Gather the Sentient

by Amalie Jahn

  And yet, why couldn’t it be true? If it was, then knowing what he knew, he was obligated to be proactive and do what he could to protect the fate of the world. And if it wasn’t true, would pursuing some leads cause any real harm? Maybe a little time wasted, but besides that, there were no real negatives to following the path they were on.

  While hammers continued to strike the piano’s strings at the bequest of his nimble fingers on the keyboard, he decided once and for all that he would help Mia in her search for the other members of the prophecy. He would use the resources available to him at the university to begin tracking down the names of people born on his birthday. He would work with her in the evenings, comparing notes and leads.

  Whatever it took, he would see the process through until Mia was satisfied with the outcome.

  Pleased with his decision, his mind returned to the present and he scanned the lobby which was now teeming with guests. A few bills and a handful of loose change lay in the bottom of his jar, and he ramped up his song selection in the hopes of eliciting some larger donations. As he transitioned seamlessly into Song of Newsboy by Nie Er, a petite Chinese woman with soulful eyes and a friendly smile approached the piano.

  “Of all the songs you could be playing, this is one of my favorites,” she told him. “My grandfather used to play it when I was a child.”

  Thomas tried to keep conversations to a minimum while he played. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it,” he said politely, returning his attention to the keys. He expected her to move on, hoping maybe she would leave some change. But she didn’t.

  “This is my first trip to the United States,” she admitted, as if she was sharing one of her deepest secrets with him. “I’m here for a conference about obesity. I’m an obesity counselor. Or actually, I’m studying to become one. I’m here with some of the other students in my Master’s degree program.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was nervous or just lonely, but something compelled him to respond, despite his stance on banter. “I’m a student myself,” he told her.

  “Oh, you are!” She beamed at him, clearly grateful for the connection. “What are you studying?”

  “Music,” he replied as he continued to play.

  She looked away then, embarrassed. “I should have guessed. Although it seems like you could be the professor. You play so well.”

  Now it was Thomas’ turn to feel self-conscious. “Thanks, but I’m actually studying to become a teacher. A music teacher. And I’ve got a lot to learn.”

  She took a step closer and boldly sat on the piano bench beside him. “I can relate. I’ve got a lot to learn about becoming a counselor, even though I know a lot about being overweight.”

  “How’s that?” The woman didn’t look the slightest bit heavy to him.

  Her shoulders fell, almost as if she was being deflated. “I was overweight for most of my life. People said a lot of mean things about me behind my back. Depression set in and there was no one around to help me. That’s when I knew I wanted a career helping young people struggling with weight management.”

  “Sounds like a terrific plan. And it seems like you’re well on the way to realizing your dreams.”

  “I made a commitment to myself on my eighteenth birthday, and I’ve been working hard to achieve my goals ever since.” She thought for a moment. “It’s hard to believe I’ve been at it for seven years already.”

  Thomas lost himself in the piece for a moment, stumbling over a few notes as he calculated her age.

  She was 25.

  He did a mental head slap, already hating himself for what he was about to ask. But he couldn’t help himself – he had to prove that sometimes a coincidence was just a coincidence.

  “That’s funny,” he laughed. “I’m twenty-five too. When’s your birthday?”

  “It’s February 17th. When’s yours?”

  At that point, his fingers could no longer keep their place within the music. Between the conversation and the atomic bomb, the woman had just set off inside his head, his only option was to stop playing – something he had never before done in a public venue. He turned to her.

  “Why did you stop?” she asked, hastily returning to her feet. “Did I say something wrong? Am I being impolite?”

  Strong powers will be in place to bring the seven light together…

  The words of the prophecy replayed over and over in his head like a Vine video.

  He composed himself, taking a deep breath, and then patted the bench beside him to encourage her to sit.

  “It’s not you. I promise,” he chuckled. “It’s just that, believe it or not, I’m 25 years old and February 17th is my birthday too.”

  “Really?” she gasped. “We were born the same day? What are the chances?”

  He actually knew the answer to this, thanks to some preliminary research of the other psychics. “About 1 in 355,000, give or take,” he said. “There are a lot of us out there. Still, the chances of us meeting are pretty small.”

  “But here we are,” she said.

  “Yes. Here we are.”

  The woman looked anxious now, as if she was afraid the conversation had reached its culmination. She adjusted her purse on her shoulder and began to stand. But Thomas couldn’t let her walk away. Not without first finding out more about her.

  Not without first finding out if she had some sort of psychic power.

  “My name’s Thomas,” he said abruptly. “And my girlfriend’s name is Mia. She was born on February 17th too.” He knew he sounded like a crazy person, but he continued anyway. “I know she’d love to get to know you so I was wondering if you’d like to meet up for drinks, maybe just here at the hotel if you have some time?”

  “Drinks with you and your girlfriend?”

  Oh, God, he thought, realizing it sounded as if he was suggesting something racy. She probably thinks I’m some sort of pervert. He attempted to save face.

