Excerpts from "Incarnation"
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Chapter 1
Kelsey Dupuis, a young dark-haired woman, went running in the early morning light through the dirt streets near her house, then turned into the foothills. She didn’t stop to take in the view that opened to the city of Santa Fe below, the sparkling valley, the snowy mountain ridge beyond—just kept going through the warren of tight lanes lined with mud houses, some with growling dogs chained in the yards, others with Mercedes SUVs guarding their remodeled exteriors. She was not running away this morning, rather she ran toward something, seeking, in the rhythmic movement, the breathing-induced meditation, an understanding of the mystery that lay coiled inside her. Yesterday, catapulted out of bed by the nightmare, she’d driven halfway to Clines Corners, found a pullout, ducked under the barbed wire, and bolted into the desert. The ground felt soft and pliable under her feet, and there was sound in her ears, a gentle water sound, like hushing or sighing. Behind it, she could hear the eerie mix of distant highway noises, calls of waking birds, a coyote howling. And then the voice came through, speaking so clearly she stopped and turned, though she knew she was alone out there. You will be my brother, sister, lover, friend. Together we will not do, not do, not do again. As we once did, twice did, thrice, couldn’t help but be the same. Suddenly a hallucination, straight out of the nightmare world, bloomed before her eyes. Standing in a narrow wash where water had funneled for millennia, scooping away the sandstone walls until they were cupped like two ears, she’d first imagined, then heard, then seen. She would not think of it now. Not today. Today she was just a person who dreamed, a person alone in a new city with a new job. A person with a plan to find normal again. |
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Stan
The waitress poured champagne, and Stan raised his glass. “To two beautiful ladies.” He nodded at Kelsey. “And to your wit and charm.” Throughout the meal, Kelsey watched her mother’s cheeks blotch pink under Stan’s flattery and attention. Toward her, Stan seemed watchful, though perhaps stimulated by her earlier display of temper. His knee knocked hers under the table, and he touched her arm often as he talked. Once, when Kelsey returned from the bathroom, she knew they’d talked about her. When they got back to her house, Kelsey waited while Stan helped her mother inside, saying a lengthy goodbye. The wind had calmed, and there was real warmth to the afternoon sun. Kelsey leaned against the wall, feeling loose from the champagne. She closed her eyes and drifted. Suddenly, she saw the ocean sparkling in the distance, felt the sea breeze against her cheeks. Then she heard the door and Stan came toward her. He bent closer, kissed her, his body sheltering hers. “I’ve wanted to do that all day.” She didn’t change her position, nor open her eyes. The ocean seemed within a few steps. When a second kiss didn’t come, she looked up. “Your mother said I might have some competition.” Kelsey smiled and shook her head. Her mother’s tactics amused her now. “Good.” Stan kissed her deeply, and this time, she felt the tide running over her feet. |
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Indigo
“You were an Indigo.” Marigold was up and pacing in front of the window, bright with late afternoon light. They’d just finished a session on Kelsey’s childhood.
“What’s an Indigo?” Kelsey asked.
“You’ve not heard of it?” Marigold bent over her bookshelf and drew out a volume. The cover showed a child with a huge psychedelic aura, predominantly violet in color. Angels hovered, embedded in the purple.
“I don’t know,” said Kelsey.
“The phenomenon’s well-documented. An increasing number of children are being born with extraordinary psychic abilities, very high intelligence, memories of past lives. They’re still close to the other world, as all children are, but these are specially gifted. They often lose it, between over-medication and parental repression. Or they simply outgrow it.”
“You’re saying this was me.”
“I’d say you started out that way; certainly, your brother’s and Rill’s visitations proved your ability. Then it was interrupted—due to your father’s disapproval, your scientific training. But you’re a gifted adult too—we’ve seen that—so I think it’s important that we—”
“You want to train me,” said Kelsey.
“I didn’t say it,” said Marigold. “But see? You just read my mind.”
