by B. Roman
“But why me? I still don't know what to do with it,” David laments. “Why not you? Your father and Ishtar must have told you what to do with it?”
“No. They were worried about my safety and didn't want me to know how or where to find the Moon Singer.”
“Well, now everyone will know where she is,” Sokar injects anxiously. “She's anchored barely a half mile off the beach.”
“Then we've got to hide her,” Bianca decides.
“How do you hide a 200 foot ship?” David quips.
“We have to get her out of this world into another dimension.”
“That's fine with me,” David agrees, hoping this is his opportunity to go home. “I don't know why I'm here in the first place.”
“Did you forget, David? You came here to resolve your feelings about your mother's death.”
“You mean I should stay here,” David says, realizing now, of course, he must stay and finish what he started.
“But that means the Moon Singer will be discovered,” Sokar reminds them.
David ponders a minute. “Maybe not. If I could bring her here with the Singer, maybe I can send her away with it. Come on with me to the beach.”
Moments later, David, Sokar and Bianca kneel down on the sand as David lays out his crystals in the Star of David gridwork pattern. This time he places the Singer in a different position, at the bottom of the apex instead of at the top.
“What are you doing?” Sokar is fascinated by the ritual.
“I'm not sure, but if it works, the Moon Singer will reverse her course.”
“In that case, I suggest you dismantle the grid immediately.”
Startled, David and Sokar stare up at the intruder, speechless. Bianca palms the Singer and tucks it in her boot. She stands to face Sechmet, almost imperial in her redress.
“Sechmet, I must insist you tell no one of this.”
“Trust me, I want no one else to know,” Sechmet says, a bit too smoothly. “I always suspected you knew how to conjure up the Moon Singer, but I wasn't sure until the boy arrived, the boy with yellow hair.”
David stands up at the reference to his appearance. He is irritated now. “Why is my hair such an object of fascination? I know a lot of people with yellow – I mean, blond, hair.”
“The boy's hair is of no consequence, Sechmet,” Bianca says, dismissing the subject. “I want to know what you intend to do now.”
“I want to share this treasure with you, Bianca,” he says, solicitously. “Think of it. We shall have the world, you and I.”
“No. You know what happened the last time. I will have none of it. Never again.”
“You are a foolish and selfish woman, Bianca,” Sechmet suddenly lashes out. “Your absurd idealism is killing Coronadus and everyone in it.”
“My absurd idealism is what saved us!”
“That's not what the people think. Not any longer. They believe you tricked them with your anti-war ramblings, and especially your disdain for any kind of material wealth.”
“Too much emphasis on the material is mind numbing,” Bianca preaches flatly. “It keeps us from focusing on the spiritual. We become self-serving instead of serving each other. Now we have all we need, without care or worry. That's what the people wanted.”
“Well, now they are bored with their existence,” Sechmet counters, “and boredom breeds contempt. They are tired of bartering for all their needs, of having no feeling of accomplishment, no pleasure in having more than their neighbors who may deserve little or nothing for their efforts. And restless. They are so restless. They want to be able to travel to new worlds again. They will do anything to change their life. Anything.”
“Then there is nothing I can do about it,” Bianca says, defiantly. “Let them do as they will. It will be on their heads.”
“No, Bianca. On yours. Because you have the power to keep them under control. All you need do is share it with me.”
Sechmet's demeanor changes from insistent to conciliatory, a skill he employs to cajole and manipulate people into doing what he wanted. There was a time that it worked on Bianca, and it cost her sister's life.
“Please, give me the Singer, Bianca,” and I will use it to keep them at bay,” Sechmet promises. “I will use the Moon Singer as a way to keep them content and satisfied. Then, they'll do whatever you wish.”
Bianca sneers. “You mean whatever you wish, Sechmet. Besides, the Singer is not mine to give. It belongs to David, and I doubt he will ever turn it over to you or anyone else.”
“You got that right!” David injects forcefully.
