Knowing

by Laurel Dewey

  “I never said that.”

  Jane sank back into her recliner. “Sure you did,” she said off handedly.

  He turned toward her sharply. “I never said a word about Marion.”

  Jane smiled and glanced his direction. “Until right then.”

  Monroe bit down on his lip. “Fuck. I lost Situational Awareness again. Shit! This is why they keep me behind the computer and out of the main theater.”

  The mysterious “M” in Harlan’s notebook now had a full name. “You know Marion?”

  He sat up and draped his legs over the chair. “Drop it, Jane!”

  She observed him again and rested her head against the back of the chair. “Interesting. She’s very special, isn’t she?”

  “I mean it!” His voice sounded manic. “Stop it!” He began rocking back and forth. “Please. I’m not kidding. This is not funny.”

  “Okay, okay,” she said, holding her hand in the air. “It’s dropped.” She watched him and waited for the next inhabitant to take him over. Within seconds, his visage altered and he had the appearance of a square jawed, tough army grunt. She pulled her leather satchel toward her, along with the burlap bag and the black notebook. “I need you to look through this bag and notebook for me. See if you pick up on anything important with your keen military eye.”

  Monroe spilled the contents of the burlap bag onto the floor of the porch. He laid them out in a straight line and stared at them. Picking up the bottle of sandalwood oil, he opened it and gave it a good sniff before putting a drop of it on his arm and massaging it in. He lifted up the Yogi book and smiled. “This guy was intriguing.”

  “You’ve read it?”

  He nodded. “That’s affirmative. Gabe gave me a copy. He talks about the spiritual mind. He who controls the mind, controls everything. You give away your mind, and you become nothing but a pawn for them to play with.” He picked up the Easter card with the Angel Gabriel. “Now, that is a good one, Gabe. Nicely done.”

  Jane watched him peruse the items one by one. There were no questions about why Harlan collected all of this or whether Jane was “imagining” it meant something. There was just pure acceptance and for the first time since her journey began, she didn’t feel crazy. The irony didn’t escape her that a crazy guy helped her feel normal. Right at that moment, she didn’t care what alter was operating inside the poor man. “Thank you,” she softly said.

  He looked up at her. “For what?”

  “For believing me. You have no clue what that means to me.”

  “You’re welcome.” He continued looking at the items. “You know, that’s how they keep their power, Jane. What they do is so mind-boggling and improbable that you’d have to be crazy to believe it’s really happening. And yet? It’s going on right now, somewhere in this world. Somebody is being sacrificed so someone else can prosper.” He picked up the pinecone and the bag of pine nuts. “Redundancy. It’s like code. You look for stuff like that.” He regarded the pinecone as if it were a skull in a lab setting.

  “Gabe would only drink pine needle beer, imported from Scotland.”

  “Another sync. So what does a pinecone mean? Pine nuts? Pine beer? They’re just symbols that represent something else. But it’s the power we give to those symbols that makes them so compelling.” He lifted up the lapis stone with the Eye of Horus engraved in gold paint and stuck it up to his eye, giving him a very distorted visage. “It’s repetitive.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Something about this bag of stuff is repeating itself.” He slid The Q magazine out of the way, along with the Easter card. He focused on the key and set that to the side. Picking up the Eco-Goddesses brochure and Blue Heron card, he tossed them to the side, followed by the Patsy Cline tape. But then he retrieved the cassette and placed it next to the pinecone, pine nuts and lapis. Staring at the tiny bottle of sandalwood oil, he gently set it next to the pinecone. Finally, he laid the Yogi book next to the pine nuts. “The pinecone pile is a repetitive code. Yeah, yeah, okay, he’s being repetitive for a reason. That’s how Gabe operated. When he was explaining something to me, he’d tell it to me three different ways with three different analogies. Eventually, it made sense. I think that’s what you have here.” He opened the notebook and flipped through the pages.

  “See anything in there that stands out?”

  Monroe turned the pages. He came up on the page that was filled with the number seventeen and the number thirty-three below it, both with a single accent mark after the number. “Humph.”

  “I met a nurse from the hospital where Harlan was in recovery after his surgery. She had a tat on her wrist of a dove and “17:33” underneath it. But I can’t believe that she was a big enough player in this to earn a whole page in that damn notebook.”

  Monroe stared at the page as if he were deciphering the most complex computer code. “Like I said, Gabe often told the same story more than one way. If you take off the accent marks, you could read it this way. Gabe was born on the seventeenth of February and he died when he was thirty-three.”

  “Maybe it’s a time code? There’s gotta be a reason why Harlan wrote it like a fraction without the line between them.”

  “No, you wouldn’t write a time code like that.”

  “Seventeen has been popping up a lot. You have any idea why that is?”

  “There are a lot of numbers and sequences that come up all the time. And while it’s true that math holds the hidden code of our world, I’m not sure every single one of them has a sinister meaning.”

  “Maybe it’s not sinister. Maybe it’s just trying to lead me somewhere. That sequence has to mean something or I wouldn’t have found that nurse with the tattoo.”