“You were an Indigo.” Marigold was up and pacing in front of the window, bright with late afternoon light. They’d just finished a session on Kelsey’s childhood.
“What’s an Indigo?” Kelsey asked.
“You’ve not heard of it?” Marigold bent over her bookshelf and drew out a volume. The cover showed a child with a huge psychedelic aura, predominantly violet in color. Angels hovered, embedded in the purple.
“I don’t know,” said Kelsey.
“The phenomenon’s well-documented. An increasing number of children are being born with extraordinary psychic abilities, very high intelligence, memories of past lives. They’re still close to the other world, as all children are, but these are specially gifted. They often lose it, between over-medication and parental repression. Or they simply outgrow it.”
“You’re saying this was me.”
“I’d say you started out that way; certainly, your brother’s and Rill’s visitations proved your ability. Then it was interrupted—due to your father’s disapproval, your scientific training. But you’re a gifted adult too—we’ve seen that—so I think it’s important that we—”
“You want to train me,” said Kelsey.
“I didn’t say it,” said Marigold. “But see? You just read my mind.”
Bandelier
As they drove into Bandelier National Monument, a breathtaking canyon opened up below the road. Harrison told her the cliff face was full of caves where the Indians once made their homes high above the canyon floor. They avoided the museum, and the main ruins trail, crossed a footbridge, and entered a shady woods along the creek. The air was rich with the scent of pine.
“You see dozens of them here,” Harrison said when they came upon a grazing doe and her fawn. “They’re practically tame.”
“What about the Indians? Were the deer tame then?”
He cocked his head. “I’ve never heard of domesticated deer.”
Walking the soft trail, feeling dwarfed by the towering vertical walls of the canyon and the long history of the place, her large question surfaced.
“You know I’ve been reading those books Marigold gave me about reincarnation.” She’d come to rely on Harrison’s free and sometimes wild ideas in relation to the strange events of her therapy. Now Kelsey moved in front of him as the trail narrowed. “It would explain a lot of things. But I can’t see it, or feel it? Right? No one has any certain experience of it.”
“There are lots of things we can’t see that are true. We’ve learned that through science.”
“But in science we have proof.”
“Proof is the tedium, the washing of dishes after the intuitive feast. Maybe some things are beyond proof.”
As they drove into Bandelier National Monument, a breathtaking canyon opened up below the road. Harrison told her the cliff face was full of caves where the Indians once made their homes high above the canyon floor. They avoided the museum, and the main ruins trail, crossed a footbridge, and entered a shady woods along the creek. The air was rich with the scent of pine.
“You see dozens of them here,” Harrison said when they came upon a grazing doe and her fawn. “They’re practically tame.”
“What about the Indians? Were the deer tame then?”
He cocked his head. “I’ve never heard of domesticated deer.”
Walking the soft trail, feeling dwarfed by the towering vertical walls of the canyon and the long history of the place, her large question surfaced.
“You know I’ve been reading those books Marigold gave me about reincarnation.” She’d come to rely on Harrison’s free and sometimes wild ideas in relation to the strange events of her therapy. Now Kelsey moved in front of him as the trail narrowed. “It would explain a lot of things. But I can’t see it, or feel it? Right? No one has any certain experience of it.”
“There are lots of things we can’t see that are true. We’ve learned that through science.”
“But in science we have proof.”
“Proof is the tedium, the washing of dishes after the intuitive feast. Maybe some things are beyond proof.”
In the Desert
“Does Dtaner still guard his pack so closely?” I ask.
It is not the pack but its contents that I am fixed upon. Muamdi’s green star casts a flood of azure light right through the rough cloth and onto the sand. I’ve come to think of the stone, stolen from my gentle grandmother and used to track us, as mine for the taking. It is certainly not Dtaner’s. Dtaner carries it for his master, Gewil, for truly Gewil commands him. Gewil commands Dtaner because he needs him and the stone to follow me. Gewil follows me because he must; he is obsessed with me, with reversing my rejection of our arranged marriage. He brings me Muamdi’s stone in the hope that it will lure me back to his side.
