Knights of Light: Knight Vision

by Mark Moreland

First sunlight pops up over the McDowell Mountains, then hurdles through carelessly open blinds. Nature’s wake up call. “Ohhh sheeeit – what happened?” Schuyler mumbles as consciousness begins dawning. Beaded sweat gathers, then begins to drip from his forehead. A shaking hand tries in vain to stop the incessant pounding emanating from the inside of his skull – all tell-tale signs of a really bad night. “Holy crap!” he utters with the peculiar mixture of morning breath and distant vomit in the air. Sketchy memories of last night’s festivities begin to emerge. “I am toast.

  Stumbling to the bathroom, he tries in vain to remain quiet so as to not initiate some inevitable tongue lashing. He positions his mouth under the faucet, trying to hose off the layer of cotton and other substance that seems to have coagulated on the roof of his mouth. Suddenly, there’s the distinct and inevitable knock on the door. Then a pause. His pulse quickens, as he braces himself. The door opens in a flurry, “Schuyler O’Brien, what have you done?” asks his mother. “There’s a sheriff’s deputy at the front door looking to speak with you. What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into?”

  “Nothing mom,” he says almost automatically.

  “Oh, don’t give me that baloney, something happened and you’re not being honest as usual. Did anyone get hurt?” she asks.

  “What? No! I mean yeah, something happened but no one’s hurt,” he says reluctantly as the words leave his lips.

  “Well then, you have to tell the truth, no matter what it’s going to mean to you. You must face whatever this is. Go down and talk to him, while I’ll call your father’s cell phone.”

  Feeling disheveled, he puts on an oversized football jersey, and heads down stairs in shorts and flip flops. The deputy is waiting for him in the foyer. He begins to stare at him, as if looking for some clue. At first no words are exchanged in an awkward silence. “My mom said you wanted to speak with me.”

  “Are you Schuyler O’Brien?”

  “Yessir, but I think that was already established,” he answers curtly.

  “Sir, please just answer my questions – yes or no,” he replies not amused.

  “Ok, officer,” he complies.

  “Son, is that your pickup truck parked outside in the driveway?”

  “Yes sir, it is.”

  “Son, were you involved in some kind of accident last night?”

  “What do you mean by that?” Schuyler asks sheepishly.

  “Son, were you driving your vehicle last night, out near Amber Sun Drive?”

  “I might have been, why?”

  “Son, did you let anyone else operate your vehicle last night?”

  “No sir, I did not,” Schuyler answers confidently.

  “Son, were you under the influence of drugs or alcohol last night?”

  “No way!” he insists as a lump forms in his throat as he remembers his mother’s warning.

  “Ok son, but I’m going to have to cite you,” the deputy says as Mrs. O’Brien enters the foyer from around back of the house.

  “For what? You can’t prove anything.”

  “For hit and run. Leaving the scene of the accident, and careless driving. And yes I have proof. You see, when you hit that stop sign, you happened to leave your calling card at the scene,” he says pulling out a bent Oregon license plate. “You know the sad irony for you, if you had obtained Arizona plates – you wouldn’t have had a front plate to leave at the scene. So that’s probably another lesson for you. Now this ticket provides information on when you are to appear in Juvenile Court.”

  “I have to go to court?” he utters as the pit in his stomach grows larger.

  “Yes sir, but don’t worry. This is your first offense so you’ll likely qualify for citation diversion. One word of advice though: Heed this warning. I’ve seen many kids like you turn their lives into a mess, and this is usually the first step. Don’t make it be that way. Use this as your wake up call.” He hands Schuyler the ticket and makes his way toward the door. He turns the handle, opens the door, before turning around one last time. Ma’am. Schuyler. Have a nice day.” With that he exits.

  “You did what?” Mrs. O’Brien asks him.

  “Mom, you’re not going to like this but I got really drunk last night after my shift at the club. Well, I probably should’ve walked home. I really wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “You got that right,” she answers. “You know you’re going to have to pay for this ticket, and for the damage you’ve caused. Needless to say, your father’s not happy, and we’ll have to go through all this legal stuff. For now, I need you to go upstairs and get dressed.”

  “Why?” he asks.