“Then, we will take it from you,” Sechmet states as though the deed was done.
“Yeah! You and what army!” David challenges him.
“The people of Coronadus will decide who deserves to have the Singer.”
Maati who has been silent until now, having a hard time absorbing all the intrigue, suddenly shows her spirit. “Gonna gang up on one kid, you big bully?” Maati yells. She moves in to kick Sechmet in the shins, but he intercepts her with a strong hand and she kicks madly at the air. Infuriated, David and Sokar join the fray and begin to punch at Sechmet.
“Stop it. Stop it now!” Bianca demands, pulling them all off. “I agree with Sechmet. Let the people decide. Sechmet, we accept your challenge.”
“Beware, for it will be a fight to the finish,” Sechmet pronounces, pleased at the possibility.
“Yes,” Bianca says. “Yours.”
“You know better than to underestimate me, Bianca.”
“You underestimate the boy,” she replies, glaring at Sechmet with steely eyes.
“Tomorrow, then. At high noon.”
“We'll be there.”
Eleven
David anxiously paces the floor of Bianca's parlor. A fight! He has to fight! This is not good. Nor is the vision he has of himself being pulverized.
“Sechmet is a big guy, Bianca. I'm a scrapper but I'm no boxer. Not even a wrestler. I can't fight this guy.”
“Calm down and don't worry, David,” Bianca says, with a slight hint of worry in her own voice. “This fight will not be one of fists but of words.”
“Words? You mean like sticks and stones?” David's smart-alecky quip starts Maati and Sokar to giggling and jeering each other playfully.
“Nothing as infantile as name calling,” Bianca reproaches him. “In Coronadus we debate.”
“Debate?” David whines. “What do I know about debating? I've never done it before?”
“You will. And not just mere words, but ideas and convincing arguments. As though your life depends on it, and well it might.”
David recounts for Bianca the heated arguments at the Port Avalon Town Hall Meeting, when the citizens debated whether or not to take the Navy's contract to build war ships. It was so intense that friends and neighbors were forced to take sides against one another. He didn't like the outcome of that debate at all.
“Yes, someone must win and someone will lose,” Bianca agreed. “And there will be hard feelings. But this is a matter of life and death, for the future of Coronadus and everyone here, and for your future as well. You don't want Sechmet to take possession of the Moon Singer, do you?”
“No! Of course not. But why me? Why not you?” David demands. “I don't know anything about the fight between you and Sechmet.”
“It's not just a disagreement between Sechmet and me. It goes much deeper than that.”
“Tell me, please.”
“At one time, the people of Coronadus had great weapons able to destroy thousands of our enemies with one blow,” Bianca begins to explain, “but they had the same firepower and dealt us an equal blow. Neither side would yield and soon there were tragically few of us left to ponder the purpose of this stupid and deadly game of war.
“I decided things had to change. It was extremely difficult, but I finally convinced the majority of citizens that when people disagree and they are provoked to fight, they must come before the War Council w
here battles are confined to theories and strategies. No man lifts one weapon against another. His only weapon is the agility of his mind and the degree of his debating skills. The War Council, comprised of only women, decides who is the better tactician.”
“Why are only women on the Council?”
“Because women are the creators of life and men, unfortunately, are the destroyers. So it's only fitting that women preside over the debates.”
“It sounds like a stacked panel to me. Not all men are war mongers,” David says defensively, remembering how his father changed from militaristic to passive.
Bianca nods in agreement. “And there are a few women Council members who would risk the city's destruction if the rewards are enticing enough. I fear that the Moon Singer is one of those irresistible enticements. But I have faith that the majority of Coronadans value our current way of life and you will be declared the winner.”
“But, I don't even know what to say or how to say it,” David protests.
“You will tomorrow. All that you need to know will come from your Singer. And you alone will be able to hear its wisdom.”
“The Singer? What do you mean? How?”
Bianca pulls the crystal from her boot, where she had hidden it from Sechmet.