Now Jarad grows quiet. “Iriel,” he says at last. “You must forget this notion of yours.”
“It is more rightfully mine than his.”
“It is rightfully Muamdi’s.”
“I would take it back to her,” I say. “But first it will help us. Of that, I’m sure.”
He knows me well, for we have had nearly two moons together since leaving home, and in that time, we have shared every thought and every deed. He understands that the green stone, the mother of my little egg, is dear to me in a way I can barely describe. I love it, not like I love humans or animals, but like my arm or my leg—a part of myself I could not imagine doing without.
“Iriel,” Jarad continues. “The crystal is a greater danger to you than to the others. Let Dtaner carry it for now. We will see the mainland, we will perform our duty. You will fulfill your purpose as the One. Then we will return it to her in good time.”
“What if she dies of grief in the meantime?”
“You must not covet her stone. There is much tragedy in that crystal.”
Muamdi, my grandmother, with her tragedies and her secrets, the green crystal the greatest of these, is dying of madness and grief since they stole her treasure. This I know from my dreams, and it worries me more than anything else.
“Does Dtaner still guard his pack so closely?” I ask.
It is not the pack but its contents that I am fixed upon. Muamdi’s green star casts a flood of azure light right through the rough cloth and onto the sand. I’ve come to think of the stone, stolen from my gentle grandmother and used to track us, as mine for the taking. It is certainly not Dtaner’s. Dtaner carries it for his master, Gewil, for truly Gewil commands him. Gewil commands Dtaner because he needs him and the stone to follow me. Gewil follows me because he must; he is obsessed with me, with reversing my rejection of our arranged marriage. He brings me Muamdi’s stone in the hope that it will lure me back to his side.
Now Jarad grows quiet. “Iriel,” he says at last. “You must forget this notion of yours.”
“It is more rightfully mine than his.”
“It is rightfully Muamdi’s.”
“I would take it back to her,” I say. “But first it will help us. Of that, I’m sure.”
He knows me well, for we have had nearly two moons together since leaving home, and in that time, we have shared every thought and every deed. He understands that the green stone, the mother of my little egg, is dear to me in a way I can barely describe. I love it, not like I love humans or animals, but like my arm or my leg—a part of myself I could not imagine doing without.
“Iriel,” Jarad continues. “The crystal is a greater danger to you than to the others. Let Dtaner carry it for now. We will see the mainland, we will perform our duty. You will fulfill your purpose as the One. Then we will return it to her in good time.”
“What if she dies of grief in the meantime?”
“You must not covet her stone. There is much tragedy in that crystal.”
Muamdi, my grandmother, with her tragedies and her secrets, the green crystal the greatest of these, is dying of madness and grief since they stole her treasure. This I know from my dreams, and it worries me more than anything else.
One God
“You have a destiny, Young Master.”
“Why do you call me that, Gracious Mother?”
“Because that is what you will become.”
I remember a day sitting with Muamdi in her garden cleaning goatsfoot. It was before all this, before the moment I told Gewil “no,” before I was sent away for my penance that has lasted now for a year. I have been called in to speak with Gracious Mother for the last time.
“Do you know what your destiny is?” she asks.
Muamdi told me, as we sat plucking and flattening those hoof-shaped leaves, that in big things, fate governs our lives. We are born to it, we must only discover it.
“I do not,” I say. I think only that I have avoided the one fate—I am not a wife.
Gracious Mother has wavy white hair that floats to her knees, and a face so lined it looks like sand after a rain. But her youthful beauty still shines through. It is as though a smooth-faced girl sits with the wrinkled one and trades moments with her. One moment you see the beautiful clear face, the taut cheeks, the night-black hair, the next, the web of lines, the drooping jowls. I think the old face may be the more beautiful one. “Have they not spoken of the prophecy, Iriel?”
