Evolution

by Teri Terry

  “But?”

  “I…I don’t know. I don’t feel right most of the time.”

  “In what sense?”

  “It’s like I feel okay, but it isn’t really me who feels that way. It’s like I’m sleepwalking.”

  He nods, his eyes thoughtful. “Perhaps it is time to try something different. Did you sense the joining last night?”

  I shake my head but say nothing. When they talk about sensing things that I don’t sense, I never know what to say.

  “May I?” And I know what he’s asking, but I’m surprised. Cepta never asks, and I wonder what would happen if I said no. But for some reason, I don’t want to.

  I nod, and there is another touch on my mind. Different from Cepta’s—deeper, darker, richer.

  I should hope so, he thinks, and he’s amused. He gently sifts and sorts through my memories of the weeks and months since he was last here, but it doesn’t take long; not much happens in this place.

  You’re sad I’m bored? I’m surprised again.

  I want to make things better for you. I want you to be happy, he thinks.

  Am I unhappy? I puzzle over that. What does happy mean? And he’s even sadder now. His touch withdraws.

  “Can we practice together?” he asks aloud.

  “All right.”

  We sit on the floor. Eyes closed. We breathe, focus on our lungs expanding, filling slowly with air. Air is slowly easing out. Again and again. His mind is there somehow, but it’s not touching mine anymore, so how do I know it is there?

  Acknowledge thoughts; let them pass through. Breathe.

  He stays a long while, and I almost feel like I’m in a trance. I’m so relaxed that I forget I’m not supposed to be thinking. Am I happy now? I ask him, then start to apologize for losing concentration.

  It’s all right, he says. And you’re getting there.

  But he’s not happy. He’s sad.

  CHAPTER 8

  SHAY

  “XANDER AND CEPTA SEND THEIR APOLOGIES; they’ve had to attend to a few matters. They will be back this afternoon.” The woman at the door smiles shyly, and I know her name: Persephone-who-likes-to-be-called-Persey. She’s in her early twenties, maybe. After the joining last night with everyone in Community, somehow now I find I know them, and not just their names. If I focus on her open face, there are details spilling into my mind—not the boring stuff, like shoe size or grades in school, but the deeper details. She’s a botanist and a poet; she sings poems to the plants in the greenhouse to make them grow.

  “They suggested I show the three of you around Community some more this morning—if you like?” Persey says, and after a quick internal exchange with Beatriz and Elena, I agree.

  Soon we are trooping after Persey with Chamberlain trailing behind. She shows us the small farm and the houses of Community. She shows us the solar panels and waterwheels that provide our power. She points out the entrance to a research center and meeting rooms but says they are mostly hidden underground. She adds that Xander wants to show that to us later himself.

  And finally she takes us to the library.

  What an amazing space—for only a hundred people? Shelves are crammed with books on everything you could think of—almost all of it nonfiction. There are tables and computers too. Beatriz starts scanning shelves, and Elena tries out the computer facilities. They both want to stay here, but I’m restless and want to wander on my own.

  I head outside again; Persey follows. Am I not allowed to be alone? Would she go away if I asked her to? Though maybe this is an opportunity to learn a few things. I hide my initial annoyance and smile.

  “How long have you lived here?” I ask her.

  “About two years now.”

  “So since before the epidemic.”

  “Yes.”

  The epidemic is a horror that seems remote from this place, as if this corner of Scotland is in a bubble that protects it.

  “Who are the other people who served dinner and stuff last night, then left?”

  “Some are friends who would like to join us. But most are the immune who fled and needed help, a refuge. It isn’t what we are here for, but we couldn’t turn them away. Some may later join Community if they wish to and are suitable.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know last night, how Community joined together? That.”

  “So not everyone can do so?”

  “There is a degree of skill with mindfulness required; not all can achieve this. Also, they have to be welcomed by Cepta and the group.”

  “Who is welcome and who isn’t?”

  “We have to know they aren’t sick. That they won’t taint the group.”

  “What kind of sickness—what do you mean?”

  “Well, that their minds aren’t tainted.”

  “Do you mean if they are mentally ill?”

  “That isn’t quite the same thing. Sometimes a mental illness is a bar, sometimes not—it depends on their spirit. Joining may heal them in some cases. But in others, even if they are healthy by the views of most, they can’t be allowed to join, as they may damage the connection among us all. Also, not everyone is able to join—as in, able to bring themselves to surrender to the group. There is a degree of loss of self in the joining; some people don’t like that.” Persey is appalled anyone could feel that way; it’s all over her aura.

  “But what about me? And Beatriz and Elena? Did the group decide to welcome us?”

  “Of course. You came with Xander.”

  “So Cepta and the group as a whole—or Xander—can allow someone to join?”

  “Well, I suppose so. But we would always agree with Xander, so it is kind of the same thing.”

  “The people who served us dinner last night—why didn’t they speak?”

  “They’re not part of Community.”

