The World Walker Series Box Set

by Ian W. Sainsbury

  Another one of the gang spoke up.

  “Was that a friend of yours watching the back door?” he said. Bob glanced at Meera. It must have been one of Westlake’s men. They were watching his apartment and could spare two men to cover both exits of the bar? This operation must be costing a fortune.

  “I re-arranged his face a bit,” said the gang member, swinging a hammer and grinning. The leader punched him lightly on the arm and sneered at Bob.

  “After you’ve watched us have our fun with your girlfriend, I’m gonna break every bone in your body.” The gang started to walk toward them, an unpleasant smile on the mugger’s face as he smacked the baseball bat repeatedly onto his palm.

  “Get behind me,” said Bob, “and if you see a chance, run like hell.” Meera moved behind him and Bob took up a fighting stance. Reckon I can take a couple of them.

  “Excuse me?” The voice came from the shadows behind the dumpster. The gang stopped moving as a small woman walked out between them and their intended victims. She wore sweatpants and a hooded top, her face in shadow.

  “Go home, kid,” said one of the gang. “Before you get hurt.”

  “I’m no child,” said the woman. Her voice was quiet and calm.

  The lead mugger looked back at his fellow gang members, shrugged and swung the bat straight into the stranger’s body. Only—somehow—when the bat should have connected with flesh, there was just air. He felt a sharp pain in his wrist and yelped. He looked for the woman but she was gone. He turned round. She was standing between him and the gang, his baseball bat in her hand. She stooped and placed the bat on the ground, turning her back on him and facing the others.

  “Put your weapons on the ground and leave in peace,” she said.

  In answer, a heavily tattooed bearded muscle-guy took two quick steps toward her, his massive fists clenched. He threw out a flurry of punches with the assurance of a trained boxer. None of them landed and—much to his surprise—he suddenly found himself lying on his back as the tiny woman approached the rest of his gang.

  “Shoot her!” he screamed in frustration. The gang members he had gathered around him over the last few years may not have been the brightest, but they had learned to obey orders, which was how they had survived as long as they had. Two shots rang out. The woman dropped to the floor. He got to his feet and walked over to her. She raised her hands and placed them on her chest, where the bullets had torn into her.

  “Finish her,” commanded the bearded man. The two armed gang members stood over her body and raised their weapons. In a blur of speed, her hands shot out and grabbed the guns before throwing them to one side as she leapt to her feet. The gang froze in sheer disbelief, no one daring to move. She backed slowly away from them.

  Bob and Meera watched her. She stopped a couple feet in front of them and pulled her hood away from her face. Her head was closely shaven. She stood no more than five feet tall.

  “Leave,” she said simply. Her voice betrayed no anger or fear. “Now.”

  A couple of gang members stepped forward, led by the bearded boxer. Then, as if someone had thrown a switch, they all stopped dead in their tracks, staring at the woman’s face, their expressions flicking rapidly from disbelief to absolute terror. They looked as if they had suddenly seen their worst nightmares come to life in front of them. They dropped their weapons and ran as if chased by the hounds of hell.

  When they had gone, the woman turned to face Bob and Meera. They both flinched, expecting to see something horrific. Instead the face smiling at them was that of a young woman with slightly Asiatic features.

  “You are Bob?” she said.

  “I guess I am,” said Bob.

  “And Meera?” Meera just nodded, swallowing. Unexpectedly the woman laughed, a joyful carefree sound completely at odds with what had just happened.

  “My name is Lo,” she said, holding out her hand. In a daze, Bob and Meera shook hands with her, Bob looking down at the top she was wearing. Two bullet holes.

  “You want to find Seb?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Bob, not knowing what else to say.

  “I too want to find Seb,” she said. “He is in danger. I can help him.”

  “Who are you?” said Bob. “How did you find us?”

  “What’s happened to Seb?” added Meera. “And that…thing…you just did. How did you, I mean what did you, er—.” Her voice trailed away. Lo’s smile was genuine, open.