One evening, Quiri and my grandmother walked on the beach, thinking they were alone. Their talk was free, though I overheard them, hiding behind the dunes. Quiri had just received a communication from Shemmabdis, who had found his way to the mainland. He sent word of a convening of parties, those opposed to the present powers who ruled Phyrius and much of the ruined lands beyond the city. A diverse group, The Society, with whom Quiri associated, advocates of the enslaved mutants, a few Ari who had broken with their kind, some healers, magicians, and mendicants. What united them was the prophecy that someone would come forward to lead them. Someone who had the power to stop the coming disaster.
“Yes, Gracious Mother, I have heard of the Expected One.”
“Do you know who it is they await?”
“Master Quiri?” I ask, for that was what I thought as I followed the old lovers in the night. Quiri was preparing for his role. He was begging Muamdi to accompany him.
“And do you believe he is The One?”
I know Quiri’s powers. He has disappeared before my eyes. He’s shown great physical strength and agility. He reads the old scrolls, possesses long-forgotten knowledge. Still …
“You doubt it,” she says, and the youthful face flashes a conspiratorial smile.
“Muamdi did not think …” I remember her resistance. She said he was foolish and proud. You are not she, no matter how much you wish it. I note now the feminine usage. Hidden behind the dune, I’d thought it only her way of teasing, asserting herself against his pride.
When Muamdi and I sat in her garden, the fuzzy goatsfoot green-smearing our hands, I asked her about destiny. “Fate is like the channel of a river, and you are the water,” she’d said. “You both cut the channel and are confined by it. You can splash free, you can meander where the banks are soft. But you are still the river.” This answer puzzled me, as I was then thinking how to escape the banks my parents and Gewil’s had constructed: the forced marriage.
“I have thought of fate while I was here,” I say to Gracious Mother. “I have prayed upon it. I know you choose it in a way, and then you are caught by it. But sometimes, sometimes …” and here my thoughts form on my tongue and come out fresh, “sometimes you are connected to something big you must do, something you must follow. One-God decrees it.”
“Yes,” she says, simply. And so ends our interview.
“You have a destiny, Young Master.”
“Why do you call me that, Gracious Mother?”
“Because that is what you will become.”
I remember a day sitting with Muamdi in her garden cleaning goatsfoot. It was before all this, before the moment I told Gewil “no,” before I was sent away for my penance that has lasted now for a year. I have been called in to speak with Gracious Mother for the last time.
“Do you know what your destiny is?” she asks.
Muamdi told me, as we sat plucking and flattening those hoof-shaped leaves, that in big things, fate governs our lives. We are born to it, we must only discover it.
“I do not,” I say. I think only that I have avoided the one fate—I am not a wife.
Gracious Mother has wavy white hair that floats to her knees, and a face so lined it looks like sand after a rain. But her youthful beauty still shines through. It is as though a smooth-faced girl sits with the wrinkled one and trades moments with her. One moment you see the beautiful clear face, the taut cheeks, the night-black hair, the next, the web of lines, the drooping jowls. I think the old face may be the more beautiful one. “Have they not spoken of the prophecy, Iriel?”
One evening, Quiri and my grandmother walked on the beach, thinking they were alone. Their talk was free, though I overheard them, hiding behind the dunes. Quiri had just received a communication from Shemmabdis, who had found his way to the mainland. He sent word of a convening of parties, those opposed to the present powers who ruled Phyrius and much of the ruined lands beyond the city. A diverse group, The Society, with whom Quiri associated, advocates of the enslaved mutants, a few Ari who had broken with their kind, some healers, magicians, and mendicants. What united them was the prophecy that someone would come forward to lead them. Someone who had the power to stop the coming disaster.
“Yes, Gracious Mother, I have heard of the Expected One.”
“Do you know who it is they await?”
“Master Quiri?” I ask, for that was what I thought as I followed the old lovers in the night. Quiri was preparing for his role. He was begging Muamdi to accompany him.
“And do you believe he is The One?”
I know Quiri’s powers. He has disappeared before my eyes. He’s shown great physical strength and agility. He reads the old scrolls, possesses long-forgotten knowledge. Still …
“You doubt it,” she says, and the youthful face flashes a conspiratorial smile.
