Desmond saw a beatific expression grow upon Abigail’s alabaster skin.
“How very astute you’ve remained from your last incarnation,” Abigail said. “But those were merely visions to prepare you,” she revealed, while again stretching out her arm in an inviting gesture of welcome, “for everything happens at its own appointed time.”
Desmond reached to grasp the translucent hand. A glimmer of light flashed, and he found himself amid a cold tunnel with only a column of what appeared to be torch flame spiraling from the palm of Abigail’s hand to pierce the impenetrable darkness.
“Where is this place?” he said in a demanding tone. “Where have you taken me?”
“We are underwater, Desmond; deep beneath the ocean,” Abigail replied, “and within the secret tunnel that leads to the forbidden lands beyond the domed walls of Sky Parlor. This the very tunnel, through which your first ancestors entered Sky Parlor, centuries ago.”
“Underwater?”
Desmond’s brows fused together into a tangled knot. He felt a shock of alarm scorch his shivering limbs.
“I don’t believe…”
“Then just listen,” Abigail said.
Following the path of light shed from Abigail’s bright torch, Desmond inched closer to the monument of cold black stone. He began to hear the quiet hiss of ocean waters’ tidal swells against the massive walls. As traces of faint terror encircled his eyes, Desmond felt his veins throb with the ache his blood’s racing pulse.
“I don’t like it here, at all,” he exclaimed, “I want to get out of here – now.”
Abigail’s torch light extinguished, and in lieu of the slab of cold black stone beneath the soles of his slippers, while his eyes squinted into the light from a sun brighter than he had ever known, Desmond felt a soft sensation, the warm texture of a meadow’s lush green grass. Beyond the meadow’s barrier, lined with overgrowths of wild vegetation and ageless trees, he marveled at a vast golden beach, dazzled with sun-sparkled treasures of periwinkles, whelks, and other assorted shells washed up by the murmuring tides of a calm ocean stretching toward a cloudless horizon.
“Something tells me this may be an illusion you’re presenting me with here, right Abigail?” he wondered.
“I believe you’ve become even more astute in this incarnation than in your last,” Abigail observed, “when you were known to the world as President of the United States, during America’s nineteenth century civil war.”
Desmond’s lips moved to speak, but rather than words, all he could manage was a mocking chuckle.
“So, this is all a holographic illusion, Abigail, is that what you’re saying? And what do you mean, President of the United States?”
“Everything you see and will see – though it is true, they are merely simulations of light – are indeed accurate reflections of your world as you would expect to experience them in this present incarnation.”
Desmond’s awed gaze once more peered beyond the wide meadow’s expanse and fell upon the vast ocean’s surface dappled with reflected streaks of sunlight like pins of diamonds. A shadow of alarm haunted his face as his thoughts began to tumble in confused trajectories.
“Does this mean that Sky Parlor is down there,” Desmond said while his feature’s twisted into contortions. “It’s really down there, beneath the ocean, and that there is an underwater passage that leads to where we are now standing, from beneath the domed city walls?”
“The land we’re standing on now is the very land you and generations of citizens in Sky Parlor have been taught are forbidden, made destitute and desecrated by the ‘Great Rapture’ for which they’ve been heaped with guilt and taught their ancestors were responsible. When in fact, the real perpetrator of mankind’s demise you’re well familiar – Artemis. You knew him long ago as General Ulysses S. Grant. But he is known to you and everyone in Sky Parlor as President Garth Ulysses.”
Desmond flinched as his eyes adjusted to the spearing rays of bright sunlight. From a distance, he heard the faint baying of sheep and cattle.
“This is all so unusual, Abigail,” he said. “But if this is the land, we’ve all been taught is so uninhabitable, then what is that noise coming from over there,” he pointed to the rich forest beyond the meadow.
“It doesn’t sound like this land is uninhabited to me.”
“It isn’t,” Abigail replied, “as you shall soon see.”
