The Gemini Child

by Shea Meadows

  This awoke the two animals who yawned and stretched, then started grooming each other; a bond had been established.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  The next several days were a blur of activity. Things that were at York Street were brought to DuPont Street in multiple fill-ups of the van. Rita moved in with all her belongings, storing the things that were too large in the garage at the York street property. Katera, Bonta, Gimma and David went through the York street house, placing more etheric emerald charged crystals throughout the building, with a high concentration in the cellar to impede the spread of the energy emitted by the artifact.

  They also searched, without any luck, for the lever, button, or switch that might open the hidden compartment, which Ricky thought was a good thing because if they brought it out in the open without knowing what to do to neutralize it, the danger increased. No one knew its original purpose; all that was known was that long-term exposure caused weakening of the human energy field and that it was deadly for children. For those reasons alone, Ricky was not allowed anywhere near it. Her body produced the mother’s milk that was Nory’s primary food. David compared what the artifact generated to radiation or radon gases, unseen but ultimately fatal for incarnates.

  Nory gained two more pounds in a week and was more bright-eyed and interactive than expected from a premature baby. She delighted in the playful interactions of Ralph and Pigeon, and, even when she appeared to be asleep, spent hours out of body exploring the house and the lake that was just across the street.

  As for Ricky, besides being Nory’s mom, her main occupation was reading the letters that Norton Reston wrote to William Reston between the fourteenth and eighteenth years of the boy’s life. There were six letters each from the years 1938 to 1941 and only one from 1942. Ricky could tap into the Akashic Record when she held an object that belonged to a person or ghost. That skill allowed her a bird’s eye view of the activity described, plus whatever emotions the author felt as he wrote.

  When Nory was sleeping and exploring, Ricky cocooned in the office on the third floor and dove into the letters, setting aside the significant ones to share with David and ask questions of William when they saw him Sunday.

  March, 1938.

  A man walks within the ruins of an ancient civilization, carrying a kerosene lantern. The starry expanse and the full moon light his way, but the lantern is needed within the caves where a multitude of curiosities are found. He laughs aloud, realizing he has found objects that others have walked over for centuries. These are treasures of the Han Dynasty, dug up by humble peasants to be traded for food. They are so easy to discover that his wife Emily, may her spirit wander aimlessly for eternity, found the first of the figures. But she is no longer here to claim the glory, so it is his.

  He thinks briefly of the small but courageous Eleanor who came upon the tiny figure of a clay dog and another of a pig, then finally a chicken. All burial animals meant to follow their masters to the Gates of Heaven. The child, though otherwise worthless, was a born student of the mystical. She looked not at the history of an object but its energetic power. Then Emily, fearful always, refused to come back with him after the death of the child Paul and the passing of brave but foolish Nellie.

  He bent over and started chiseling an object embedded in the wall of the cave, a rounded head with smiling face that appeared to be a harem woman of stature. He felt a zap of energy when he touched its graceful body. Aah, another ghost encased in clay. Why aren’t you with me, William? If there were two of us, the search for the others would be easier. But you are as timid as your mother and cannot see the purpose of the work. You reject the wisdom of the ancients, as I pay for your housing and schooling. And your letters never reach me, if you’ve bothered to write them.

  ***

  June, 1938

  The man sits in a large room, walls lined with shelves filled with small figures, and meticulously cleans the dirt from a figure of a woman, without arms, without clothing, but with painted features and perfectly executed hair. Another woman of the harem of the Han emperor; he knows this from the whispers of the ghost that created the model. It is the princess that was sent to the Cold Palace, rejected with her son after she was passed over as Empress. Instead, the second highest concubine is elevated at the death of the old Empress with the second born son who became the successor of his father.

  I hold the remains of the loser in this contest. Her body has long turned to dust and piles of bones and her funerary robes to scrapes of fabric, but her spirit is encased in this figure.

  Son, must I pass you over too? You are as fearful as your mother, even though you both are steeped in the energy of the gift. The sacred object sits in your home, but you refuse to come anywhere near it. It has enlivened me but you reject immortality as your mother rejected it before you. So, the weak women have died. Emily and Susan were not a surprise. But Eleanor, she deserved better. She came and dug with me, bringing up the tat and the woo, sacred toys of the children of the palace. Energy tools that they played with unknowingly. Little Nellie knew, but her mother took her away, so the child slipped into ghost-hood.

  ***

  September, 1939

  The man is surrounded by workers hired to excavate a deeper cave. There are a million signs of theft on either side of him. He is not a thief, but an explorer. He must find as many ghosts as he can. The sacred object will do its work if he gathers at least a thousand ghosts, and this cave might be the repository of enough secreted relics to reach that number.

  The main burial mounds are forbidden by the government. Rulers here will someday have enough money to spend on evacuating the ancient tombs with their sculpted ghosts, but now the government thinks only of war. It is coming. The Japanese side with the more aggressive of the Europeans. The rulers of present day China are bringing back the cult of the war lords. The ancestors are pushed aside.