“Muamdi did not think …” I remember her resistance. She said he was foolish and proud. You are not she, no matter how much you wish it. I note now the feminine usage. Hidden behind the dune, I’d thought it only her way of teasing, asserting herself against his pride.
When Muamdi and I sat in her garden, the fuzzy goatsfoot green-smearing our hands, I asked her about destiny. “Fate is like the channel of a river, and you are the water,” she’d said. “You both cut the channel and are confined by it. You can splash free, you can meander where the banks are soft. But you are still the river.” This answer puzzled me, as I was then thinking how to escape the banks my parents and Gewil’s had constructed: the forced marriage.
“I have thought of fate while I was here,” I say to Gracious Mother. “I have prayed upon it. I know you choose it in a way, and then you are caught by it. But sometimes, sometimes …” and here my thoughts form on my tongue and come out fresh, “sometimes you are connected to something big you must do, something you must follow. One-God decrees it.”
“Yes,” she says, simply. And so ends our interview.
The Wave
Waves beating, beating. Pounding against the hull, the retreating shore.
Rain pours down and the sea rises. At this rate, everything will turn to water.
Still not enough to quench the fires.
Another blast. Faraway rock flies through the air and red splits the darkened land. Fire runs like rivers, sizzles into the foaming sea. White cracks in the sky, red cracks in the land. Everything cracked open.
The sea is black, the night is black. Rain pours down. The land diminishes as the Lady Sun is swept across and away. Out. Away. Currents, new currents from under the sea. Pulling currents, faster currents. Too strong. Not right.
Too rough, too choppy, mounting rollers. Big, bigger. Rolling over us. Drowning us. Tipping, flapping, bouncing, diving boat. The Poor Ari, wailing down below, while I cling to the deck and watch everything drown.
Voices. A chorus of voices crying, wailing to heaven. Voices of the dead, the dying. One-God, are you there? Do you hear them? Do you hear me?
A new wave forms out to sea. A wall of water rushes toward us. It towers all the way up to the black sky. I fear it. Why? Can I still fear death, when all my beloveds have perished? With no one left to witness it but me, the great wave roars past. We are under it, we are over it, we ride it toward the shore. Will we be smashed against the cliffs? But the shore is gone now. Vanished beneath the wave. Sunken into its crack. There is no fire, no land, no people.
Only water.
Waves beating, beating. Pounding against the hull, the retreating shore.
Rain pours down and the sea rises. At this rate, everything will turn to water.
Still not enough to quench the fires.
Another blast. Faraway rock flies through the air and red splits the darkened land. Fire runs like rivers, sizzles into the foaming sea. White cracks in the sky, red cracks in the land. Everything cracked open.
The sea is black, the night is black. Rain pours down. The land diminishes as the Lady Sun is swept across and away. Out. Away. Currents, new currents from under the sea. Pulling currents, faster currents. Too strong. Not right.
Too rough, too choppy, mounting rollers. Big, bigger. Rolling over us. Drowning us. Tipping, flapping, bouncing, diving boat. The Poor Ari, wailing down below, while I cling to the deck and watch everything drown.
Voices. A chorus of voices crying, wailing to heaven. Voices of the dead, the dying. One-God, are you there? Do you hear them? Do you hear me?
A new wave forms out to sea. A wall of water rushes toward us. It towers all the way up to the black sky. I fear it. Why? Can I still fear death, when all my beloveds have perished? With no one left to witness it but me, the great wave roars past. We are under it, we are over it, we ride it toward the shore. Will we be smashed against the cliffs? But the shore is gone now. Vanished beneath the wave. Sunken into its crack. There is no fire, no land, no people.
Only water.
Slurp gun
Kelsey felt the now familiar pleasure as the sea enveloped her. She sank dreamily through the water watching the others. Henri was skinny in his wetsuit and had a look of surprise on his face. George, struggling to clear his ears, pulled his regulator out of his mouth and spit out the wad of gum. It floated serenely toward a parrotfish, which gave a nibble and rejected it.