  “May I answer your questions on the way?” she said. “Do you have a car?” Meera coughed, shook herself and tried to regain a little equilibrium.

  “Follow me,” she said. She led them to the car - a 1972 Ford Galaxie 500 with dents on just about every panel.

  “One careful lady owner,” said Mee, smiling a little shakily. They got in - Lo climbing into the driver’s seat and starting it up.

  “Where to?” said Bob, remembering the train at Union Station. “Chicago?”

  Lo’s face broke into another smile.

  “Not Chicago,” she said. “Las Vegas.”

  16

  Six months previously

  Japan

  Shibata lived in a rudimentary hut on the steep side of a hill commanding a stunning view of Kaimondake, a dormant volcano that had last erupted in 885AD. The hut was small, built in the traditional Japanese way by erecting wooden columns on a flat, packed earth foundation. There was one main room and a bathroom. A natural spring supplied water. There was no electricity.

  He got up when it was light and he slept when it was dark. This meant Shibata slept far longer in winter than summer, but over many decades his body had grown used to the rhythms of the seasons. He never felt tired, each morning found him fully alert, his mind as clear as the water he drank with his breakfast.

  He was an old man, his face so lined that his lucid dark eyes were almost lost in the folds of skin surrounding them. He used a cane when he walked. He was often seen hiking slowly around the mountain, a small cloth bag on his back. The bag contained paper and pen. He enjoyed sketching what he saw: the mountains, trees, streams, plants, birds and animals. Occasionally even humans, although they were usually portrayed as insignificant figures in the corner of the drawing. He didn’t display his sketches, they went in a box in the corner of the hut. Sometimes over the years, hikers who had strayed from the path would find Shibata. He would make them tea and, before they left, give them one of his sketches.

  Visitors were few, however, and the box contained many hundreds of his simple drawings. He had lived there so long that the generation in the nearest village who might have known of him had long since died or moved away, replaced by those who did not even suspect his existence.

  Shibata was neither happy or unhappy. He had vague memories of these concepts. A long time ago, he had surely been a child, had played with his friends, gone to school, met a girl, fallen in love. These events must have occurred, but the passage of so many years living alone, observing the patterns of nature, had caused those early years to be washed almost completely away, a smudge on the edge of a picture.

  Now there was only eating, sleeping and being. No happiness, no unhappiness, just mu. Shibata would never have attached a word to his state of mind, but ‘mu’—a Japanese word meaning ‘neither this nor that’—was surely the closest language could come to describing it.

  As a young man, he had met a stranger who had told him about the Tao, the ancient way of life. He had, of course, already heard of Taoism - along with Shinto and Buddhism it represented a good deal of Japan’s wisdom tradition. But it had just been background noise, he had never spent any time studying it. After meeting this man, who said little but radiated such a deep, non-judgmental calmness, Shibata found his parents’ copy of the Tao Te Ching and began to read. He wasn’t sure what to expect from a religious book, but the first sentence jolted him so thoroughly, he never again experienced a single day without thinking about it.

  “The Way which can be spoken of is not the true Way.”

>   It was as if the very ground beneath his feet had been removed. His psyche experienced a deep shock, and for many days he did not leave his room. He remembered his parents’ concern, he remembered saying goodbye, but he could no longer remember their faces, or even the name of the town he had walked away from so long ago.

  Many years of traveling had followed, a hundred menial jobs, a thousand journeys on crowded buses or trains. A gradual quieting inside. Then, one day, he found the hut, and bought it with the little money he had saved.

  Since then, the rising and setting of the sun, the ever-changing unchanging mountains, a bird in the sky, a rat in the vegetable garden, the sound of rain on a wooden roof.

  The hut never needed repairing. He used to wonder about that, just as he used to wonder how plump vegetables grew all year around in his garden, despite the fact he never planted a single seed. Gradually, questions such as “how?” or “why?” faded away. Eventually, language itself disappeared, and his very few visitors were greeted with nods and smiles rather than words. His sense of time beyond the seasonal evaporated like shallow puddles in summer. He had no way of knowing he was over one hundred and sixty years old, and the numbers would have meant little to him had he still been able to comprehend their meaning.

