Knights of Light: Knight Vision

by Mark Moreland

“Dude! What happened, and who exactly are you talking to?!” Tate yells heartily from a short cliff above the scene before instinctively recoiling, as what appears to be a white eagle buzzes near him before disappearing into a cloud. “Whoahhh – was that?!” he stops himself as the hair stands up on the back of his neck.

  Schuyler looks around for recognition, oddly finding himself kneeling on the trail among the boulders of above the wash. He stands up, and dusts himself off. Oddly, the light tunnel has visibly left him, but he somehow senses its continued presence. The two remain speechless for 30 seconds – as if they had both witnessed some unexplainable event. As a cradle Catholic, Schuyler has been a spectator and participant at certain religious sacraments, but this felt different. Three dimensional. Surreal. Something he couldn’t explain, an indescribable, engulfing peace, coupled with the revelation that he is truly a worthy participant in life, this life, his life. And loved like coming home for the first time, but now knowing it fully, yet experiencing human pain as well.

  “Seriously! Who the heck were you talking to, and what was all that?” Tate says doing a 180 degree skid stop. “That must’ve been an awesome wipeout. Where’s your bike? Are you okay?” Tate stops to take a breath.

  Unexpectedly calmed, Schuyler processes Tate’s flurry of questions, then looks back up at him. He points over the cliff, then asks “you heard all that?”

  “I saw you say something, like you were talking to that cloud,” Tate answers. “When I yelled, something stopped. Then this thunderbird buzzed me, escaping through the clouds just then,” he says rubbing the back of his neck.

  “You mean you couldn’t see the white light, that tunnel window that was right there?” Schuyler points with his outstretched arm.

  “No, I didn’t see any tunnel, what’s going on? Did you hit your head?” Tate asks. “Looks like your helmet is intact, and yes I see your bike at the base of this cliff - probably 100 feet down.”

  “No, it’s not my head or even in my head – at least I don’t think so. I can’t really explain... I feel like I’ve been given a really big assignment.” Schuyler dabs at a bloody patch on his left elbow with the bottom of his tee shirt.

  “If this assignment involves retrieving your bike, we don’t have any rope, so we can’t repel down there from here. It should be safe down there for now. Looks like you’ll have to stand on my rear foot pegs, while I pedal us out of here. Besides, I caught sight of a displaced coyote just over that ridge. Your blood probably smells pretty good to him. Unless of course you’d prefer to walk - of course.”

  “Um no. Thanks. Let’s get out of here,” Schuyler replies.

  On the trek back to the car, the boys barely say a word to each other. This is particularly unusual for Tate, who constantly fills the air with chatter and whose Navajo name means ‘he who talks too much’. For Schuyler, accepting the ride from Tate feels odd at first, but it also provides a different perspective. Besides, he’s still quite numb from the whole encounter.

  Once they arrive at the car, Tate turns to Schuyler, “What was back there? I mean I swear I saw something. Did the wreck cause that?”

  “I’m not sure, but I think the answer is yes and no,” Schuyler replies.

  “Huh?” Tate exhales. “That’s right out of Ayana’s playbook. Answering, but not really answering.”

  Ayana Brown, a classmate of theirs, lives two doors down from Schuyler on Night Owl Lane. Physically subtle but mentally piercing, she is at once mysterious and manipulative, and certainly as smart as all of their teachers – at least she thinks so. She’s also the editor of the school newspaper – as a sophomore.

  Schuyler grabs a baby wipe from the back of the car and starts dabbing his wound. “Ayana? Seriously? Yeah, you might be right. You hang out with Ayana? I try to keep my distance – not always successfully though. Anytime I confide in her, it seems like it ends up in the school newspaper, or on Facebook.”

  “I think she just digs you. She talks about you, almost finds excuses to bring you up – even out of context. I’ve been bugging her for a staff reporter role. She keeps telling me to hone my craft. If I could deliver…”

  “No way!” Schuyler insists. “We’re not letting her in on this. She’s such a lawyer, just like her dad. Everything I say, can and will be held against me. I’ll be the laughing stock. I’ll be ruined. Look nothing happened.”

  “So there was something!” Tate retorts. “You admit it!”

  “Huh, how do you figure, Tate?” he replies.

  “If there was nothing, you wouldn’t be worried if Ayana caught wind,” he answers. “But since you are, there must be something. A classic leverage maneuver.”

  Schuyler had seen Ayana’s journalistic skills in recent months and wanted no part of it. The girl is tough. Now he’s seeing glimpses in the form of one Tate Askin. During spring break of last year, a white supremacy group held and organized rally at the Cave Creek Maricopa County Campground. Ayana, who is of African and Asian descent, decided to do a piece on them for the newspaper.