They drifted to the reef at about fifty feet. It was pristine and healthy and loaded with fish. Kelsey spotted a juvenile squirrelfish feeding near George’s right shoulder and signaled him to take it, but he spooked it, then went for the more common snapper. Too big for the slurp gun, the fish darted back to the safety of its school.
George began to take shots at random, ignoring Kelsey. By luck he pulled in a pair of grunts then lost them in the transfer to her container. She signaled that she’d like to try, but his jaw muscles set and he pulled the gun closer to his chest.
The reef became shallower, and they watched a small ray flush out of the sandy bottom straight into Wendell’s net. He must have set up the capture, because it was so smooth and easy. He gave the thumbs up and rose to the boat, which was nearly overhead, and put the ray into one of the cages while Shirley took his collection bag to empty.
George was creeping toward a rocky place at the edge of the reef, and as he disappeared over the wall, Henri caught Kelsey’s eye. He was circling his finger, miming a somersault, so she smiled, tucked her legs, and did one, then signaled him back. Henri pulled his legs up and pushed his arms, but couldn’t spin. He looked like a little pod thrashing backward in the water.
They were laughing now, streams of bubbles rushing up from their mouths.
Kelsey demonstrated and Henri tried again with the same result. She helped him tuck into a tight ball, then she reached out and spun him. He caught the water with his arms and went over again. Then they were doing slow motion back rolls, side-by-side.
Upside down, she spotted Wendell re-entering the water. He sank leisurely in their direction, his descent elegant and practiced. The net floated above his head like fluttering hat ribbons. Inspired by the graceful line of his long body, Kelsey arched out of her final spin. The movement took her over the wall. George’s bubbles, rising from the depths, caught her eye, and the slurp gun resting where he’d left it on a shelf of coral.
Suddenly, she heard the dolphin’s warning repeating in her mind. A swift kick propelled her to the gun. She gave a second flick of her fins and was over the wall in time to see George tuck a small vial back into his BCD. There in front of him, a small violet cloud hung suspended in the water.
George’s face registered her presence, and he gave what passed for a shrug of innocence. She pointed the gun at him and he put his hands up. But, of course, the gun was useless as a weapon, and both she and George realized it at the same time. He turned lazily toward her and she toward the sample.
The purple cloud of one-celled life was still a tight blob, but the edges were dissipating. She stuck the nozzle into the color, pulled the trigger, and slurped it all up.
Kelsey swam fast, making what she hoped was a wide circle and simultaneous slow ascent to the boat. Her first impulse, to bolt to the surface, had been thwarted by the beeping of her dive computer and Wendell’s frantic arm motions. George was behind her, not gaining but steadily following. If he caught her, he was certainly capable of wrestling the gun away. Behind him was Wendell. She’d seen him on the one backward glance she’d risked.
They were over open water now, sprinting into the blue. She had the gun tucked against her suit to minimize its drag, so she had only her legs to propel her and those heavy fins. She was wide of the boat, but if she turned too sharply, George could cut across and catch her, or if he was smart, he’d go back to the boat and wait for her to come up. But he hadn’t thought of that.
Her thigh muscles burned and her breath wheezed through the apparatus. Then suddenly, she felt herself metamorphose into a more powerful swimmer. One kick of her tail and she made the turn, feeling the flood of relief as the boat came in sight. Shirley had followed their bubbles.
But her tail caught on something; it became once more a right flipper and a left and then an ankle, and he’d caught that too. She bent at the hips, thrashing, ready for a fight. He let go and just before she bolted again, she recognized Wendell in the foaming water. He was pointing at his air gauge, then at hers, making a calming motion with his other hand. Thirty yards behind them, George was making a slow emergency ascent. He was out of air.