  “So they can’t speak to us?”

  “No.”

  “And they can’t join with us either, even though things like grass, trees, animals, birds, and insects can?”

  “Well, no, they can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

  I half frown to myself, decide to leave that one for now and see what else I can find out. “Are you immune?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Persey says.

  “So Community hasn’t been infected?”

  “No, we’ve been safe here.”

  “Except for Cepta and Xander. Since they’re survivors.”

  “Near the beginning of the epidemic, Cepta caught it on a trip to Edinburgh. She stayed there until she was well and then came back to us.”

  “And there are other places like this one?”

  “Yes, quite a few. Though the closest to us is several days’ walk away.”

  “Do they all have their own Speaker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are Speakers always survivors?”

  “I don’t think so. They had Speakers before the epidemic, so they couldn’t be.”

  “What about Xander?”

  She’s puzzled at my question. “He’s always been as he is. He’s Xander.”

  “Does he have any other family?”

  “We’re all his family.”

  “But are there any children here that are actually his? Like me; I’m his daughter. Does he have any others like me?”

  “There’ve been rumors.” She looks shocked at her words.

  “Rumors? It’s okay; you can tell me.” I will her to tell me, soothe her aura to remove any inhibition about doing so that she may have.

  “Well, it has been said that some of the younger children born here might be his.” Her eyes are wide and dreamy, like having his child would be the best imaginable thing—and she must be, what: forty years younger than him? Ick.

  “No older children?”

 
“No.”

  “Does Cepta have any children?”

  “All of the children here are her children.”

  “Did she, you know, give birth to any of them?”

  “No. At least, not that I know of.”

  Frustrating conversation, but through it all I could sense Persey’s thoughts and see the truth in her aura: she’s not being obstructionist, she just looks at things differently from me. There’s part of me that’s appalled—it’s as if she’s been brainwashed and this is some kind of weird cult, like what Iona said ages ago. There’s another part of me that marvels at how happy and well-balanced Persey seems to be; the way all of Community seems to be.

  Stop questioning what you can sense and see, Shay: they don’t just seem to be—they are. You can’t be joined up like that with all of them without knowing it as a certainty.

  But what about the others that work for them that are not part of Community—the ones that are not allowed to speak? It’s hard to believe. Cepta said there were over two hundred of them versus a hundred in Community: they must live somewhere, but Persey didn’t take us anywhere near them on our tour. I’m itching to wander off and see for myself.

  I go to read at the library, and eventually Persey says she must leave to attend to the greenhouses. I wait a short time, then go for a walk.

  Soon another member of Community is there, smiling. Jason is his name. He walks alongside me.

  Am I not allowed to walk around alone? Or maybe I’m just such an object of curiosity that I can’t be resisted. Either way, it’ll soon be annoying.

  I give up and head back to our house, saying goodbye to Jason and then closing the door in his face in case he was thinking of following me inside. Not that any of the doors lock. At least I’m alone now, apart from Chamberlain; he’s asleep on my bed but stirs when I go in.

  I wonder if Chamberlain would be followed too?

  I rub the soft fur under his chin, and he purrs, his eyes opening to slits, then closing again.

  “Fancy a walk?” I say, and his eyes open wider. I hold his with mine and reach. And it’s different from when I’ve looked through the eyes of spiders or mice or birds. It’s almost like doing this with a person, even though he’s a cat.

  His feelings are ruffled, as if he knows what I just thought.

  Most gorgeous, lovely, intelligent, amazing cat—ever. Which makes you a few notches above the average human.

  He approves.

  I picture where I’d like him to go—wander out the door, out of this ring of Community houses. Beyond and below. And then I show him Callie: the one I seek.

  He yawns and gives one of those all-body stretches only cats can, sits and regards me, like he’s thinking it over.

  Please?

  He goes.

  I curl up in bed in the warm place where Chamberlain was sleeping a moment ago and keep my light touch on his mind—watch out of his eyes. He jumps out of the kitchen window, and the view lurches, then rights itself, as he walks down the path.

  I’ve never tried this before—to ask something as unlikely as a cat to go where I want—and can’t quite believe it seems to be working.

  Something moves in the grass, and he stops, intent, then suddenly springs forward—but misses. A butterfly flutters out of reach over his head.

  He jumps onto a roof at the edge of Community—stops to wash his face, because grooming is important. Through the trees, far below, his sharp eyes catch movement. People?

  Investigate, Chamberlain?

  He jumps down, walks through the trees. There are faint paths. He follows along, sniffing the air; his nose tells him there is meat. He walks faster. Vegetarian cat food isn’t impressing him very much.

  In a clearing are several caravans and lean-tos made of sticks and canvas. There is a central barbecue of sorts, or a fire, at least, with a spit over it. There are too many people here for so little shelter; they must sleep on top of each other to get out of the rain. Not everyone looks that clean or well-fed, and there are voices and clatter. The whole scene is chaotic, almost the opposite of the calm order on higher ground.