  He lived the Tao, the Way, but he never spoke of it.

  One summer evening as he knelt on the earth in front of his hut, watching mist fold itself gently around distant Mt Kaimon, seven figures approached. He watched them come closer. They stopped walking on the edge of the path leading to his door. Shibata returned his attention to the mountain.

  A few minutes passed, during which time, the figures separated, six of them lining up, facing him. They were not hikers, they wore the wrong clothes: dark robes. Their faces were set, tense, serious. Their minds were confused, busy, hurting and wanting to hurt. The seventh figure was different. Her mind was free of much of the confusion of those around her, but she had an aura like that of stagnant water in the forest. Somewhere that may once have been lush and fruitful, now overgrown, dark and poisonous. Shibata saw this and remained kneeling. When the woman walked toward him, he stood.

  She spoke as she approached him. Had he retained any clear memories of human behavior, he would have identified deference, even respect in her mannerisms and the tone of her voice. Her head was slightly lowered. She seemed regretful. Shibata put his head on one side, just as the bear cubs who lived in a nearby cave did when they saw him. He stood quietly, hands by his sides, and considered his visitor. He needed no language then to understand why she had come. She was here to kill him. He looked at the other figures. They had not been sure he would die easily. He made an odd, guttural noise in the back of his throat which, decades ago, might have been the beginning of laughter.

  The woman seemed to have made up her mind to act. Shibata held up a hand and she stepped back, puzzled. She was afraid. He bowed low to her. There was nothing to fear. His death was the inevitable conclusion to his life. Now was as good a time as any other. There would be no need for violence, he would die as naturally as each season dies before the next begins. Turning his back on her and her companions, he walked slowly toward his vegetable garden. With every step he took, the ground became softer, more giving. First solid, then spongy, then quicksand, finally like water. Within six steps, only his upper body was visible above ground level. Another five steps, and the earth closed over his head and all was quiet.

  The woman glanced at her companions, then walked in the same direction Shibata had walked. The ground was solid. She stood on the exact spot he had finally disappeared. She knelt, put the palms of her hands flat on the earth, then stood again, brushing soil from her hands. She remained still for a few minutes, her eyes shut in concentration. Then she nodded at the others.

  Rejoining her companions, they turned and retraced their steps down the path that would lead, eventually, to the village where they had left their rental cars. No one spoke during the four-hour hike.

  The mist had finally cloaked the distant mountain. Rain began to fall. The hut sagged, the wooden structure visibly rotting. It lurched to one side, the roof tiles sliding off, becoming dust as they hit the ground. After five minutes had passed, the ruin that remained looked like it had been that way for many years. The rain got harder and the rats that had made their home under the hut squealed as they ran for cover in the forest, looking for a new home.

  17

  Red Rock, Nevada

  Present day

  “Red Rock Canyon. This place was probably first inhabited by Paleo Indians 10,000 years before the birth of Christ,” said Walt, sipping from his bottled water as Seb got out of the car. “You can see it from the Strip, so around a million tourists take a look when they’ve grown tired of losing their take-home.”

  Seb stretched and yawned. It had been a long drive.

  “As fascinating as that sounds, right now I’d kill for a shower and a cold beer,” he said.

  “And you shall have both,” said Walt. “Soon. First, I need a top up. You too, I’d imagine. Follow me.”

  They’d parked the car off the loop of road which guided visitors through the conservation area. The calico hills rose sharply to one side. Seb was surprised by the clear delineation between colors on the rocks. It was as if a child had colored them in - first sandy then a deep red. Hardy-looking shrubs defied the desert temperatures to thrive in the shadows of these rocks. He squinted back through the haze and saw Las Vegas shimmering in the distance, looking like a cheap toy left on a beach.