In an instant, Desmond and Abigail stood on a grassy hillock near a monolithic black teleportal, overlooking what appeared to be a vast, path-laden estate arrayed with gardens, marbled edifices, and elaborate fountains. Beyond them rose the terraced majesty of an enormous white marbled mansion.
“This is where Artemis resides, when he’s not living at the presidential palace. Located not far from here – spread out over a region spanning several thousand miles - are hosts of palatial estates, cattle farms, vineyards and fields of organically grown food, the harvests of which none are reserved for any of the citizens of Sky Parlor, but only for President Ulysses and his minions of the sustainability council. Entire legions of specifically programmed saints – none of which are ever permitted to use the teleportals to return to Sky Parlor unless under express permission from the council – toil on each of these estates both night and day. Their families have been told by SAGAN – Sky Parlor’s space agency – they’ve been teleported to outer space to establish colonies.”
The tendons in Desmond’s face flexed as if tightened by cross-threaded screws. His hands formed into white-knuckled balls.
“So, these saints are slaves, and everyone in Sky Parlor thinks they’re on another planet, meaning all those reports from ZEN news are what – made up? Well, if they’re not in outer space,” Desmond replied, reasoning, “but instead working here on these farming plantations – on this land everyone in Sky Parlor has been led to believe was destroyed by the ‘Great Rapture’ – for the president and his sustainability council, that would explain a lot about where all the food at the palace gala came from,” Desmond said, his barbed voice slicing at the tropical air like a scythe. “It also explains, why they keep the teleportals off limits to everyone in Sky Parlor, forcing everyone to ride the monorails or sustainable bicycles. So, let me get this straight,” Desmond began to speculate, “all of the organic food derived from these plantations filled with crops, and all of the meat from the slaughtered cattle are hoarded by the president and those on the sustainability council – their families – political supporters back in Sky Parlor?”
Desmond observed melancholic affirmation reflected in Abigail’s features.
“And tell me,” an indignant Desmond said, “this Artemis, who is now President Ulysses, brought about the ‘Great Rapture’ so he could have all of this to himself and hand out spoils like scraps from his table of bounty, while the survivors were herded into Sky Parlor centuries ago – wow,” Desmond added, perplexed, “now that is some evil plan. What is this guy, this Artemis, Abigail, god or probably devil or something?”
Desmond noticed Abigail’s fulsome lips mold into a sly grin.
As they walked along the outskirts of grassy meadows filled with lowing cattle, grazing sheep, and large swaths of furrowed fields sprouting with tall yields of corn and wheat, it seemed remarkable, Desmond considered, how they seemed to have traversed several miles without great effort.
“Yes, Desmond, once again,” Abigail replied, “you’ve proved to be perceptive. Those organic humans who have chosen to make the bio-transfer to become saints have been tempted with the grand idea of utopia, and of immortality while not understanding they have merely condemned themselves to perpetual slavery to be routinely programmed, without a will of their own. This is the grand deception. Though Artemis has proved to be a devil of the most cunning sort, as for me, there is still some shred of forgiveness remaining – for we were here together in the very beginning,” she went on, lacking any regret or vengeful traces. “And, though it may seem incredible, some semblance of unconditional lov
e for him remains as well. But while he remains here on earth – the spirit of an immortal but malevolent god placed within the highest grade of an advanced technological artificial container – you should beware of him, and also beware of the one known as Chief Praetorian, Icarus Blythe, as well the Chief Sustainability Councilor Plato – for they were the very conspirators who schemed your assassination long ago, and I fear, it is likely they shall conspire with Artemis to do so again.”
Desmond’s eyes panned over the lush panorama and while he wagged his forlorn chin, he crossed his long arms. He felt the soft touch of a gusting zephyr upon his face. In the distance, he could see the sprawling acres of forested trees and endless stalks of wheat and corn bend and sway as if conducted by some strange and magic force.
“But there is someone else you must also beware,” Desmond heard Abigail’s soft voice warn, “someone to whom you’ve grown to implicitly trust – someone who, after the tragic death of your parents, has posed as your political mentor and friend but is also secretly in league with the not only the sustainability council, but President Ulysses – Commissioner Pembroke.”