  “Right. Because every single thing you’ve done has been predestined.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  He continued to peruse the book. “It’s scary, isn’t it? Understanding that you have no control over your life and the way it plays out.”

  “You do have control. You just have to take it.”

  He smiled. “Control is a complete illusion, Jane. Unless you’re like Romulus and believe you’re a god.”

  She hesitated before speaking. “You let Romulus control you.”

  He looked up from the book. “You’re right. But Gabe never allowed it.”

  “Gabe’s dead. They won.”

  He turned around to make sure Harlan was nowhere in earshot. “As long as Harlan is alive, Gabe is also alive.”

  “You think that’s what Gabe wanted? Really? Living out the rest of his ‘life’ in someone else’s body?”

  “For awhile…Yeah.”

  “You mean, until they kill Harlan.”

  “I mean…until Gabe decides it’s time to abandon his host.”

  Jane’s head spun. “Wait, what?”

  “When the journey is over, there’s no need to keep driving the bus.” The notebook slipped out of his hands, opening to the center and the page with the single “IEB.”

  Jane was still trying to sort through Monroe’s logic regarding Harlan’s possible demise. “You have any idea what ‘IEB’ stands for?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t match anything I’ve run into.” He turned suddenly, grabbing his rifle and pistol. “What was that?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” she said, scooting down on the recliner. “Listen, back to what you were—”

  He motioned for her to be still and stay quiet as they sat there with the spring wind blowing through the screen. As hard as she tried, Jane couldn’t sense anything that was off. She turned to Monroe. He had his pistol raised to the side of his head with the butt pointed toward the roof. And in that second, she recalled her odd vision where she saw the blurred image of the man with the gun by his head. Stolen. That’s the word she came up with then and now she understood it. He didn’t own his own p
erceptions because all those horrific years had robbed him of his ability to see clearly. His observations and reactions were now tainted with the stain of so much trauma that a sound of a water droplet against a pipe became a reverberating echo that triggered an over reaction.

  Hyper-vigilance. Jane had danced with that beast many times, beginning when she was a young girl. It’s waiting for the other shoe to drop and wondering if it will be a slipper or a boot. It’s coming up with five different exit strategies in the space of four seconds. It’s taking “What if?” to levels that defy rational thinking. It’s learning how to take shallow breaths, because inhaling too much air will create an explosion where all the pieces of your shattered life will be tossed into the wind and scattered for miles. It’s the ultimate control game and the one who chooses to play it, is always the loser. But no matter how many times the cycle spins, the one in the hot seat always forgets that most times, whatever one fears usually doesn’t happen. But that doesn’t matter because it means that the odds of something really big happening the next time are increased. And so it goes. The waiting, the measured relief and the anticipation of the next blow.

  Jane had done that a million times and because of it, she could easily see the shared suffering in similar individuals. Eyes would connect across a crowded room and while the two of them might never say a word to each other, the dialogue of suffering was present and connected them. It was always in the eyes—the windows to the soul. Through the orbs, Jane sourced her comrades, even if they were wearing veils of deception. It was why she loved to see comic actors play serious roles. That was the only way she could see the brutal pain in the actor’s eyes that first molded him and forced him into the role of a funny man so he could escape the brutality. It was that uncut, almost too-hard-to-look-at torture that grabbed her and made her not want to turn away. The recognition was a shared secret between the two of them and every time she watched one of the comedic movies in a darkened theater, she was aware that no one else in that room truly comprehended the depths of despair that was required to pull off the role.

  There are scars that can’t be physically seen. There are wounds that never bleed. Jane determined that in this life, one’s path could be delineated down to two factors. One is the kind of trauma you experience. The second is how you choose to deal with that trauma. Those two factors had charted Jane’s course and colored the palette that had framed her life. She’d learned that when the trauma doesn’t own you, it can’t control you. But being able to unhook your psyche from the oily memories of darker days is a rare gift that isn’t bestowed on many. Looking over at Monroe, waiting like a spaniel on point for the mysterious sound to manifest that only he could hear, she recognized a kindred spirit. He wasn’t even thirty years old but the damage that had been done to him would take several lifetimes to undo. And sadly, whoever he really was on that day when he was plucked out of college and recruited into Romulus was long buried under layers of PsyOps, trauma-induced schizophrenia.

  He was done for the night. He detached himself from the conversation as his mind roamed the dirty corners where the monsters hide. Monroe slowly worked his body back onto the recliner and, rifle by his side and pistol at the ready, he closed his eyes and fell asleep. Jane quietly collected the envelope, sliding it into her leather satchel and replaced the items into Harlan’s bag. After gently removing the black notebook from underneath Monroe’s recliner, Jane sunk into her chair. Pulling the blanket over her body, she willed herself to sleep.

  When she stirred the next morning, she heard the lyrical tweet of sparrows welcoming the new day. Opening her eyes, she saw Monroe standing up, facing the screen and the rising sun. She watched him tilt his head backward and draw in a deep breath. Then, with eyes wide open, he looked directly into the golden light that spilled up and over the distant low-lying hills. In a voice almost impossible to hear, he repeated the prayer that Harlan chanted whenever he was in trouble. “I will face the darkness, but I will not let it become me. Fear may be present but it will not possess me. I will face the darkness, as the knowing light within my heart and mind leads me home. And once again, I will be free.” He held his focus of the morning light, only blinking twice.