Kelsey felt the now familiar pleasure as the sea enveloped her. She sank dreamily through the water watching the others. Henri was skinny in his wetsuit and had a look of surprise on his face. George, struggling to clear his ears, pulled his regulator out of his mouth and spit out the wad of gum. It floated serenely toward a parrotfish, which gave a nibble and rejected it.
They drifted to the reef at about fifty feet. It was pristine and healthy and loaded with fish. Kelsey spotted a juvenile squirrelfish feeding near George’s right shoulder and signaled him to take it, but he spooked it, then went for the more common snapper. Too big for the slurp gun, the fish darted back to the safety of its school.
George began to take shots at random, ignoring Kelsey. By luck he pulled in a pair of grunts then lost them in the transfer to her container. She signaled that she’d like to try, but his jaw muscles set and he pulled the gun closer to his chest.
The reef became shallower, and they watched a small ray flush out of the sandy bottom straight into Wendell’s net. He must have set up the capture, because it was so smooth and easy. He gave the thumbs up and rose to the boat, which was nearly overhead, and put the ray into one of the cages while Shirley took his collection bag to empty.
George was creeping toward a rocky place at the edge of the reef, and as he disappeared over the wall, Henri caught Kelsey’s eye. He was circling his finger, miming a somersault, so she smiled, tucked her legs, and did one, then signaled him back. Henri pulled his legs up and pushed his arms, but couldn’t spin. He looked like a little pod thrashing backward in the water.
They were laughing now, streams of bubbles rushing up from their mouths.
Kelsey demonstrated and Henri tried again with the same result. She helped him tuck into a tight ball, then she reached out and spun him. He caught the water with his arms and went over again. Then they were doing slow motion back rolls, side-by-side.
Upside down, she spotted Wendell re-entering the water. He sank leisurely in their direction, his descent elegant and practiced. The net floated above his head like fluttering hat ribbons. Inspired by the graceful line of his long body, Kelsey arched out of her final spin. The movement took her over the wall. George’s bubbles, rising from the depths, caught her eye, and the slurp gun resting where he’d left it on a shelf of coral.
Suddenly, she heard the dolphin’s warning repeating in her mind. A swift kick propelled her to the gun. She gave a second flick of her fins and was over the wall in time to see George tuck a small vial back into his BCD. There in front of him, a small violet cloud hung suspended in the water.
George’s face registered her presence, and he gave what passed for a shrug of innocence. She pointed the gun at him and he put his hands up. But, of course, the gun was useless as a weapon, and both she and George realized it at the same time. He turned lazily toward her and she toward the sample.
The purple cloud of one-celled life was still a tight blob, but the edges were dissipating. She stuck the nozzle into the color, pulled the trigger, and slurped it all up.
Kelsey swam fast, making what she hoped was a wide circle and simultaneous slow ascent to the boat. Her first impulse, to bolt to the surface, had been thwarted by the beeping of her dive computer and Wendell’s frantic arm motions. George was behind her, not gaining but steadily following. If he caught her, he was certainly capable of wrestling the gun away. Behind him was Wendell. She’d seen him on the one backward glance she’d risked.
They were over open water now, sprinting into the blue. She had the gun tucked against her suit to minimize its drag, so she had only her legs to propel her and those heavy fins. She was wide of the boat, but if she turned too sharply, George could cut across and catch her, or if he was smart, he’d go back to the boat and wait for her to come up. But he hadn’t thought of that.
Her thigh muscles burned and her breath wheezed through the apparatus. Then suddenly, she felt herself metamorphose into a more powerful swimmer. One kick of her tail and she made the turn, feeling the flood of relief as the boat came in sight. Shirley had followed their bubbles.
But her tail caught on something; it became once more a right flipper and a left and then an ankle, and he’d caught that too. She bent at the hips, thrashing, ready for a fight. He let go and just before she bolted again, she recognized Wendell in the foaming water. He was pointing at his air gauge, then at hers, making a calming motion with his other hand. Thirty yards behind them, George was making a slow emergency ascent. He was out of air.