Desmond’s expression folded into a vision of dismay.
“Mister Pembroke?” he replied. “But he’s been my biggest supporter and wouldn’t ever betray me, and until proven otherwise, I would never betray him either.”
“I understand your feelings toward the Commissioner,” Abigail said. “He has appeared to you as a surrogate father. However, you must still beware, for he shall soon be revealed as a shrewd conspirator, working clandestinely in your midst, and against your interests, against those of the people of Columbia, and those of Sky Parlor.”
Desmond’s dark lips pursed. He felt an emptiness gape inside of him, wider than the most vacant and desolate canyon.
“Pembroke huh,” a glum Desmond began to concede, “Thanks for the heads up, Abigail, though I already thought there was something funny about the president and those other two, Plato and the Chief Praetorian – kind of a scary guy, know what I mean?” And what do you mean forgiveness, for Artemis, who is now, as you say, President Ulysses – after what you said this guy did?” Desmond exclaimed. “I’m not sure I agree with you there. But I need you to prove to me,” Desmond demanded, wagging his finger, “that I was who you claim, so long ago, Abigail.”
Again, he saw a prim smile bloom upon Abigail’s rosy lips.
“So be it,” she said, her voice softer than the gentle winds.
The idyllic scenery began to drip and melt away like sheets of candle wax. Earsplitting bellows of unhinged waves crashed around them. Desmond’s feet lurched and he tried to scramble away, but it was too late. But though deluged, they had not been drowned, and relieved, Desmond silently rejoiced while feeling the air fill his lungs with which to breathe. Observing while feeling isolated in surreal limbo, it seemed as if both resembled a pair of aquarium fish, viewing the strange wonders of an undersea world from the outside of a colossal wall of glass.
“I thought we were goners there for a moment,” Desmond said. “Where are we now, Abigail?”
Rays of sunlight knifed through leagues of swelling ocean tides and in the distance, Desmond saw the crumbled ruins of a columned portico.
“You needn’t worry. We are merely light reflections. Don’t you remember this place, Desmond,” Abigail said. “This used to be your home, long ago.”
Abigail waved her hand and Desmond felt pulled into a spinning whirlpool of light, water and sound. They had been transported past the columns of the ruined portico and now stood amid a vast dining room, lit with tall candelabra placed atop a long table, laid with elaborate displays of polished vermes and gold rimmed plates. A noble figure sat at the head of the table, joined by yet another figure, a burly and bearded soldier, donned in a rumpled blue uniform with flourishes of golden threads embroidered upon the sleeves. Looking closer, Desmond could see a third figure with cascading dark hair. The gray log of a cindering cigar remained clamped in the soldier’s tight jaws. While Abigail remained beneath the crest of the dining room’s soaring archway entrance, Desmond’s recalcitrant steps approached the table to gain a closer view of the pair of distinguished figures and their mysterious guest.
“Don’t worry, you needn’t proceed with such caution, for they can’t see or hear us,” Abigail’s voice echoed off the massive white walls hung with framed portraits and lined with massive fixtures of gold and glass.
“You know, I once read about this place,” Desmond exclaimed. He felt a shiver as he heard his reply, laced with both alarm and wonder, echo amid the cavernous dining hall.
Drawing close enough to the table to hear the murmuring voices of the trio of figures, Desmond whirled on his heels and spread out his hands.
“This is the White House, in what used to be Washington, the District of Columbia – right, Abigail?”
With deliberate steps, Desmond proceeded around the circumference of the dining room and halted behind the head of the table. Now, he had a better view of the young woman with the long dark hair. Peering towards the far wall, he glimpsed the portrait of Abraham Lincoln, which he recognized from some forbidden texts he once found among some long-discarded and yellowed documents kept in the musty bowels of Sky Parlor’s trade commission building.
Desmond felt his limbs invaded with an odd tingle.
“You were here, Abigail – with President Lincoln and…?”
“And Artemis, who among other notorious names during the long history of mankind, was once known to you as General Ulysses S. Grant,” Abigail replied.
