by John Walters
They had found him; they were very close. They’d grab his arms and drag him away and throw him into a metal mesh cage on the back of a truck and take him to prison.
They stood over him. He didn’t want to open his eyes and look at them, because that would make them more real. As long as he kept his eyes closed he could pretend it was just a bad dream.
One of them squatted down and touched his arm. “Don’t be afraid,” she said. “We’re here to help you.” Then, with the same inner voice with which he had spoken to Mildred Winters she asked, “Are you all right?”
He opened his eyes. The moon shone on her long hair. Empathetic warmth wrapped him like a baby blanket. His fears melted like wax in a fire.
“We’ve come from Goa to find you,” she said. “Come.”
They helped him to his feet, and hugged him.
* * *
Since Jimmy Thornberg had left, on some days Mildred Winters wouldn’t get out her cards even once; in the past that would have been unthinkable. If she did get them out and arrange them for a game they would sit on the table untouched while her mind wandered far away, but not far enough. She wondered if Jimmy might be thinking of her, at least occasionally. She wished that the mental communication they had shared was not limited by distance. She didn’t feel the need to participate actively, but she would like to have participated vicariously in the adventure, like a spectator at a sporting event, and not to have to sit alone and imagine it for herself.
There came a day that not only did she not play cards, but she didn’t even get out of bed. She closed her eyes and thought of Jimmy. She reviewed every detail of his visit, playing it over and over on her mental movie screen, savoring the memory of it as a connoisseur would the memory of a fine meal or wine. As she had every day since he had left, she reached out to the limits of her consciousness, scanning as far as she could in every direction, hoping desperately for a mental glimpse of him, or of someone else like him. But this time, as she stretched her mind as far as it would go, she began to drift. Startled, she opened her eyes, and looked around, and saw herself down below, still lying on the bed. The vertigo caused her to close her eyes again, and when she opened them she was back on the bed, looking upward towards the cracks in the off-white ceiling paint.
I’m dying, she thought. Jimmy’s gone and I’m all alone.
The sensation hadn’t been at all unpleasant, though; just a little dizzying. Actually she had felt light as a feather. She’d always wondered what it would be like to be able to fly; now it looked like she might get the chance to try. Still, it was a step into the unknown. It was like leaping off a high-diving board, but the pool below was obscured by mist. But the analogy was limited: she couldn’t choose not to jump; she couldn’t climb back down the ladder and walk away. Whether she liked it or not, by the mere fact of her existence she was committed to the next move.
So then what’s the point of being scared? she thought. It’s like being strapped to a roller coaster that’s already started; the only thing to do is to ride it out.
She closed her eyes again, and felt herself drifting, floating on some sort of breeze, moving towards some sort of brightly-lit entrance to…
Far out at the limits of her awareness she sensed presences.
“Who are you? Are you angels?” she asked with her inner voice.
“We are friends,” someone answered. “Who are you?”
“My name is Mildred Winters. I’m on my bed here at Bright’s Senior Citizens’ Home. I think I’m dying.”
“Tell us how to come to you. We’re here to help you.”
“But who are you?” Mildred asked again.
“We’ve come from Goa.”
“Goa. The call came from Goa.”
“Yes. You heard it?”
“I heard, but I couldn’t come, so I sent Jimmy instead. Have you met Jimmy? Did he arrive there safely?”
“Who is Jimmy?”
“Jimmy Thornberg. He came to visit me here. He was on his way to Goa. Did he make it?”
“We’re sure he will. It’s a long way.”
“A long way. Yes. Too long for me.”
“We’ll help you get there.”
“Too late, too late.” Mildred felt herself drifting again.
“Give us directions. Tell us how to reach you. We can help.” Their voices seemed more distant, as if they were fading out.
“I would have liked to have met you. I don’t get many visitors.” She wasn’t sure whether or not they could still hear her. She imagined that she must have reached the upper atmosphere by now, judging by the distance she felt she had traveled.
Very faintly she heard, “Can you hear us? Can you hear us?”
“Take good care of Jimmy,” she said, but by that time she was sure she was out of range, because she had picked up speed and was shooting like a comet towards…somewhere.
* * *
Randy Whittaker couldn’t stop thinking about Webber Clark. Where was he? Had he been snuffed out completely like a candle, or was he alive somewhere else, perhaps even watching him? Sometimes Randy thought he felt Webber’s presence nearby, but he had no way of knowing if it was really Webber’s spirit that he felt, or some sort of residual memory traces asserting themselves, or if it was just wishful thinking.
After Webber had died Randy had driven to eastern Washington, almost to the Canadian border. He realized that he couldn’t just walk across, since he’d broken parole and they’d be searching for him; so he ditched the car and took a hike through the hills, hoping to circle the checkpoint and cross into Canada somewhere in the thick evergreen forest. He hadn’t slept in two days. He stumbled along until he couldn’t move anymore and, exhausted, he dropped onto a patch of dry moss and fell asleep. He dreamed that the police ambushed him. Mistaking him for a draft-dodger trying to flee the country, they beat him and then threw him in the local jail. Now he was awaiting Federal Marshals who were due to arrive by morning to escort him back to prison.