“Everything you need to know or say is already in the crystal, but you have not yet learned to tap into this knowledge. So, tonight, I will program it for you with all the arguments in defense of your stance, and all the rebuttals to Sechmet's arguments. Tomorrow you will carry the Singer in your breast pocket and it will speak to you, whenever you lay your hand over it.”
David's mood brightens with a feeling of deja vu. “Just like the Moldavite that Ishtar gave me to communicate with him telepathically in the Prism Palace.”
“Oh? And how did it work?”
David's hope is now deflated by another memory. “Well, it was supposed to transmit through my hearing aid, but Jaycina snatched the Moldavite from my vest and my hearing aid didn't work at all.”
“And where is your hearing aid now?” Bianca asks. “I don't remember seeing it.”
“I think it fell off in the cemetery by my mother's grave, before I got here.”
“Well, tomorrow you will have the Singer,” Bianca says with certainty, “and you will hear what it has to say.”
David is not so sure. Too many things have gone wrong too many times. “What if it doesn't work, Bianca. What if I don't hear anything, or convince the Council?”
“Then,” Bianca says with a chill in her voice, “I will be forced to use the final deterrent and make them see.”
“See what?”
“I pray you will not have to see or know what it is.”
Twelve
All through the night, in her private dressing room, Bianca meditates with the Singer which she has set in a gold cradle on the dressing table. Over the Singer Bianca places a gold wire pyramid. Lighted candles circle the pyramid to augment the electrical energy and activate the Singer's power.
She chants an incantation for hours, transcends consciousness, and invokes the ancient Record Keeper's knowledge, which is then implanted into her own mind. In turn, she speaks aloud the wisdom, truths and prophecies that the crystal contains and sends them out into the universal consciousness where anyone who is attuned and open to the possibility will receive them. David will, Bianca believes. David must, if he is to win.
Her oratory for David complete, Bianca carefully places the Singer into a small, satin-lined wooden box and closes the lid. This will keep the Singer's electro-magnetic energy intact so it will be at full power for the debate.
Exhausted from the ritual, Bianca retires to bed just before the sun rises to greet a new morning, the morning of that fateful day for all of Coronadus.
* * *
Softly, stealthily, for fear of waking Bianca, Sokar slips into her room through the open patio door. His aunt is sleeping deep and sound with her back to him. It is good that Bianca's dressing room is separated from the bedroom by a curtain, for he is able to enter it without fear of squeaking a door open. Sokar's hand immediately reaches for the wooden box, one of few items on Bianca's very neat and tidy dressing table. He opens the box and takes the Singer in his hand, hesitantly at first, then firmly so he will not drop it. He slips it into a silk pouch and tucks it into his pants pocket. Carefully, Sokar closes the lid of the box and replaces it exactly where he found it. He prays Bianca will not open the box before the debate.
Again, softly and stealthily, Sokar slips out of Bianca's room through the same patio door. The morning sun is unshielded in the sky and the air uncomfortably hot. Or is that Sokar's white heat of panic that he is about to be caught?
“Sokar? What are you doing out here so early? Couldn't sleep either?” David looks at Sokar quizzically.
“No. Too hot. I was just going to see if Bianca was up yet,” Sokar says, trying to be casual while his fist closes tightly around the pouch in his pocket. “She's usually up at dawn.”
“I think she was up all night programming the Singer. She must be wiped out. I know I am, just thinking about today.”
“You'll be great, David. Don't worry. Bianca has it under control.”
“Thanks. I hope you're right,” David says, not convinced.
“Well, I think I'll take a shower and get some breakfast. See ya later.”
“Yeah.”
By now, Bianca is up and alert. She is in her dressing room brushing her hair and thinking about the oratory she programmed into the sacred Singer crystal.
“The more mental energy I give the words and thoughts, the stronger David's argument will be,” she says, prompting herself. “But I must be careful not to focus on it anxiously. Easy does it, calm and sure. Then let it go, and release it to David.”
