around. Her wrists were bound and her eyes blindfolded with a bandana. With a shove, she was forced down the path.

  She sensed the river to her left and realized they were leading her away from the village. Somehow she knew she would never return.

  Shining Path

  After hours of stumbling blindfolded along the uneven mountain trail, Cotten felt the first drops of rain hit her face. In another minute, the freezing mountain rain fe
ll hard, soaking her and causing the muddy path to become treacherous.

  The men who had taken her prisoner had said little since surprising her atop the huaca. She knew so little Spanish that she wouldn’t have understood anyway. But she did catch one word—recompense, reward. Whoever these men were, they had come looking for her to claim a reward. The paper they held when she first saw them must have shown her picture and description. This definitely meant the authorities were searching for her. She hoped it also meant she would be kept alive so they could collect the reward.

  In one of their conversations, Yachaq had mentioned pockets of rebels—remnants of the old Shining Path insurgent organization that still could be found in the region. They would jump at the chance to collect a few nuevo soles to pay for food, clothing, and ammunition, Cotten thought.

  She shivered from the freezing rain that pelted the group as they slowly moved through the forest. More than once she slipped, only to be jerked to her feet by the man gripping her arm.

  Suddenly, Cotten was shoved to the ground. She could still hear the rain, but she no longer felt it. They must have found refuge beneath some type of rock formation or in the mouth of a cave.

  She lay on her side, her knees drawn up to her chest, trying to keep warm. Although she couldn’t see them, she heard the men around her in whispered conversation. They had moved away from her. She wished she could understand what they were saying.

  Cotten hoped she had guessed right about their intentions. Then again, maybe they would kill her. Maybe all they needed to collect the reward was her body.

  She listened, trying to catch a word or phrase that would give her a clue. There was a quick burst of static and chatter, probably from a walkie-talkie. One of her captors spoke into the radio, bringing a short response.

  She heard a man laugh as if he felt festive. It gave her the creeps. But then the voices grew louder, sounding agitated. She smelled something that she thought might be rum, and she also detected the scent of marijuana. Soon, a few of the men began arguing. Maybe they were preoccupied and not watching her. Cotten twisted her wrists, seeing if she could loosen the rope. It was already looser than when they had first bound her, probably from so much movement and the effects of the cold. Finally, she snagged one coil of the rope under her thumb and began driving it up her palm. The closer she got the rope to the tips of her fingers, the deeper the opposite part of the coil cut into the tender flesh of her wrist. She bit down on her bottom lip. The rope moved steadily. At last, she forced it over her fingertips, and the single coil fell loosely to the back side of her hand. Cotten wriggled her hands back and forth, feeling the restriction give way. If she could only see exactly where the men were and what they were doing.