He sighed. Moonlight shone through the bars on the window, creating a pattern on the floor like a black ladder in a silver pool.
He was almost more disappointed for Webber’s sake than for his own. Web had so wanted him to make it to Goa, to enjoy the beaches and the palm trees and the beautiful women.
“Shit,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
Randy looked up, startled. “Who said that?”
“Why are you sorry?” It was a female presence, so he was sure it wasn’t Webber’s ghost.
“I disappointed Web. He couldn’t go to Goa, so he was counting on me to make it. Hell, he’s dead so he doesn’t know the difference anyway, but doing it for him had more significance than just doing it for me.”
“Do you still want to go to Goa?”
“Are you kidding? Who the hell are you anyway?”
“My name is Zephyr. You must trust me. Tell me everything about yourself.”
So he did. He probably told her more than she needed to know. He spoke to the disembodied voice like he used to talk to his guardian angel when he was a kid. Somehow it was easier to spill it all out to someone insubstantial than to a normal person. He started with his childhood, then his high school and university years, his first girl friend and all the subsequent ones, his rise in the corporation and eventual embezzlement of funds, his imprisonment, then psychically meeting Webber, their friendship, and the execution. By the time he was finished he was glad he was alone in the cell, because shuddering sobs were coming up from deep inside and his eyes burned and tears wet his cheeks and tasted like salt, but he didn’t care because it felt so good to let it all come out.
“Be patient,” Zephyr said, when he was finished. “I’ll be back.”
Randy sighed. Aching and exhausted, he lay down on the cot. The mattress stunk of mildew and dried sweat. The walls of the cell dissolved and he saw palm trees and white sand beaches and blue ocean; but then the water became bubbling poison, and Webber was s
tanding waist-deep in it and calling him. “Hey Randy, hey Randy,” he said. “Watch this!” And the poison became water again that lapped gently upon the white beach, and the sunlight seemed to shine right through Webber and focus on a point in his heart, and from there radiate outward in gleaming shimmering beams of golden brightness.
When Randy awakened he realized that he ached all over. He was too tired to sit up. With his eyes closed he remembered the dream. Zephyr. Gentle breeze. It cooled his forehead and tickled his nose. It whispered through the tree branches and brought to him the scent of the pines and moss and ferns. This is heavenly, he thought. I’m never going to get up.
Within his mind a voice spoke. “Hello.”
“Am I still asleep?” he asked.
“No. My name is Zephyr. We’ve been looking for you.”
When he opened his eyes he saw a dark-skinned woman with long curly black hair and large brown eyes. She wore blue jeans and a green parka. Her companion wore jeans too, and a brown parka; he was tall and broad-shouldered, with brown hair and wide-set blue eyes. “This is Rain,” she said. “He’s a newcomer like you.” She smiled and added, “I told him to choose a different name because some people don’t like rain very much, but he insisted that whether people know it or not, rain is a good thing. It waters the ground and helps things grow; it’s like a touch of life. I suppose he’s right. What do you think?”
“I… Uh… How did you find me?”
“We tuned into you yesterday but we haven’t managed to catch up with you until now. We’ve come to help you. Can you get up?”
He groaned. Rain helped him to sit. “I have to get over the border,” Randy said. “They’re looking for me.”
Zephyr kissed his forehead. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be all right. We don’t have time to cross through Canada. We’ll prepare some documents for you so you can be someone else, at least on paper. Where’s the nearest major airport?”
“Spokane, I guess.”
Rain nodded.
“All right, then,” Zephyr said. “We head for Spokane. Trust us. Oh, we’re so happy to see you, Randy.”
They helped him to his feet, then with an arm around each of them, he slowly walked back down the trail the way he had come.
I wish Webber could see me now, Randy thought. He’d be smiling.
Chapter 17
Christmas Eve
Sunny wandered through Golden Gate Park not really knowing what to look for, overwhelmed by the scene around her. Here she was, where it all began, at the Mecca of the freak scene, the epitome of hippydom, the ultimate of psychedelic splendor, the home of Haight-Ashbury and Filmore West, Hendrix and Joplin and the Dead, drugs and flower power and free sex; a few months ago it had been her heart’s desire to come here someday and flow with it all, get into a commune, find a guru and get enlightened. Now, it seemed like some bizarre charade. Somehow it didn’t all come together. It was like a facade, a make-up job, a thin veneer that could easily be scraped away. Though the winter air was chilly, a group of men and women in ragged, roughly-patched jeans, bare from the waist up, their torsos painted in elaborate fluorescent colors, swayed to a blend of flute and sitar; girls in long tie-dyed dresses, bright butterflies painted on their cheeks, passed out flowers; a hippy with long red hair and beard, torn jeans, stained sweatshirt, and a gut that rivaled her Uncle Tasos’s, was furtively moving from group to group selling nickel-bags of pot. A band was setting up speakers and instruments in a huge army-green tent. One side of the canvas was rolled up, and a huge multicolored banner said: “Christmas Free Concert”. It was already filling up with an ocean of laughing, smiling, sober-faced, chanting, cross-legged, dancing, hugging, kissing, sobbing, loudly-snoring, spaced-out, tequila-drinking, joint-smoking, acid-dropping, smack-injecting, wiped-out humanity.