  But I am searching for the thousand. My greatest fear is that the number of a thousand is symbolic rather than literal. What if it stands for a hundred thousand or a million? With hired men I might not live long enough to open the energy of the creed, but if you had agreed to work by my side it would be different. You have the ability to talk to those of the other dimensions as strongly as I. Why wallow in the unhealthy atmosphere of unprincipled boys? You could be with the father you rejected. One word to Hook, and you will be brought to me. Come or be damned.

  ***

  January, 1940

  He sits in the cave alone, carefully cleaning the small figurines created two thousand years ago. The ground periodically tremors from distant Japanese bombing. The province where he makes his discoveries is far from the coastline where most of the invasion is taking place, but the war is moving inward. It is covering Europe, and Russia has become China’s uncomfortable ally. America, his country of birth, became the safe haven for the sacred object. It sits in the cellar of the house built on York Street in the urban desert of Minneapolis.

  Son, you are there with it, able to visit it in its resting place, but, according to Hook you never leave Connecticut. The house is empty and you are a poor steward for my biggest treasure. Hired people clean the house weekly, pay its taxes, and trim the foliage. The intricate construction containing the energy magic with its ability to heighten communication with the other side is ignored. It is most likely a nesting place for ghosts. Your mother, sisters, and infant brother rule supreme; they feel the comforting hum of the object which might have pulled them out of their bodies. But you refuse to talk with me. If you but sent word to Hook, he would echo your wishes.

  You realize it might be too late for you to come? Travel is dangerous. Too many ships bombed at sea; too many planes shot from the sky. The companies are curtailing flights, and it will get worse. As I uncover the ghosts on my own and prepare them for their release to the object, you wallow in your books. What a waste of a human body.

  ***

  July, 1940

  The shaggy man with tattered clothe
s is living in a small inn, not far from his cave. His hair sticks up wildly from his head, and his beard is untrimmed. He smells like the death in the tombs. The authorities discovered him in the cave as they checked the region for Japanese infiltrators. “You have no permits to dig here,” they shout at him. He answers in his perfect Han accent. “See here, this is permission.” He plops down a scroll in front of them with an official seal. “Worthless” they scream back. “This official is in disgrace; this province is no longer ruled by Ming Chu Sang, so his permits are no longer valued.”

  Son, I play with the idea of leaving before China is overrun by Japan, but I cannot let the present warring destroy my goal. I have funds in the bank in Shanghai but reports come that say the bombing is worse in the coastal cities. The question is: will the funds be transferrable from my accounts in Europe and America? There is an account in the Philippines’ as well, but are those islands, too, under siege? If Hook could send me money from the reserves that cover your expenses and the care of the house, my problem might be solved. But you realize I must pull the money first from your funds if it is possible. You would then go back to York Street and act as the guardian of the sacred object. What need of schooling do you have anyway? It is all from your stubborn determination to live like the unawakened around you. Come to your senses. The object is more important than all of us combined.

  ***

  August, 1941

  The man is living in a modest apartment in Shanghai, a mile from the government center which is controlled by the power of the Republic of China. This is the financial hub of the country, and the man easily procures his funds, even with the intrusion of the Japanese occupying the city.

  The difficult part had been finding suitable clothing and means to make the journey across the many miles between his camp in Xian and the coast. He’d needed to sneak into the cave that was forbidden to him, find his stash of fourteen gold coins and a multitude of silver coins and pay bribes to be allowed to leave the province of Shaanxi. After the payoffs, there was barely enough to pay for ox carts, trains and boats to travel the miles from ancient rural burial mounds to the modern city. Food consisted of bowls of sour, maggot-infested rice purchased in the market places of the bigger towns or from housewives willing to take his ancient bronze coins which were the change left after the travel expense. Once, he had a meal of broiled goat, but it was tough and stringy and made him vomit.

  That is behind him. He is in the city. He is comfortable by any standard but lives frugally. When all this craziness is done, he will return to Xian. The ghosts are waiting for him to free them from the earth. The noise in the apartment is deafening. He is surrounded by Russians who are permanent residents of the city. They drink vodka and play sad music deep into the night. On the street, musicians duel the Russian instruments with their own Chinese songs and plays. Many of them now are political in nature. Communist sympathies are growing in the midst of the wars.

  There is the good side to this, son. I have friends in the libraries and museums, and I am allowed access to the ancient texts. The writing is different, but a scholar is helping translate a scroll from the Shang dynasty. He is convinced that it is referring to the Bi Mo Chu that I liberated from China back in 36. The ghost of the object begged for its deliverance. This highly valuable object, known for centuries, sits in the cellar of our home. Why are you not attentive to its needs? At least go and visit the ghosts of your family.

  ***

  December, 1941

  The man has fled from Shanghai, his European clothes in a sack he carries, with coins distributed in the pockets of the clothing and the lining of the sack. The Japanese have taken over the city and are targeting non-Asian residents. He is rich, so he is a prime candidate for prison, torture and ransom. For a time he hides in the cellar of his friend the scholar, but now his friend is dead, and the Japanese military are raiding the treasures he has hidden in the nooks and crannies of his house. Soon they will make their way to the cellar where stacks of curiosities and antiquities are stored. Ancient scrolls centuries old which can never be replaced are in danger of destruction.