  “Cat!” A small child sees Chamberlain, grins and points. He starts to toddle over, but Chamberlain has spotted the one who seems to be in charge of the cooking. He runs over and winds around her legs.

  He’s a good judge of cat people; she leans down and strokes him.

  “Oh, it is that great cat that came with his daughter. He’s probably starving, poor puss. Don’t worry, we’ve snared some nice, fat rabbits—we’ve enough to share today.”

  So, even though I’ve seen very little of them, they know who I am, who my cat is.

  Chamberlain’s annoyed.

  Sorry, didn’t mean to say you’re mine, or anything like that.

  He’s soon feasting on scraps of rabbit, and I can tell he thinks even secondhand rabbit is pretty good after weeks of the likes of beans.

  Tummy full, he’s of a mind to nap in the sun, but I persuade him to have more of a look around. He wanders down the path, finding more makeshift camps, more people—collecting pats here and there, avoiding some people he judges aren’t friendly.

  There are so many camped out here in the woods. How do they know for sure none of them are carrying the epidemic? It could decimate Community above.

  There is no sign of Callie, though it’s hard to imagine that Xander would have his daughter living here.

  Where is she?

  There’s a knock on the door. I’m startled and lose the connection with Chamberlain, coming back to my own thoughts. I get up from the bed and go to the door.

  It’s Xander.

  CHAPTER 9

  LARA

  THERE’S A FACE AT THE WINDOW looking in at me. It’s a child—from outside Community—with a thin, solemn face and dirt on his clothes. When he sees I’ve noticed him, he moves as if to run away.

  “Don’t go, you’re not in trouble,” I call out, and smile, an idea in my mind. Cepta’s touch hasn’t returned, but I still can’t see the door…maybe he can help?

  He hesitates, steps back. Poised to run.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  He has a hungry look about him, one that sharpened when I asked. “Wait a sec,” I say. I turn back, gather a plate full of cookies, cheese, and fruit, then hold it so he can see through the window. “If you open the door for me, it’s all yours.”

  He hesitates, his eye on the food. He disappears from sight, and then the door opens. I hold out the plate; he snatches it and runs.

  I stand in the open doorway and breathe in deep. Not that it was stuffy in there—the windows opened a little, just not enough for me to climb out of them—but having been trapped for so long, I felt like it was.

  Dare I step out of the house?

  I could just leave the door open and know that I can leave if I want to. Cepta will be furious if she comes back and I’m gone.

  But the temptation is so strong. I take one step out of the house, then another, and then I walk quickly away from it, as fast as I can now in case anyone is coming to check on me.

  I want to know why I was stuck in there. There must be a reason: who came when Xander did?

  I want to find out.

  I skirt the edges of Community, staying just out of sight of its windows and paths. Members rarely venture beyond their boundaries; they don’t seem to care where the edges may be, not the way I do.

  I avoid the others too, those on the fringes—I go the long way around their places. They’re not likely to say anything to Cepta or anyone in Community if they see me, but Cepta can see what they know if she asks them, and why take any more risks than I am already?

  As I walk, I concentrate on breathing. If Cepta checks on me, she might think I’m practicing mindfulness and not realize where I am so long as I stay calm. If my emotions flare, she
always seems to know, to pay more attention, and then I’m sunk.

  There is a particular tree I’m heading for. It’s easy to climb, and the leaves are dense, and once I’m perched up there, I can watch the entrances to the library and the underground place next to it. This is where most of the Community members come and go—I don’t know what happens down there. I did ask Xander about the library once, hoping for something interesting to read, but he said I wasn’t allowed to go there. He brought me some books, but they weren’t the sort of thing I wanted to read, and he seemed so disappointed when I didn’t read them that I didn’t ask again.

  I reach the tree and clamber up quickly, just missing being spotted by a few people coming out of the library. I climb a little higher and settle myself on a good branch where I can watch the doors and path below, and unless someone looks up in exactly the right spot, they are unlikely to see me.

  Time passes. People come and go, but they are all people I recognize. My legs are stiff, and I adjust them now and then.

  I watch and I wait.

  CHAPTER 10

  SHAY

  XANDER TAKES ME ON A TOUR of what he calls their research center. It looks like a small house at ground level, but inside there are stairs going down, and the place is huge underground. There are laboratories, computer rooms, conference rooms. As we go, he points out Community members and their work.

  We pass a windowed door, and I glimpse Beatriz inside and step back to look again. She’s cross-legged on the floor, with her eyes closed.

  Hi, B, I say, but she doesn’t answer.

  “What is she doing in there?”

  “It’s a quiet room. One you can’t reach out of—like the ones in the air force facility hospital.”

  I shudder. I’d hated it there, the feeling of being cut off from all life. Not even a spider could get in. “But why have one here?”

  “Cepta has been trying to find a way to reach through it. The authorities know this can be used to block our abilities, so we’re trying to find a way around it.”