  “We’re going to Sedona. Loraine Askin and I are attending an art festival. You can ride bikes with her son Tate.”

  “Tate Askin, seriously?” he asks.

  “Seriously!” she affirms.

  “Great, now my penance is Tate Askin.”

  We’re meeting them at Sundial Plaza in half an hour. You boys are going to ride your trail bikes while we attend the art festival. Lord knows you need to get that beer out of your system.”

  “Mom!” he objects.

  “Hey, you just be glad it’ll be 20 degrees cooler on the rim. Besides, it’s clear I can’t trust you right now, and your father has taken your younger brother to speech therapy.”

  “Whatever,” he complains.

  Tate and Schuyler, both incoming sophomores at Holy Child Academy, have a little history with each other dating back to when Schuyler’s family first moved to Arizona during the previous school year. Last Spring, they got into an awkward sort of wrestling match after exchanging elbows on an outdoor basketball court at a nearby park. Some of the boys were egging them on: “kick his ass Schuy, I bet his ancestors scalped and killed those minors at the cave.” It didn’t last long, but Schuyler had to use some of his Kempo Karate to quash an uprising when the surrounding boys were unsatisfied that he didn’t want to fight Tate. The “incident” has left the boys measuring each other ever since, more bruised egos than bruised bones.

  While schoolmates, they don’t share any core classes and Schuyler hangs around the football players, while Tate hangs out with the soccer players. There’s also the “native” issue – which is really socio-economic – rather than racial. Schuyler came to Arizona from a diverse neighborhood in Northeast Portland, so racial issues were never a problem in his upbringing.

  Now hesitant and defeated, Schuyler heads upstairs for a quick change before putting his bike on the car rack, grabbing an energy drink and bagel then waiting for his mom in the car. There’s a short drive from the golf community homes in Quail Valley Ranch of rustic Cave Creek, to the more upscale neighboring town of Carefree - home to the largest sundial in the western hemisphere. The Askin family occupies some ranch land in the desert foothills to the north of both towns, making Carefree Town Center a good meeting point. Soon the 60 foot high copper colored sundial is in sight, and along with it, the Askin late model Ford van.

  Schuyler smiles politely at Ms. Askin, then gives a slight nod to Tate. Without any further words, Schuyler begins to put Tate’s bike on the O’Brien’s sport utility vehicle. Tate walks up to him to whisper: “Dude – everyone’s been texting how toasted you got at the club last night! Did you really hit on Ronni Schwinn?”

  “That’s not exactly how I remember it, although the details are a bit sketchy.” He was happy to offer this seemingly scandalous tidbit in order to skirt past the whole ‘calling card’ incident.

  “Sky,” Ms. Askin looks at him with a gentle smile. “I brought you some vitamins and supplements – take them – they’ll eventually help you feel better. Also, drink lots of water, more than our Arizona usual.” Loraine Askin’s ancestors go back in this desert country as far as anyone can remember. By trade, she’s a nurse at the Children’s hospital in Phoenix, and is quite the healer. Around the Pediatric ward, she was known by her childhood nickname of LaurAx, an obvious play on her
name – although Tate thinks there might be more ax than lore.

  After finishing up with the bikes, Schuyler eagerly accepts the remedy and proceeds to gulp down lots of water. Soon they are heading down Carefree Highway toward I-17, then northward to Sedona. Schuyler soon feigns falling asleep so that he won’t have to endure any further conversation about last night. He ends up dozing off anyway.

  Nearly ninety minutes later, the chatter emanating from the front seat oddly ceases. Instinctively, Schuyler arouses just in time to see the large, reddened boulder cliffs that greet all visitors to Sedona Arizona. He has been here before, but the scene always seems to command his scarce, teenager attention. A few minutes later, the boys are mounting their trail bikes for their trip down into Oak Creek Canyon, promising to rendezvous at 1 o’clock for lunch.