The dark spirits had their attention focused elsewhere, at least for the moment, but they were here as well. The proximity of countless psychedelic trips dizzied her; she felt as if she were swimming in a sea of psychic sludge.
Shadows lengthened as the sun got low in the western sky. The sunset bathed the park in amber and crimson.
The lead guitarist tried a few notes and adjusted his controls; ear-numbing feedback blasted from the speakers; in anticipation the crowd sat down, quieted, and waited, like devotees waiting on pews in a church.
A gaunt hippy with sunken cheeks, his dark greasy hair tied with a white bandanna with orange polka-dots, offered her a paper cup. “Kool-aid,” he said.
“What? I don’t…”
“Kool-aid! Kool-aid! Aren’t you thirsty? They’re about to start.”
She took it automatically, her mind reeling from the overwhelming input around her. The hippy disappeared amongst the thousands of bodies.
The guitarist tried another note; long sharp claws stabbed into her eardrums.
She sipped. It was sweet and strawberry-tasting. She gulped it down and walked around looking for a trash can to throw the paper cup into.
As a wall of fog began to slowly creep like a gigantic gray slug across the park, smothering everything in its path, she moved into the comparative warmth of the tent. As soon as she entered, as if she were an animal entering a trap, the tent wall rolled down and she was closed in. Dim lights hung from the ceiling slowly revolved, shifting color.
The band began to play a tune and sing about leaving home and traveling, finding drugs, having sex, stepping into the next dimension…
In her mind she wandered. She was a deep-sea diver descending into a lavender, then violet, then purple sea. The sides of the tent were drifting seaweed, the people roaming sea-creatures: mermen and mermaids, inhabitants of a strange hidden civilization, ruled by a purple king in a purple palace, a king with red-tinged eyes who lived in a burrow like a rat.
She looked up. The ground had covered her. The stars had disappeared.
The drums changed rhythm; the bass joined in. The singers chanted, the crowd swayed back and forth. It was very sexual but very somber. Everyone’s ego was getting sucked piece by piece into a dark whirlpool.
Sunny shook her head. What was happening to her? The Kool-aid. Acid-spiked electric Kool-aid. How could she have been so stupid! Of all the ridiculous things, at a time like this, when she’d come here to search for Paul!
She stared at a hip-looking girl with beads in her hair and a see-through dress, and sensed her sorrow. She was lonely, though surrounded by supposed friends. She had come here to find something different, a sense of belonging, of being a part of something wonderful, and had been disappointed. She didn’t want to go home and she didn’t want to stay here and she didn’t have anywhere else to go. She was trapped though she professed to be free. She was weeping inside.
Sunny wept with her. All around were people, and all were sorrowing.
I have to get control, she thought.
The concert continued. A barefoot man with painted face, wearing an eagle-feather headdress and tasseled buckskin pants, danced before the band. People sat in groups in the darkness, swaying, smoking joints, whispering, making out.
The tent-walls became demon guards and locked arms to prevent her escape. She broke through and stumbled outside into the cold fresh air. The fog had dissipated; the sky was clear. She fell to the ground and dug her fingers into the grass to keep from being sucked into the whirlpool.
* * *
Finwinkle tapped the wall map with his pointer. “Team A will deploy here, on the beach a kilometer to the north; Team B here, a kilometer to the south; I’ll be with Team C, in the hills overlooking the house. Each man will carry an automatic weapon and a syringe of potassium cyanide. We’ll fan out, form a tight cordon, and advance slowly. I don’t want any of them to slip through and escape. It will have to look like a mass suicide. We’ll use the poison and then burn the house. I don’t think there will even be any resistance; they’re a bunch of goddamned milquetoasts. We’ll post a guard afterwards to be sure they’re not discovered before we can leak the app
ropriate story to the press. Any questions?”
“When do we move?”
“At dusk. I won’t use the walkie-talkies because I don’t want to spoil the surprise, so I’ll send three beeps. That’ll be the signal.”
“You want a clean sweep? Even kids?”
“Hell, yes. No witnesses, is that clear?”
“Sure. Yes, sir. No witnesses.”
“All right then. Issue equipment to your teams and get them into position.”
* * *
It was as if she was asleep, but she was not asleep, as if she dreamed, but she did not dream. Now the trees were the demonic guards, but they were not looking at her and they were not concerned with her; they controlled the pulse of the concert. No wayward thought was allowed to break free; no surge of creativity was permitted to manifest itself. Each mind was locked into the rhythm of the music and the cadence of the lyrics. As for Sunny, she blossomed like a flower, petal by petal, and each petal was a slice of memory or a tendril of groping thought or a starburst of emotion. She looked up through a broad rainbow tunnel into the night sky. The stars spun and danced and formed patterns and pictures. It wasn’t exactly frightening, but it was too strange to be pleasurable. When the primary rush had passed and she could think again, it was as if only a few minutes had passed, but her watch showed 1:00 a.m. “My God,” she whispered. “It’s Christmas Eve.” She tried to figure out whether it was Christmas Eve in Goa yet, but her mind reeled.