by Jim Johnson
Given that I had the rest of the night to myself, I headed home with the firm intention of taking a hot bath and then spending the rest of the night in bed. There was way too much going on and I just had to get some rest before trying to piece my way through it all.
Miss Chin hadn’t really prepared me for the utter nuttiness of the life of a Beacon, that’s for sure.
Chapter Nineteen
THE SPINNER FLOATED IN THE INSUBSTANTIAL fabric of the woven world, thin blue vortices of etheric energy flowing around him, into him, permeating him with their power and their strength.
He never got tired of the sensation. His mortal body, broken and frail, attached to machines to keep him alive, was a pathetic mass of flesh and water—not at all like this powerful formation of etheric energies, ectoplasm, and whatever else made up the indefinable human soul.
He was no philosopher, not one to indulge in extensive navel-gazing, but what he did know was that whatever he was when he wasn’t trapped in that body on that bed in that room in that hospital—it was pretty freaking awesome.
Here, in the woven world, he could do anything and there was virtually no one to stop him. That a little girl and a punk boy had managed to derail some of his efforts was frustrating, surely, but they couldn’t possibly know the depths of his intentions.
He was confident there were other Weavers in the area; there had to be. But as yet, none had delved into the woven world to face him, either directly or indirectly.
He had puzzled over that for some time, but then had continued with his plans. The longer it took someone to pay attention to him, the more time he had to build up his power base. By the time they realized he was a threat, it would be too late.
The Spinner focused his inner Sight and spread out his consciousness and awareness to the extent of his abilities, covering the area around DC and a little bit beyond. He called up a mental map of the thousands of little rifts within the Veil, the damage that girl Rachel had wrought with her assault on him some weeks ago.
He sensed immediately that the total number of rifts was off since the last time he had checked—someone had repaired or closed some of them. Curious. He pulled in some ley threads and sucked them dry and used the spare energy to create a second, current, map of the rifts, and compared it to the earlier one to get a sense of which rifts had been closed.
A grouping of them just west of Baltimore and a couple in northern Virginia, near the site of that nursing home. Very curious, indeed. That suggested a Mender at work in or near Baltimore, and he had a fair approximation of where that Mender was based. The repairs made in Virginia were likely the result of Rachel’s efforts and whoever was training her, perhaps a Warden.
And that was information he could make use of, but not today.
He focused his attention toward the northern Virginia area, scanning for anomalies through the rifts, anything interesting. There was a locus of power centered at the Lincoln Memorial. He scanned that area and poked a few tendrils of his awareness toward it.
A large, stable rift had formed behind the statue of Lincoln, not surprising give the sheer amount of ley threads woven into the Memorial and its surrounding structure. The builders of the city and the monuments thought they had been smart to build into the very framework of the ley grid. What they had probably not foreseen was that the more ley energy you wove into a structure, the easier it was to manipulate the energies around those places.
It was like placing a building on an ant farm and then pouring honey all over it. You were just asking for trouble.
And so when Rachel had sent out her blast of power to defeat his avatar, the excess energy had spread outward, and in the buildings where there was already an excess of ley energies, the new power had struck and had opened rifts in the Veil.
He paused in his research to scan some of the other buildings and monuments in the area. The Lincoln Memorial, the Jefferson Memorial, the tall obelisk that was the Washington Monument, Mount Vernon, the Masons’ tower in Alexandria—the list went on. Pretty much every major building or monument in a twenty-mile radius that had been built by those with knowledge and ability with the ley threads and ley grid, had been compromised to one degree or another.
And it was possible that no one knew about it. In some cases the damage was significant, such as at the Lincoln Memorial, but in other places the rifts were tiny and all but invisible. If there was anyone out there watching for such things, they’d have to be going nuts right about now, trying to figure out what had happened and what to do about it.
He knew of no such group or individuals, but that didn’t mean they didn’t exist. Rachel and Malcolm had some ability with the ley threads, and he was confident they were being trained by someone.
And now there was evidence of a Mender at work outside Baltimore. Interesting times, indeed.
Full of curiosity, the Spinner pulled in more ley threads and pulled on the endless depths of power contained within the ley grid and started to focus his senses on any likely activity centering around either the Veil or the woven world.
He monitored things for about an hour, but then felt his attention start to waver. His mortal body was tired, burning out, and he could only rely on it for so long. As strong as his mind was, and as adept as he was with the ley threads, he was still chained to that mortal shell and its need for rest.
He’d have to look into doing something about that. Perhaps some research was in order. For now, though, he shut down most of his ley threads and pulled in the energies and his focus, and concentrated on his body and his soul’s good health. He wished he had the ability to heal himself with the ley threads—he had read stories and heard rumors about such things being possible, but he didn’t understand or know where to find the healing pathways within his own body. His few attempts at experimentation on the bodies he lured into the woven world had proven to be less than effective. Their bits and pieces would never be found, fortunately, but he knew where they were, their locations branded upon his mind like inconvenient truths.