  The late August sun splashes off the red rock canyon walls as Schuyler and Tate tear through trails cut into the terrain throughout town. Initially, Schuyler mostly spins on autopilot trying to clear the cobwebs from last night’s escapades, but Tate makes it clear that it’s on and begins to lose Schuyler in this seriously unfamiliar terrain. A mild sweat starts up, and he reaches inside for that competitiveness that’s made him a championship caliber football player, one that is worthy of carrying on the memory of a deceased older brother, the original football star in the family. He gets off his saddle and explodes at the pedals imploring the bike to carry itself faster. He gains on Tate who is now in sight, and sets out to overtake the ‘soccer player’. It becomes a bit of a back in forth as one over takes the other, then vice versa. They are now tearing carelessly through the course at great speeds in some sort of sparring match, going up the face of canyon walls at hairpin turns – often passing others on the trail and leaving them in their wake. “So that’s why LaurAx sometimes calls him Mustang,” Schuyler thinks to himself while in an all out sprint on a straight away.

  School starts Monday, so its last chance Friday up on the higher elevation Verde Valley, well above the stifling heat of the Phoenix area. Soon, the trails become more clogged with bikers. Jumping Chollas provide the necessary incentive to stay on the trail. Jagged, red rock outcroppings, and dry riverbeds washes, make a natural obstacle course for risk-taking mountain bikers. Aptly named washes continue to carve out the landscape as summer monsoons create flash floods removing anything in their way.

  Today, fluffy white clouds float the blue sky among the cathedral like walls of the canyons. This is a welcome respite, after two days of monsoons. High water has quickly subsided, leaving the washes damp and murky, ideal for cutting new jumps and turns into the trail.

  Despite the fact that Tate is riding a makeshift, hand-crafted bike, he is simply the fastest racer on the course. Part of it is soccer conditioning, but he also knows bikes and components. Despite an apparent lack of funds, he is adept at successfully scrounging and bartering for upgrades to his components. Given all the kids in Quail Valley Ranch, there is a constant supply of new bikes flowing in, creating the opportunity to ‘part out’ some of the older models. As in many things, Tate is a bicycle opportunist.

  Schuy on the other hand, owns a name branded, expensive factory-built bike with no modifications. His brawny physique is certainly more useful as a tight end than it is for racing trail bikes – especially against soccer players. Sheer determination fuels an athletic arrogance that keeps him in the same zip code as Tate. Calling card! I’ll show you Jamie! I wish I had other parents. Thoughts of fear, anger, and hatred begin to dominate him. His heavy breathing becomes dragon-like, and his eyes begin to narrow.

  The boys are now twenty yards apart nearing the far end of the course near Airport Corner. “Can’t let him beat me! Schuyler shouts at himself. Anger, fueled by competitiveness bordering on fear begins to engulf him. “Find a way, take him!” Tate clears the corner and Schuyler flashes on what appears to be a short cut. “I got this,” he says as he veers toward the trail spur, then in an instant, realizes he’s made a grave mistake. His tires leave the trail as he ejects off the cliff, hurtling in mid air over a 100 foot drop. In what seems like slow motion, he instinctively flails his arms, as if swimming in mid air, fortuitously grasping a branch with his left hand from a nearby Juniper tree situated near the edge of the cliff. The bike disappears out from under him hurtling over the cliff as his momentum swings him around in a semi-circular fashion launching him on a bee line back on the path, where he lands performing a head first baseball slide. Coming to his knees, shaken and breathing heavily; bits of his life begin to flash into his mind.

  Out of the corner of his left eye, Schuyler immediately senses a brilliant white spot light seemingly coming toward him –in broad daylight. He struggles to stand, ready to run, but the light gets brighter and closer to him, piercing the thin cloud layer above him. Panicking, he starts sprinting up the path, trying desperately to not look directly at the light, half-hoping it will pass him by if he doesn’t acknowledge it.

  Out of nowhere, something inside of him seizes up, and he stops running. In the stillness, he surrenders – turning toward the light – instinctively putting his hands up. A tunnel of pure dazzling white appears – a peculiar window into another world. Strangely familiar, the light seems as if it’s always been there, only now some curtain has pierced open revealing the source. The light is intensely bright, washing out every color and physical thing, yet it does not hurt his eyes to look at it. Apparently from his chest, he feels a soothing, inviting presence at the far end of the tunnel. He finds himself floating through the tunnel, yet his body somehow remains ironically stationary, like the background of an old-time movie set.