  “Hey,” Jane said softly so as not to startle him.

  “Hey,” he replied, never taking his wide eyes off the rising sun.

  “Aren’t you afraid of burning your cornea?”

  “No,” he whispered, as if speaking too loudly would ruin the moment. He continued to stare. “The first light of the day and the last light are safe to gaze into. Gabe taught me how to do it. He said the Egyptians did it. Books will tell you that they worshipped the sun. But that wasn’t exactly true. They’d bend their heads upward at sunrise and sunset to receive the energy and reboot their mind’s eye. They knew a lot more than history books like to talk about. Ancient knowledge is sacred and only those who have the understanding or the ability to convert the knowledge into substance are allowed to discuss it and teach it.”

  “Gabe told you that?” she whispered.

  He closed his eyes and after a few seconds, turned to Jane. “You don’t throw pearls before swine. You don’t try to educate somebody who is stupid or shallow because they’ll never get it, even when they are surrounded by it. You only put your energy into the people who can make a difference.” He turned back to the sun. “You noticed that the sun is whiter these days?”

  It appeared to Jane that whatever character was inhabiting him at that moment was pretty mellow and forthcoming. “Whiter?”

  “I talked to a guy who was in his 70s and he told me the sun used to be warmer. Have more of a yellowish, golden glow. Now it’s like white lightening. Stark. I told him I think it’s because back in the day, we remember everything in a warm wonderful glow and now we’re starting to see the stark reality of our collective situation.” He looked at Jane. “It’s as if the sun is sending us a message.”

  A thought crossed her mind. She located the greeting card that protected Gabe’s photo and held it out to Monroe. “Check this out, would you?”

  He took the card and opened it. “Wow,” he smiled, pointing to the radiating gem in the center of the Pharaoh’s elongated head. “Ajna!”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “No, no. That’s what you call this.” He pointed to the gemstone.

  “The jewel is called an Ajna?”

  “No, no!” he said with impatience. “The point where it’s located. Right here,” he touched his index finger to the middle of his forehead.

  Jane felt a sudden jolt. While it wasn’t identical, the movement of Monroe’s finger to his forehead was similar to the old man in her vision. “Ajna…” Diving into her satchel, she withdrew Harlan’s notebook and nervously flipped through the pages until she found the one. The word, “Agna” stood out in the center of the page. Jane had interpreted Harlan’s poorly written “j” for a “g.” She poked her finger on the page. “Look at that! It’s right there.”

  Monroe grinned. “Yep. Sure is.” Opening the card, Gabe’s photo dropped out. He retrieved it and sadly stared at his friend’s face before reading the inscription.

  “That photo was taken when he left on his three-year journey. And that’s part of the prayer that Harlan repeats.”

  Monroe’s face softened. “He said he was given that prayer by a medicine man he met. It was a prayer of protection from evil to be said aloud whenever you were in danger or when you were about to die. It was thought to free one’s heart so that if you perished, your heart had already gone ahead to find your soul’s place in heaven.”

  They heard a tap-tap at the door. Monroe suddenly jumped to attention as Harlan waved at both of them before sleepily retreating into the bathroom.

  “It’s just Harlan. It’s okay.”

  “That’s affirmative!” His voice strangely changed, along with his facial expressions.

  “At ease, soldier.”
>
  Monroe relaxed and turned to Jane. “I know who he is, ma’am.” He glanced at the photo envelope in Jane’s satchel. “And it all makes sense now why they framed him like they did.” He looked at Jane. “He was found in bed with a black woman whose head was smashed open with her brains coming out.”

  Jane couldn’t believe she didn’t make that connection. “Shit. You’re right!”

  “That’s what they call ‘humor’ and the rest of us call ‘fucked up.’ That’s a signature—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I know, I know. I think it also means there’s a solid link between Harlan’s framing for the murder and whatever those photos are connected to.”

  “Same meme. Yes. I’d concur on that.”

  Jane wasn’t sure which one of Monroe’s alter personalities would show up next but the vibe was getting über militaristic. Before he revved it up and told her to drop and do ten, she figured it was time to exit the location. Excusing herself, Jane gathered everything and packed the van. She took a quick shower and changed into a pair of black jeans and a light blue turtleneck. When she returned to the porch with Harlan, Monroe was standing guard at the door with his rifle cradled in his arms.

  “Thank you for letting us stay here, Monroe,” Jane offered.

  “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said, spinning around on his heels and saluting her. “You can stop by any time.” He swung open the screen door, holding it open for them.

  Jane and Harlan walked to the van and Harlan got inside. After closing the side door, Jane turned back to Monroe. “Hey, I meant to ask you. Do you know the name of the medicine man that Gabe talked to?”

  “No, ma’am. Gabe just said he was the medicine man next to Haas.”

  Jane took two steps forward. “Next to Haas? What? What does that mean?”

  “I’m telling you all I know, ma’am,” he stated, staring straight ahead and never making eye contact with Jane.