He settled into a meditative trance, what he liked to refer to as a recharge cycle, and set his mind to think about how he might better monitor the rifts in the Veil to try and determine what activity was happening around it—perhaps he could detect when that Mender was hard at work, and surprise him or her.
And he wanted to try and monitor when someone else manipulated the Veil, such as Rachel opening a rift for a soul, or something else.
It was time to gather information. And even he was smart enough to know that the side with the most, best information, was usually the side that won the war. He was willing to lose battles here and there as long as he kept sight on the bigger picture.
Rachel was no match for him by herself, and Malcolm appeared to be a small-time player at best. No, if there was any threat to come from outside the woven world, it would be from someone he didn’t know about yet, and he was determined to do all he could to try and learn.
The Spinner settled into his meditative trance and gathered up energies, plotting and planning for his next move, turning his mind into an information sponge. Once his mortal body had time to rest, he would return to the woven world and start laying out monitors and traps. He’d get the information he wanted one way or another.
Chapter Twenty
IT WAS JUST AS WELL THAT Abbie worked late. I got home, totally worn out. I took a quick shower and then just dropped myself into bed, without even bothering to eat dinner. In the morning, Abbie had left me a note saying she was heading into the office early, but that she’d swing by Bonita’s and meet me for dinner.
So I had the morning to myself again before having to go to work. I thought about getting cleaned up and heading to Miss Chin’s to get some answers to the various problems laid out before me, but I decided to hang out in the house and try to spend a little more time with that old journal. Something niggling at the back of my mind suggested that it might prove useful sooner than later.
After a quick breakfa
st of oatmeal and a slightly turned banana, I locked myself in my bedroom. Once safely surrounded by my protective circle of glimmering candles, I settled into a seated position and focused on the journal in my lap.
I ran my hands gently over the leather cover, taking in every dent and scratch that had been furrowed into the surface, getting a fresh feel for the leather grain and the dye and even the binding.
Pressing deeper with my senses fueled by the ley threads, I pushed aside the sensations and feelings I suspected came from those who had handled the book, even wrote in the book, and dug deeper, seeking out the thoughts and feelings and etheric remnants of those who had crafted it.
After long moments of seeking, I gave up—all I was getting was cloudy, very vague sensations. I could spend all day running myself into the ground trying to track down the original feelings and images from the book’s origins. I didn’t have the energy or the training or the practice to go that far. Not yet, anyway.
If nothing else, the failure to find anything easily was a spur to do more, to do better, to keep digging and working with the ley grid. I’d keep practicing, but not to make Miss Chin or Abbie or anyone else proud or happy.
No, I’d do it for myself. Because, honestly, there’s so little that I’ve done for myself in recent months and years that I thought I deserved to do something for me. If I couldn’t earn a lot of money, get a degree, or hold down a real damn job, then I could at least learn how to use the ley grid and the etheric energies as well as anyone else, and do something really cool. And save some immortal souls in the process.
Or something like that, anyway. I still felt a far ways away from the superhero I wanted to be.
I took a few deep breaths to recenter myself, and then took the journal in both hands and let it fall open wherever it wanted, and idly flipped the strangely soft pages with my hands, back and forth. The blank pages flipped by, and slowly I felt myself falling into a deeper meditative trance, as if my usual spiraling pattern was being enhanced by something contained with the journal that was encouraging me to delve deeper, to meditate more intensely.
I spread open my Sight to the fullest, and gradually, the pages began to fill with text entries, occasional sketches, notes, and other scribed material. All the lines and words scribed in the journal had been written in dark ink now faded, but all were highlighted in the electric blue of the ley threads. There were dozens and dozens of entries, almost like a diary, and sketches, and bits and pieces of text plugged into the margins seemingly at random. There was so much contained within the journal, and it would take me time to get through them all.
And there are plenty of secrets to be found.
I nearly jumped out of the candle circle. My eyes shot open and my hands clenched down tight on the journal out of reflex. Out of my peripheral vision I saw my crystal fairly explode with light, the glow pushing out all around me, engulfing my chest and biceps with bright silver light.
What the hell? I focused on the open pages of the journal facing me, and watched in wonder as the glowing ink written out on both pages started to animate and flow together, then swirled around the center of the pages, like a whirlpool of glowing ink caught just below the surface of the paper.
I could not move my hands from the surprise and shock I felt from the voice I had heard in my head. What had it said?
The book contains plenty of secrets, friend. As do I.
My eyes widened even more. As I heard the words, the glowing whirlpool of energy on the pages seemed to briefly take the shape of full, sensuous lips, mouthing the words in stereo, one set of lips on each page. They moved in unison and spoke the words in unison, and even quirked up at the same moment in a sort of strange smile.
I stared at the book in my lap with a mix of wonder and horror. Definitely not what I had expected.
And what had you expected, friend?