  Out of a cloud, someone appears and greets him, knowing his name. It seems to gesture toward a couple of clumps of light toward his left, below a more clear, central light form. Schuyler instantly recognizes his late older brother. Kevin is radiant and smiling, not the lifeless form Schuyler viewed at his funeral. Schuyler scans around at other light forms, all somehow now familiar to him, but no one he knows by name. He begins to notice that he’s somehow a part of all this, like this is his true identity.

  At once, Schuyler’s mind begins to race. “Kev, is that really you?”

  He nods affirmatively, smiling back at him. Schuyler begins to rattle off questions. “Are you well? Is this good? Are we ok?”

  Kevin shushes him putting his finger to his lips, “Bro, just listen. Quiet your mind. Everything’s going to be all right.” He gives a thumbs up sign.

  This soon gives way to the central energy form, which at first appears to be engaged in dialogue with another light form. Schuyler leans, as if to listen in. The main source begins to address him, clearly, though not in any spoken language. Oddly, there is no struggle to hear or understand, he’s feeling the message as being somehow enveloped by the light. Oddly, a motion picture begins to form in his mind. A life. Schuyler’s life. It begins to flash forward – starting as a young child, but being projected outward from his head onto some sort of external movie screen for all to see.

  Oddly detached, he witnesses scenes from his life unfold in front of his very eyes, scenes of him as a baby interacting with his parents. Quickly it progresses into the highlights of his life; good times flash by, bad ones too. Times of fear, guilt, remorse and shame, yet also triumph, accomplishment, joy. There are times when he is in good graces with his parents, his brothers and sister, and other times when he disappoints even himself. He is shocked at how authentic and accurate the images are; uncovering layers of denial and selective memory. They stream by so quickly, yet complete in every detail. Oddly, he begins to sense the emotions of others he has hurt, like a full body virtual reality experience. The scenes move to his eighth grade year, when everything changed. Expectantly, he finds himself hovering over his older brother’s lifeless body, laid out in a gurney, in a room just off the E.R. of that Oregon hospital. After that, the scenes become more dark and depressed. An utter sense of emptiness
envelopes him. His formerly sunny disposition has given way to cold, calculating maneuvers. Friends, becomes pawns in his schemes to obtain something that he’s searching for. He begins to ignore his younger brother with Asperger’s Syndrome. He overhears his own thoughts: Don’t love, you’ll just get hurt.

  Then comes the move from Portland to the north of Phoenix. A fresh start for the family. Sweat streams down his forehead. A lump appears in his throat. He throws himself into few things: sports, karate, and his rich girlfriend. All provide him currency he seeks – notoriety, security, relevance. School comes easy, almost auto-pilot. Same with sports. Then comes Jamie, the fight, and the calling card incident. The deputy appears, then vanishes.

  Soon this biographical montage quickly morphs into his bike accident, he oddly watches himself eject over the handle bars, flailing in a panic before grabbing the tree branch, then it goes blank. The light seems to sing, but it’s not a song. He somehow recognizes that vibration as his real name. It’s not earthly, but he identifies with it, and it feels beautiful. A moment of peace, before dark remorseful feelings begin to creep in.

  He drops back to his knees. “I’m sorry I’ve let you down.” He suddenly realizes he’s not being judged, but is doing his own judging, and he doesn’t like what he sees. A flow of loving energy engulfs him, seeming to remove lingering feelings of remorse and guilt. The energy embrace is of a proud parent, but also calling him to course correct – to be of useful service to others. He’s reminded of a broader mission. Something undone. It’s just about to be revealed, then fades fast.

  “Am I staying here?” Schuyler asks.

  The central light informs him he hasn’t accomplished his mission. Before he can ask further questions, the original, smaller light form moves in from his right as if putting an arm around him, beginning to turn him around. “You are still needed to help uncover the path of light, a quest for the code. The code quest is your mission.” It continues, “Though ego may tempt you, and the enemy detracts, it’s imperative that you share your findings with those who will listen. By giving, you will receive, and help will be there for you.”

  “What exactly is the code?” Schuyler asks.

  A message is delivered… Then time stops. Color returns, then pain.

  Chapter 3: White Washing

  Each minute of life should be a divine quest. - Paramahansa Yogananda