Mesmerized by a dizzying swoon, Desmond sensed Abigail’s honeyed aroma as she stepped from beneath the dining room’s soaring archway and drew closer.
“You mean, Abigail,” Desmond stammered, pointing his finger at the distinguished, presidential figure, “that is me, sitting right there at the head of this table?”
“This was just before Artemis, in the mortal disguise of General Grant, conspired with John Wilkes Booth,” Abigail revealed, “who is now known as President Ulysses’ Chief Praetorian, Icarus Blythe. They – along with Secretary of War, Edwin Stanton – now Plato Charlemagne, Chief of Sky Parlor’s sustainability council in this incarnation – once conspired to have you assassinated, at Ford’s theater. I was there that night too, don’t you remember, Desmond – the night I performed onstage and resurrected your son – the son you had with your first lady?”
Desmond crept closer to Lincoln’s portrait on the far wall. Next to it, he observed another framed portrait. His curious eyes focused upon the exquisite rendering, and as his hand reached up to trace the outline of the gold leaf gilded frame – somehow – the brush stroked contours of the delicate countenance, and the keening warmth settled within the cradles of the eyes, struck forth a growing familiarity.
“Mary, Mary Lincoln…?” an incredulous Desmond’s urgent voice beseeched as he turned away from the portrait.
Abigail’s reply floated into Desmond’s ear like the soft heartbeat of an infant.
“Yes, she was Mary Lincoln, your former wife and closest confidant. She has returned from the shining collective spirit of the sun – the genuine sun under which we now stand beyond Sky Parlor’s dome – and you know her now as Garth Ulysses’ secretary – Marissa. But you must also know there are others who have returned, two of your former children, your eldest, Robert, and Willie, the one taken from you and Mary while he was still so young and, as well, your former sister, Sarah, who as your elder sibling, once long ago – with her strong maternal nature – nurtured your greatness and moral virtue. Only now, you shall play the role of the elder – guiding her. All have reappeared and are living through this incarnation. Perhaps very soon, you shall discover your paths are destined to intersect.”
Blasts of blinding light converged, and Desmond awoke with the soft echo of Abigail’s voice still caressing his ear. In haste, he threw aside the covering blankets, and through the panes of the bedroom window, he felt the bracing glar
e of the morning sun’s orange glow pierce the drowsed surface of his eyes.
13
Columbia Prep
(School Cafeteria)
As the school day wore on, Bobby felt despondent gloom over his father’s disconcerting news about Greenview begin to plague his zestful spirit. Nevertheless, pushing it out of his mind, he managed to put on a good face, maintaining the gregarious image to which his friends and everyone at Columbia Prep were accustomed. But now, ravaging excitement’s electric surge, which for the entire week held the entire school body captive in anticipation over the city championship game scheduled for that weekend, seemed short-circuited by the morbid anxiety wrought from the recent alarming reports. By now, everyone at school, and in Sky Parlor, heard the announcements about his three friends and teammates, who it was claimed, were kidnapped and murdered out near the city buffer zones by a rogue saint employed at Paramount Games.
It was now mid-day, and before entering the school cafeteria, he sensed the lively and cacophonous chatter – normal for this time of day – subdued, as if muffled by a blanketing omen’s strange aura.
Bobby’s gaze roamed over the pastel cafeteria walls scattered with hand-painted paper murals and banners hailing the Columbia Eagles. Bobby noticed that the corners of some, barely secured by masking tape, had come loose and began to hang like limp and frayed appendages. He stopped to watch some girls on the varsity cheerleading squad, balanced like precarious ballerinas on some beige folding chairs borrowed from the teacher’s lounge as they attended to them with vivacious enthusiasm. He noticed, with some amusement, one of the girls up on her toes, struggling to extend her fingers wrapped with tape while the rickety chair began to totter beneath her.
“Hey,” he said, “maybe you’d like a helping hand there, huh?”
Falling back down on her heels, the girl’s balance became more precarious, and Bobby rushed forward to prevent her fall.
Sky Parlor: A NOVEL Page 22