  When he turned back to follow Walt, he had gone. He looked at the rock outcrop on his right. It varied in height between nine and fifteen feet. No handholds - no way the older man could have climbed over them in the few seconds he had been looking away, even if he was in good condition. And ahead and to the left, open desert with no hiding places.

  “Walt?” he called. He turned back to the car, where Steve was standing impassively, shaking his head.

  Seb walked a few paces on, looking more closely at the rock. After a few yards, he stopped short. There was a passageway between two rocks, but the colors were so perfectly blended that it was totally invisible until you were a few feet away from it.

  “Wow,” said Seb and stepped through.

  A natural basin sloped down from where he stood, a circle of about thirty feet diameter, surrounded by rock. If you didn’t know exactly where to look, you’d never guess it was there. Walt stood with his back to Seb, slipping off his jacket. He turned and nodded before carefully placing his jacket on the ground, then kneeling beside it on the hot sand.

  Seb opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it. The atmosphere had changed somehow. It wasn’t the weather conditions; the sun still blazed onto the tableau before him, the shadows cast by the rocks not quite reaching the kneeling man. With a jolt, Seb suddenly remembered what the scene reminded him of. It was like being in church. Father O had persuaded Seb to attend Mass at least once a month. He had felt uncomfortable with the rituals but loved the atmosphere. A palpable silence the words of the worshipers stood no chance of disturbing. It was exactly the same now, out in the open under the baking Nevada sun. It wasn’t the fact that Walt was kneeling, it was the stillness and silence around him.

  Walt bent forward, laying his head on the dust, his hands palm down on either side. Now the religious parallels became transparent, the posture looking exactly like a Muslim at prayer.

  Seb heard—felt—a thrumming start to sound in the basin and in his body. It was as if a billion tiny insects had started buzzing at once. The area immediately around Walt darkened, especially near his outstretched hands. The thrumming became more intense and Seb gasped as he saw tiny threads of light appear under the surface of the desert floor. It was as if the ground was alive and the glowing threads were the veins sustaining…what? Even as he wondered, Seb’s question was answered for him. The veins of light flowed up to Walt’s fingertips and Seb could see the light tracing a path through his compa
nion’s body, starting at his hands, then following the network of veins and arteries in his body. After about a minute, the light was dancing through Walt’s skull, the web of his neural network lit up like a science display.

  Half expecting an impressive end to all of this, Seb was slightly disappointed when the light vanished as if someone had flicked a switch, the thrumming ceasing at the same moment. He waited a couple seconds, then took a step forward. He stopped abruptly when Walt unexpectedly launched himself into the air like a man half his age, threw his head back and started howling. For a second, Seb thought there was something wrong with him, then the howl became a laugh.

  “Whooo!!” howled Walt, beating himself on the chest with his fist. “That feels good! God, I’ll never get bored of it! Ha!” He jogged around the perimeter of the basin, laughing before stopping in front of Seb and grabbing his shoulders.

  “Seb, come on! You have to try some of this. And to think that folk pay money for crack cocaine when this is just lying around the place. Ha ha!” His eyes were gleaming, his grip on Seb’s shoulders almost painful.

  “Come and get it,” he said, jogging back to the center of the basin.

  Seb followed him warily. Walt was pointing at the dust beneath their feet.

  “Just put your hands flat on the ground,” he said. “Reach out, like you did back there with the car. But don’t try and make anything happen this time. Just open up. And wait.” Walt backed up a little, giving Seb some space. He was still twitching slightly and bouncing on the balls of his feet, like a man who’d just had a massive hit of something very powerful.

  Seb knelt. He took a deep breath then placed both of his hands palm down onto the sand. He deepened his breathing, watching his breath and letting his awareness sink under the level of conscious thought. The thoughts were still there, but they became blurred, indistinct, nebulous. He paid them no attention. The beginning of the C Major Prelude began to sound in his head, but he turned his attention back to his breath and let it fade away into nothingness. The thrumming was back.