  Always prepared, she conducted extensive research prior to traveling out to the campground to meet with a small group of their leaders face to face. She roped Schuyler into accompanying her, primarily because he couldn’t talk her out of it, and he knew it would be dangerous.

  It really came as no surprise when the interview turned into a display of so-called adults hurling insults laced with profanity and racial epithets at the young girl. It got uglier when some of the younger members began to close in with baseball bats. As pre-instructed by Ayana’s father, who has friends in the District Attorney’s office, Schuyler dialed Deputy King’s cell phone who remained on standby. Within 30 seconds of the first ring, the deputy arrived with back up on the way, and the kids were subsequently escorted home.

  “Dude, we can’t let her in on this” Schuyler insists. “She’s dangerous. Besides, she’s the only atheist at Holy Child Academy. She just goes there because it’s the best private school in the Northeast Valley.”

  “Schuy, she’s not atheist. She’s agnostic – which from our religion class means she hasn’t figured it out yet. Actually, she calls herself an alchemist in training. She tells me she keeps an open mind as she explores on her own for answers.”

  “Well I don’t want her using me to find her answers,” he replies. “I will look like a fool to all my friends. I’ve worked hard to build my cred, ever since I moved from Oregon.”

  “Then keep your friends close, but your enemies closer,” Tate says.

  “Yes, I’ve seen the Godfather, Tate. They were Catholic too you know. What do you mean by this?”

  “Ayana is going to find out. I’ve got to tell her my side of the story. She’s then going to come at you, or work with you. Your choice. Besides, you said it was a big homework assignment. There’s nobody better than her at getting stuff done.”

  “Sheesh. Some choice!” he says excitedly, before pausing. “I guess I’m ruined either way, but maybe… maybe it’s supposed to be that way,” he finishes more thoughtfully. “First, I get booted out of Jamie LaFrance’s elitist world, now I’m going to be some UFO witness. You’re right about her smarts and resourcefulness; it may just come in handy – if I survive it.”

  Needing a distraction, the boys carry on sharing their favorite Ayana stories until their mothers arrive back at the car. They do their best to downplay the severity of the bike accident, pointing out how great it is that they always wear their helmets. Mrs. O’Brien does not look happy at the sight of her son, soiled and splattered with blood. She wears a hint of guilt, perhaps for dragging him along in the first place. Schuyler eagerly embraces this, and even allows her to dress his wounds with the first aid kit in the car. First time in years. “So your bike went over the cliff, but you didn’t?” she asks.

  “Yeah, there was a tree branch that almost grabbed me, as the bike slipped out from under me. Lucky catch, I guess.”

  “Well, your fath
er won’t be pleased that you’ve lost your bike, but we’ll have to recover it some other day. We’ll stop quickly for flatbread, and then head back home. I’m lucky to be bringing you back in one piece.”

  After inhaling the flatbread lunch, and worn out from the morning’s events, the boys blankly stare out of their respective windows as the car takes them back down Interstate 17 toward Phoenix. In the background, their mothers are discussing various aspects of the Art festival. When the enormous sundial eventually comes into view, Tate leans over to Schuyler and whispers: “I’ve texted Ayana already. You might need to prepare for the immovable force. I’m thinking I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “I’d be shocked if you didn’t. Yeah, you’re probably right. Tomorrow.” Schuyler whispers back. While Ms. Askin dispenses with the parting pleasantries, Mrs. O’Brien shoots a peculiar stare in the rear view mirror as Schuyler nudges Tate out his door.

  Schuyler feigns a look back through the rear window as the Carefree town center disappears from view. He isn’t sure what to make of all that’s happened, but he does know there’s unfinished business for last night’s escapades – Juvenile Court, his truck, and Jamie. Now that they are alone in the car, there’s the expected dreadful pause before his mother begins to speak: “You father will want to discuss last night with you when we get home. I think it would be in your best interests to be as honest and forthright as you can. In turn, I’ll do my best to keep him from unloading on you, particularly in light of your biking mishap this morning.”

  Schuyler sits back in the seat and closes his eyes. An unexpected, calm overcomes him. “Thy will be done,” he thinks to himself. A hint of compliance, perhaps acceptance begins to creep in; for what he’s done, but more importantly what he experienced at the edge of that Sedona wash. Everything else moves to the background of his mind. As it was suggested, the journey ahead might indeed lead him to extraordinary things after all.

  Chapter 4: Morning Glory

  Tell me, I'll forget. Show me, I may remember. But involve me, and I'll understand. -Chinese Proverb