The Organism
“What if it’s virulent?” asked Jersey. “How can we find that out? Quickly, I mean.”
“Short of dissecting a human subject …” Wickstrom peered over his glasses at Franklin.
“What about the open water,” Jersey asked, “where it was released today?”
“My best guess is that it will have nothing to feed on in the relative desert of the Caribbean. This is my hope anyway.”
“Explain yourself,” Rodman said.
“Warmer water is less oxygen saturated than cold,” Albert said, “so it supports very little life other than in the specifically adapted environments like the reef. There’s very little plankton, for example, compared to the Pacific. You have big lifeless expanses of water. In poetic terms, it’s like a desert.”
“The water is the sand?” George asked.
“I have a theory,” said Wickstrom, “that the specimen seems to propagate best in high concentrations. That means tight spaces. Containers. Not the open ocean. Maybe they have some way of communicating at close range,” he added.
There was a light laugh from one of the scientists, but Kelsey was thinking some form of mass consciousness, like a school of fish.
“What if it’s virulent?” asked Jersey. “How can we find that out? Quickly, I mean.”
“Short of dissecting a human subject …” Wickstrom peered over his glasses at Franklin.
“What about the open water,” Jersey asked, “where it was released today?”
“My best guess is that it will have nothing to feed on in the relative desert of the Caribbean. This is my hope anyway.”
“Explain yourself,” Rodman said.
“Warmer water is less oxygen saturated than cold,” Albert said, “so it supports very little life other than in the specifically adapted environments like the reef. There’s very little plankton, for example, compared to the Pacific. You have big lifeless expanses of water. In poetic terms, it’s like a desert.”
“The water is the sand?” George asked.
“I have a theory,” said Wickstrom, “that the specimen seems to propagate best in high concentrations. That means tight spaces. Containers. Not the open ocean. Maybe they have some way of communicating at close range,” he added.
There was a light laugh from one of the scientists, but Kelsey was thinking some form of mass consciousness, like a school of fish.
The pyramid
Minutes later, Kelsey and Harrison and Keith were standing by the pyramid. Keith was lamenting the rain; they’d had a good morning, most of the rest of the skeleton had turned up, but now their holes were muddy. She tuned him out. She wanted to show Harrison the inscription. Though she couldn’t see it in the near darkness, she went right to it, hands outstretched like antenna. She traced the outlines of the cat, the moon. Harrison ran his hands over the stones until he got to the blank one. He knocked, the chamber echoed.
Suddenly Kelsey knew there would be a weak corner. “Here,” she said. “Help me.”
Harrison took out his knife and pried the stone loose.
Bones of the cat came out, tail first. She could almost hear its snarl and feel the menacing coil in its legs. She knew the cat had outlived Iriel and so been buried with her son, Rotan. The important thing, the treasure that still hung around the beast’s neck, Rotan had, of course, inherited from his mother.
The ribbon and pouch had long since decayed, but the stone had not changed in ten thousand years. It was pure green energy. It was Iriel’s crystal.
Minutes later, Kelsey and Harrison and Keith were standing by the pyramid. Keith was lamenting the rain; they’d had a good morning, most of the rest of the skeleton had turned up, but now their holes were muddy. She tuned him out. She wanted to show Harrison the inscription. Though she couldn’t see it in the near darkness, she went right to it, hands outstretched like antenna. She traced the outlines of the cat, the moon. Harrison ran his hands over the stones until he got to the blank one. He knocked, the chamber echoed.
Suddenly Kelsey knew there would be a weak corner. “Here,” she said. “Help me.”
Harrison took out his knife and pried the stone loose.
Bones of the cat came out, tail first. She could almost hear its snarl and feel the menacing coil in its legs. She knew the cat had outlived Iriel and so been buried with her son, Rotan. The important thing, the treasure that still hung around the beast’s neck, Rotan had, of course, inherited from his mother.
The ribbon and pouch had long since decayed, but the stone had not changed in ten thousand years. It was pure green energy. It was Iriel’s crystal.