  “Yes, just drinks, and I promise my intentions are pure. I’m a total gentleman.” He ran his fingers through his hair, positive he was blowing it as she stared dumbfounded at him. “It’s just that Mia has a thing for finding people who share our birthday, and I know she’d love to hear your story. Please say you’ll join us.”

  She lowered her chin and closed her eyes. “I came here thinking, hoping, maybe I could make a new friend. I won’t miss out on an opportunity to do just that.” She held out her hand. “My name’s Lanying. My session’s over at five tomorrow. We can meet back here in the lobby at six if you’d like?”

  He took her hand, shaking it firmly. “Sounds great. I know Mia will be thrilled.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  PATRICK

  Saturday, September 10

  London

  Patrick woke with a start. He could sense a shift in the astral plane, like a ship cresting a wave just seconds before thundering into the foamy sea below. He knew immediately, before ever opening his eyes, that another light psychic had joined their growing ranks, bringing their number to four.

  In the years before, he hadn’t given them a second thought, never sensing they were on a path toward one another. Now he thought of them with great frequency, since in just over eleven months he’d felt their connections growing. First two. Then the third. And now the fourth. It did little to ease his mind, knowing the dark psychics already numbered six, since statistically it had taken them significantly longer to find one another. At the rate they were going, it would be months, not years, before all seven light psychics came together. He knew twilight was setting on the prophecy, as was the time he had to locate Number Seven.

  Without looking at the clock, he pressed the call button beside his bed. His assistant answered almost immediately. “Sir?”

  “I need you to get Eshanti on the phone for me right away.”

  There was a brief pause. “It’s quite early in India, sir. Only a little after 6am. Perhaps it can wait?”

  “Perhaps you can get her on the line this instant o
r you will see yourself into another line of work. Something that requires fewer of your opinions. Like digging ditches.”

  Less than a minute later Eshanti’s heavy accent broke the hanging silence. “Good morning, Patrick,” she said thinly.

  “I need to know of your recent work. Have there been any new insights?”

  “No. Nothing of consequence.”

  “I should probably be the one deciding whether something is consequential or not, don’t you think?”

  She sighed into the receiver. Patrick didn’t care whether it was out of annoyance or exhaustion. “I’ll email you photos of my latest work,” she replied. “As I said though, I don’t think any of it will be helpful. Mostly just landscapes.”

  Her attitude aggravated him, that she could know more than he did about what was best for the search. “The photographs won’t be necessary. I’ll have Javier apport them here to London so Wesley can examine them himself firsthand. Because while you may be unable to ascertain anything about our final member from your work, his abilities may be better suited for the task.”

  Until that point, he’d felt comfortable allowing her to determine when to notify him about possible leads from her paintings, but as more of the light psychics came together, his need to control every facet of the search grew in intensity. He could leave no stone unturned.

  He hung up on the Indian woman without saying goodbye and wasted no time in having his assistant contact both Javier and Wesley on a conference call.

  “For Christ’s sake, Patrick, it’s one in the morning. What’s so important?” Javier said.

  “There are four of them together now. That leaves only three.”

  “Light psychics?” Wesley asked. “Did you sense it?”

  “Yes. Just a bit ago. So we can’t afford to be resting on our laurels now that their numbers are increasing so steadily.”

  Wesley chuckled. “I’d hardly call what we’ve been doing ‘resting on our laurels,’” he said. “We have paid a staff of over 100 people searching databases for them every day. We have another two dozen attending psychic conventions and expos around the world hoping for a lead. We’re using every psychic ability at our disposal. I don’t know what more we can be doing.”

  A spark of indignation ignited inside him, and it was a struggle to keep from lashing out at the man he’d considered an ally for so many years. Not long after discovering Lillian in Texas, he and Javier detected a birthday match in one of their databases, directing them to a medium working the carnival circuit just outside Brisbane. Although it seemed strange for a man to be working in such a profession, Patrick was able to connect with Wesley over the astral plane from London and could immediately sense his sinister intent. But it wasn’t until they arrived in Brisbane to watch him in action that they were able to confirm he was truly one of them.

  From a distance, Patrick and Javier loitered along the edge of the side show exhibits, just outside the tent Wesley used to conduct his séances. Patrick was able to listen in, using his own clairvoyance, to the way Wesley used what he saw about each customer to belittle them, often eliciting tears. When a woman confessed she was concerned about the health of her unborn baby, Wesley was quick to point out she had every right to be, given the drugs and alcohol she’d consumed since his conception. A man had also approached, curious as to why he seemed to be so unlucky in love. Without hesitation, Wesley rightly pointed out it was because of the man’s annoyingly pretentious personality and greasy complexion. Patrick could feel the joy it brought Wesley, causing emotional pain to the patrons who entered his tent, as without fail, he was able to find something personal about each of them to cause distress.

  From that moment, he’d admired Wesley for the way he took personal pleasure at the expense of others, but he’d been unimpressed by his lack of drive and ambition. Now, many years later, Wesley’s laissez-faire approach to their search was beginning to grate on his nerves.