The hands on the parlor clock move closer to the noon mark. Maati, Sokar and David wait like nervous kittens for Bianca, wishing she would hurry yet wishing they didn't have to go. Bianca has put the little box into her purse without opening it, wanting to keep the Singer crystal's strength undisturbed. Finally, she enters the parlor and the four of them walk together to an unknown fate.
Thirteen
The Rotunda of Evolving Consciousness sits atop the highest hill on Coronadus, just east of the heart of town. It is a visionary design of polished stone and marble, with open air porticos leading to six separate chambers.
The Educational, Environmental, Health & Wellness, and Self-Empowerment Chambers, usually welcoming dozens of students and visitors, are empty now. Vacant, too, is the Peace Chamber, the most utilized room in the Rotunda with ongoing meetings, ceremonies and brainstorming sessions conducted throughout the day.
But on this day, a fateful day for David, Bianca, and all Coronadans, the only chamber to which everyone hurries is the Hall of Social Justice, where the War Council will convene.
Every seat in the auditorium is filled, every row from floor level to balcony. Excitement buzzes in the air, as though a spectacular entertainment event is about to take place instead of a solemn confrontation that could bring devastating results.
David wonders if this is how the Roman gladiators felt before a deadly fight, or how the Christians felt as they were about to be devoured by lions to the delight of the blood-thirsty audience.
On the dais are twelve women, comprising the War Council. The judge and jury combined, David thinks to himself. Does it have to be unanimous or a majority vote? Will he win if he persuades seven of them, or does he need nine votes, or ten?
The president of the Council, a surprisingly fragile looking woman for such an ominous position, bangs her gavel for order and quiet. She positions her eyeglasses onto a somber face framed by grey hair, then begins to read the rules of the debate: Three minutes maximum for opening arguments each. A one minute rebuttal each. A thirty-second closing each. Then the vote and the Council's decision. Right then and there. No retiring for the evening to take things under advisement. Cut and dried. Thumbs up or thumbs d
own.
Sechmet is called forward to state his case. He takes the podium assertively - arrogantly cock-sure, David thinks. He is impressive in carefully tailored clothing that allows him to move freely and suavely. His black hair glistens. His dark eyes are piercing, almost menacing. When he speaks, he is eloquent.
“We have digressed from a technologically superior culture into a hoe-wielding peasantry. We have knowledge that we cannot use, machinery that cannot be employed. This waste of minds and materials is more sinful than the aggressive encroachment on foreign territories. All we ask is to be able to live to our potential, to find our niche in a dynamic, progressive world.
“I do not advocate war. I advocate a posture of power and strength. For without that, our neighboring countries will view us as weak and conquerable, and what little we have left will soon be gone. We will be slaves. And I would rather die than be slave to any man ever again.”What kind of legacy is that for our children? What kind of legacy do we leave with things the way they are in Coronadus? A strong defense is all I ask. And then a strong economy will follow. Coronadus will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes, and find its place in the global community. The alternative is death, to our future, to our spirit, to our souls.”
“He makes a strong argument, Bianca,” David whispers, feeling his confidence sink like a brick. “Like the people in Port Avalon.”
“But he lies, David,” Bianca says, shoring him up. “He tells the people what they want to hear. You and I both know his primary objective is world dominance, and with the Moon Singer he would have it.”
“Then why can't you just tell them? They'd believe you before they'd believe me. You're the one they call the Chosen One.”
“It's only out of respect for my family's heritage,” Bianca says, lying about the true reason. It would do no good, she knows, to tell David the truth about the name they call her. It is her shame and her guilt. To have survived at the expense of someone else's life still haunts her, even though that other person tried to kill her and many others. Some unexplained force intervened and saved Bianca's life. Only someone who has been Chosen to live, by the gods or the only God, could have survived such an onslaught without a weapon. The others all died mercilessly. She wishes she had died along with them.