I opened my mouth, closed it, then took a deep gulp for air. My mouth felt dry and my throat scratchy and raw, and I silently cursed myself for not remembering to bring a bottle of water with me into the casting circle. Miss Chin had warned me before about getting dehydrated during a working—a strange side effect, but a real one all the same.
I’ll be here waiting if you want to get something to drink…
I frowned. “How can you read my mind?”
I sensed a titter of laughter. It’s not so much reading your mind as it is sensing your thoughts and making educated guesses about what you might be thinking. I am pleased to know my guess was accurate.
I shook my head in wonder. “How…wait a minute.” I stared down at the double mouths on display. “Who the hell are you?”
I’m a friend, to be certain. An old friend, but a new friend as well.
“I guessed that. I didn’t think the Spinner would talk to me through a book.” I inclined my head and took a guess, given the tenor of what I was hearing. “You’re a woman?”
Another little titter. A woman, barely. A girl, and yet not one any more. A journal who was a girl, now a journal, lost in time but in touch with this place and with you.
Great, more cryptic comments. “You must spent a lot of time with Miss Chin. You have her cryptic Yoda routine down pat.”
Who?
I shook my head. “The Warden. Miss Chin. She gave you…er…the journal to me.”
The double set of lips pursed as if in thought. I do not know of a Miss Chin, but if she is a Warden, then she was probably given me as an heirloom to pass on when it was time.
After a moment and another pursed set of lips, the book asked, Is it time? Are you a Beacon, friend?
I nodded, then realizing that it didn’t seem to have eyes (even thought that didn’t seem to have stopped it), I said, “I guess so, yeah. That’s what Miss Chin told me, anyway.”
The two sets of lips frowned. You’re not sure you’re a Beacon? You must have some idea. If you unlocked the journal, you must have some talent with the threads.
I stared at the lips as the glowing ink on the page shifted and moved. And I thought hard about it, but not for too long. I knew. I had known for a while. Even with all the stuff that was going on, the dangers from the ley grid and the threat hanging over my head from the impending return of the Spinner, I knew.
I nodded and palmed a tear from my eye. “Yes I am a Beacon and a Weaver, and I want to do all I can to prove that I’m the best Beacon I can be.”
I said it and my hands shook, because I felt the truth of the statement as it came out of my mouth. I felt the warmth of my crystal shining bright, almost like a beacon itself. A beacon of truth.
The twin sets of lips displayed on the book grinned widely, nearly touching across the break in the spine. I am so pleased to hear it, friend. We are going to have so much fun together.
I inclined my head, not sure what it…she meant. “What do you mean?”
One more round of tittering laughter. Do you not understand, friend? I was a Beacon too.
My eyebrows shot up at that. “Miss Chin mentioned something about a Beacon writing the journal. When were you a Beacon?”
The two mouths frowned prettily, as if deep in thought. It was the year of our Lord, seventeen hundred and sixty-four, when I lifted the lantern and accepted the role of soul-guide.
I shook my head. “Soul-guide?”
What you know as a Beacon. The same idea. We guide lost souls to their final resting place. We have also been called Valkyries, and psychopomps, and other names in other nationalities and cultures. But the essential work is the same.
“Well, yes.” I paused as her other statement sunk in. “Wait a minute. Did you say seventeen hundred and sixty something?”
Sixty-four.
I wracked my brain. Ugh, more history to try and remember. “Uh…so you were alive during the Civil War?”
The lips frowned. I do not believe there was altogether much civility during the war, and I do not recall it being referred to as a civil war. No, this was the war for independence—the war for the Colon
ies to break free from the British Empire. The war that created the United States.
“Oh, right. Of course. That war. Wait…the war…for independence?” I gaped at the book, the reality crashing in on me. “You’re over two hundred and fifty years old!”
Chapter Twenty-One
THE MOUTHS DISPLAYED ON THE JOURNAL pages opened, then closed, then spun into the shapes of smiles again. I guess I hadn’t thought of the span of years that have passed.
I stared down at the book, a mix of surprise and wonder playing at my mind. “You don’t have a sense of time?”
The lips kind of quirked up, sort of like how Abbie looks when she’s pondering a deep thought. I don’t have an easy means of determining time passing. Until you opened the journal, I was in something of a long-term rest. When awake and aware, I can tap into the ley grid for power, but I have never really ever thought to bother to track what time of day it was or, indeed, what day it was.
I shook my head. “I can’t do that.” I gestured toward my new cell phone outside the circle of candlelight. “I have my cell phone with me all the time and if I didn’t have that clock on me all day, I’d be lost.”
One of the sets of lips smiled while the other did that little quirk up again. I do not know what a ‘cell phone’ is, but I understand the desire to be aware of timing. Do you have many important events to attend?
“Hardly. Just training and work, mostly. And occasional lunches with friends or my stupid brother.”
Another smile from the journal. I had four brothers and three sisters. I loved them dearly but was occasionally intolerant of them as well. Is your brother kind like you?