  He bribes the night guard at the city gate with a gold coin and escapes during a black out, bombs exploding as he makes it to the outskirts of the northern quarters. There, three silver coins buy an elderly horse, and the expatriate bounces about on a cracked leather saddle, moving back to Shaanxi Provence.

  He hides in riverbeds and caves, eating what he can forage or steal from villagers. He is dressed in a black silk shirt and pants, with a black cap hiding what remains of his short white hair. He shaved off the beard during the last days in his apartment.

  He stays for a while in Wuhan, in Hubei Province, and gives this letter to be mailed to his son to a helpful Han woman who is traveling toward Shanghai instead of away from it. She is a woman of the night and sees great possibilities servicing the Japanese soldiers. They shared three lovely nights together, and he found her quite intelligent, reminding him of the quick-minded Eleanor. This is what little Nellie would have grown into if she had not sacrificed herself on the altar of the sacred cause. Not a woman of the night, to be sure, but a woman of substance, a sorcerer of the highest grade.

  Son, you could be a sorcerer as well. If you put aside your fear of adventure, you could find the hidden treasure in every calamity. You are talented with the same skill as all our family for controlling ghosts. Instead, you throw away your heritage like it is tainted.

  Could you do one favor for me? Go to the York Street house; stand and feel the energy zaps that move through the field of the house. Are they stronger now? Have the six hundred and twenty-seven ghosts that I have sent to dwell in the energy of the sacred object enlivened the power of the Bi Mo Chu? Please write and tell me. It may take a long while before a letter reaches me, but at least make the effort. I will feel it in the energy of the artifact when you make a connection. Be good for something for a change.

  ***

  December, 1942

  The man sits in dark cell beneath the government building in Shanghai. His hair is still short, and there are marks of a beating on his body. Large welts run down the sides of his cheeks; one eye has a red sclera. He has lost a third of his body weight. The noise is even more disturbing than the sounds that used to come into his apartment when he shared housing with the Russians. People screaming in agony, sounds of torture, sobbing, swearing in several different languages. The Japanese have officially taken over the rule in Shanghai.

  He had thought himself safe in Xian but had made a fatal error: he went back to the cave that held his collection of ghosts, along with the small animal statuettes Nellie had found when only three. What a stupid thing to become sentimental about at this stage in the game. Nellie was nothing but a ghost now. Why would he want to keep these soulless trinkets when they counted as nothing in his effort to feed the Bi Mo Chu? He had already directed the souls of the figures he had rescued from the earth to the hungry object waiting for him in Minneapolis. It was an insatiable need to find new figures with ghosts still inside to add to the total. There were only 752 of them, not close enough to the thousand that created the maximum number. But, again the nagging thought, maybe a thousand really should be translated as ten thousand, or a hundred thousand or even a million. The parchment had been old and crinkled, difficult to read.

  So, those glazed clay farm animals were what sealed his fate. The mayor suspected he was going to the cave by night, and he informed the Japanese municipal officer for Xian that an American might be stealing ancient treasures. He had returned at five in the morning from the cave to find his room full of thugs. The figures he had found were still in the cave, but the animals, Nellie’s little treasures, were in the pocket of his tunic. They knocked two teeth out before he was willing to admit to his transgression.

  Son, I am in prison in Shanghai. They returned me to the city for interrogation. They are sure that I have sent contraband to America. They think only of the small armless figures from the Ha
n dynasty that they saw in my cave. I have proclaimed my innocence; I told the truth, no figure from any period has been sent by me to others out of China. I think this will be the last letter you well receive. They have taken my funds found here in Shanghai, so I am penniless. You are almost eighteen and will inherit what small items Hook has held for you. Be brave and do now what you should have done before.

  ***

  These were the significant letters that gave information and opened the potential for questions. For instance, did William live on York Street when he married? Ricky couldn’t imagine him bringing up children in that house.

  And what or who was the Bi Mo Chu? Moon and Shri had worked with the authority on Chinese history, the man that wrote the book, so to speak, Sima Qian. That would be a question for him.

  Nory voiced her need for nursing so Ricky put down the letters and went from the office to the newly organized nursery. Both Ralph and Pigeon, who had become inseparable, had their noses pressed to the bars of the crib and gave Ricky a “hurry up for heavens’ sake” look.

  Ricky picked up Nory whose body was filling in nicely. Her arms and legs were more substantial and her neck seemed stronger than before. “You’re doing a good job, sweet-heart” Ricky said as she weighed her daughter in the baby scale, “already seven pounds two ounces.”

  “I told you I’d catch up fast. I have been funneling in additional energy from the soul level to supercharge my growth. Dr. Susan will be astounded.”

  Nory was quiet for a moment then the telepathic voice returned, as Ricky put on a fresh diaper and a warm onesie. “You were reading the letters from my former father. I can feel his energy in your field. Did you dive into the record for a closer look?”

  “Can’t put anything past you,” Ricky said with a smile. “Yes, I went through every one of them but deeper into some than others. Eight of them mentioned the artifact or referred to the kind of energy work he was doing. He talked about you in a couple of them. Of all his children, you were his favorite.”