  “You won’t mind then, if the light gather first and everything we’ve dreamed of never comes to pass? Because that is what will happen. Instead of choosing whichever woman you like to fulfill your wanton desires, there will be only chastity. All the wealth we’ve amassed will pass away in the interest of charity. The gluttonous feast will be tempered and any pride you feel now will be suppressed by humility. Instead of doing as you please, you will live to please others.” His voice rose now, in a fevered pitch. “Is that how you’d like to carry out the rest of your miserable existence?”

  “Of course not, Patrick. We want what you want. Freedom to do as we please without the restriction of society’s moral obligations,” Javier explained. “I think though, what Wesley’s saying, is he doesn’t know what more we can do. And frankly, neither do I.”

  “Well, for starters, Javier, I need you to apport Eshanti’s latest works here to London immediately, and then, Wesley, you need to get here ASAP to see what you can glean from them using your abilities. I’m convinced there’s something to her paintings, regardless of what she says. Even if most of them are landscapes, perhaps you’ll be able to sense their location with your magic mirror. There may be a psychic waiting there for us.”

  Wesley’s voice carried icily across the line. “It’s not a magic mirror, Patrick. Scrying is no less respected in the psychic community than your clairvoyance, and I take offence to the contrary.”

  Before losing his temper once again, he reminded himself that he need only to put up with Wesley and the others for a short while longer until he could be rid of them for good.

  “Duly noted,” he acquiesced. “Now that it’s been settled, we don’t rest until we find Number Seven. There is no other option.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  ESHANTI

  Saturday, September 10

  Mumbai

  Eshanti hated Patrick. Not quite as much as she’d hated her deceased husband, Aarush, but close. After hanging up from his demanding predawn phone call, she’d begun reviewing the mental inventory of reasons she had to despise him. She added his lack of patience to the list.

  She continued taking stock of their strained relationship as she picked at her breakfast, a bowl of suji upma prepared just the way she liked it with roasted rava and sautéed vegetables. Usually she delighted in the simple pleasure of the morning meal, but today, she found her appetite was lacking.

  She glanced at the clock on the wall of her Mumbai apartment, located in the penthouse of one of the city’s newest high rises. Of course, she had Patrick to thank for her accommodations, fully-furnished with a rooftop terrace in South Mumbai, home to the city’s wealthiest inhabitants. The apartment and everything in it was another source of frustration for Eshanti. There was nothing she loathed more than being indebted to a man, even if that man was also a part of the Sevens Prophecy. After Aarush’s death she had promised herself she would never become dependent on another person again, and yet, here she was.

  It was just after 7am and she felt the familiar urge to perform the morning rituals of her youth. The morning purifications, the sun worship, and the tilak and postures. She had given up these things after her husband’s untimely passing, turning away from not only the Hindu rituals but the associated beliefs as well.

  What good were gods if they couldn’t protect her from the pain of existence?

  Eshanti gave up on her breakfast, and after covering the bowl in cellophane, slipped the untouched suji upma into the Sub Zero refrigerator. She retreated to her studio, a room Patrick had insisted on setting up for her the day the apartment was procured. There were easels and canvases scattered throughout the window-lined space, along with every imaginable production medium – oils, crayon, chalks, pencils, acrylics. Eshanti wanted for nothing.

  Nothing except the two babies Aarush had forced her to abort.

  Impressions of her daughters’ faces covered the walls of the studio, etched into the drywall with a blade in much the same manner a sculptor would carve into marble with a chisel. She assumed she’d bee
n drawing the girls as they could have been. As they should have been, if they’d been allowed to grow into the playful, smiling children who adorned her walls. She crossed the room now and their eyes seemed to follow her, pleading ‘Why Amma, why?’

  The illustrations of her daughters and predictions of the prophecy were born of the same psychic power. Falling into a trancelike state, she’d first experienced automatic drawing at the age of seven, using a charcoal brick from the fire to create an image on the concrete floor of her family’s shanty, scorching the skin on her palm in the process. She came to render the same likeness dozens of times in the years that followed, but wouldn’t realize she was drawing Patrick until he appeared at the entrance to her jail cell seventeen years later.

  The day she traded one form of captivity for another.

  She glided across the studio now in what had become her signature attire – a richly colored mekhela sador with the mekhela wrapped around her waist and the blouse and sador draped across her shoulders. As requested by Patrick, she gathered the most recent landscape drawings into a pile for Javier to apport to Wesley. Many of the mountains she’d drawn were tree covered. Some were barren. Others were topped with snow. She had absolutely no idea where they were located and doubted they bore any connection to the prophecy, but it was a waste of her time to argue against Patrick on the matter. Once his mind was made up, she knew it was better to acquiesce.

  The same had been true of Aarush. Her marriage to him had been arranged, as were many Indian marriages. Although she’d drawn the middle-aged lines of his face for many months before their families reached an agreement, the first time she met him in person was the day before their nuptials at his parents’ house for dinner. Even at the tender age of fifteen, she’d known immediately she could never love Aarush. His callous demeanor, the way he refused to look her in the eye, confirmed her suspicions he sought only to possess her. There had been no affection involved.