March Forth (The Woodford Chronicles Book 1)

by Deirdre S. Hopton

  “Where is he now?” Larsen asked, doing a much better job than Steven had at keeping his voice calm and level.

  “I don’t know, he kind of disappeared when it got colder. I assumed he found someplace to stay, because of winter. He just wandered around in the summer. I don’t know where he slept.”

  Steven decided to stay quiet and let Larsen do the questioning; the General had a special talent for putting people at ease and figuring out the truth behind their words.

  “Tell me more about him,” he began. “Did you speak with this Rasta Man?”

  “Kind of,” Deanna responded. “He was very difficult to understand. He sort of just jabbered random syllables, not real words. He would throw in sentence fragments here and there, but often it made no sense.”

  “Tell me some of the things he said that made no sense.”

  “Well, he would bum cigarettes off me sometimes. He would kind of talk, some of those times. Other times he’d just point at my cigarette. Like I said, his words were mostly gibberish. The couple of things I recall were totally random, like when he said he never ate a day in his life. Actually, I was just recently remembering the last time I saw him. He said more that day than I had ever heard out of him. He said he had had a brand new motorcycle once, but he wasn’t sure where he left it. ‘Maybe Ohio,’ he said.”

  Steven felt his knee start twitching involuntarily from the excitement he felt. The comment about the motorcycle made him believe that Deanna’s Rasta Man truly was Carver. This was the closest he’d gotten to accomplishing his mission in months. This was much better than finding a cast-off black sock in the street. This woman had actually seen Carver, spoken with him; she might provide the clue that would bring Steven to Carver.

  “When was that? The last time y

  ou saw him?” he asked, trying to keep his voice level.

  “Last August, I think?”

  “Let’s back up,” Larsen instructed. “When was the first time you saw him?”

  “Well,” Deanna mused. “I noticed him around for a few months before he ever spoke to me. He would often wander around on Main Street, or just squat in the middle of the sidewalk, talking to himself. He was rather off-putting. Most people gave him a wide berth. I know I did, to start.”

  “And when was that, when you first noticed him around?”

  “Spring? Maybe March or April of last year?”

  “You said it took him a few months to talk to you. So he approached you in roughly May?”

  “Yeah, around then. He wanted a cigarette. He made that clear by pointing at the one I was smoking. I didn’t understand a word he said, that day. He scared me a bit.”

  Steven stood quietly and observed as Larsen continued questioning Deanna for the better part of an hour. She had no hard evidence indicating that the Rasta Man was actually Carver, but it was the best lead they’d had in a long time, and they wanted to know every detail of her encounters with him.

  Eric and John returned to the room while they spoke, and observed the conversation. Eric took on the task of reviewing all of the readings they had which had sent Steven to Woodford to begin with.

  Once Deanna had explained each minor conversation she had had with the Rasta Man at least three times over, there was silence in the room for several long minutes.

  Finally, Steven asked Eric, “Anything she said help interpret our readings?”

  “The timeline adds up. His energy signatures were in that area at the end of last summer, and have been there sporadically ever since.”

  There was another moment of silence as all four men considered possibilities. Deanna finally interrupted the silence by stammering, “Does this…did it….does this help? Are we done? Can I go home?”

  Larsen glanced at her and said, “Not just yet, my dear. But we have made some considerable progress, I think. Let’s all get some rest and reconvene here in a few hours. Drisbane, show Ms. Flanagan to the guest quarters.”

  Steven nodded and gestured toward the hallway, so Deanna stood and followed him. They walked down the hallway in silence as he mulled over the idea of the legendary, once-brilliant Carver living as a homeless, crazy wanderer.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Deanna asked, jarring him from his reverie. He nodded.

  “Why is this David Carver guy so important to you people?” She drew to halt and stared at him with her wide, green eyes, awaiting a response. He was momentarily taken aback. She had become, in his mind, a subject; someone to be questioned, tested. He was not expecting such a question from her.

  “Ah. Well,” he began clumsily. “That’s sort of … classified.”

  “How, precisely, can something be ‘sort of’ classified?”

  “It’s classified. You just caught me off guard,” he admitted.

  “It would seem that I’ve been helpful to some kind of search you have going for this man. Doesn’t that put me in a position to know what I’ve helped with?”

  “Ah…” Steven faltered. He couldn’t think of an answer that would satisfy her and make her stop asking questions. However, he was unwilling to tell her the truth without first discussing it with the General. “I think you should ask General Larsen these kind of questions. It would be his decision how much you should know.”

  “I see,” Deanna said softly. She looked up at him for a moment, then continued, “I asked you because I think your General Larsen is a little too good at being evasive.”

  Steven didn’t know what to say, so he turned and continued walking down the hall. He reached a door that looked exactly like all the other doors, and swung it open, gesturing for Deanna to enter.

  “These will be your quarters,” he said, expressionlessly. “The bathroom is over there. We’ve already filled the cabinets with toiletries, pajamas, and a change of clothes. I will be back to get you in the morning. If you need anything else, you can let me know then.”

  “Back to ‘get’ me?” Deanna narrowed her eyes. “Couldn’t I just meet you in the testing room?”

  He hesitated for a split second before saying, “It’s too easy to get lost, here. Good night.”

  Then he shut the door before she could ask any more questions. He was a bit out of practice at dealing with civilians, and it was getting too difficult to avoid answering her. He would have to consult with the General to find out how to respond to her.

  Deanna

  Deanna tried the handle seconds after Steven shut her into the room, and was totally unsurprised to find she was locked in. The fact that she had seen it coming made it no less frustrating or anxiety-inducing for her. She decided to go with feeling frustrated, as it was less scary, so she punched the door.

  It hurt rather badly.

  The door felt like it was made of iron, though it appeared to be an ordinary, wooden door. She had been expecting a satisfying “thud” sound, which would hopefully echo through the hall and let Steven or whoever else might be within earshot know that she was angry, and not at all scared. Instead, there was a complete lack of sound, as if she had just punched a wall of cotton.

  She stood, staring at the door and sucking on her freshly injured knuckles.

  Her burgeoning anxiety, seeing that frustration had done more harm than good, decided to take over. Her heart fluttered unpleasantly in her chest.

  As she tried to clear her mind and maintain calm, she let her gaze wander around the small room. It looked terribly institutional. There was a small, twin-sized bed with a thin, uncomfortable-looking mattress covered with thin, grey sheets and blankets. A nondescript grey dresser stood against the grey wall. As a test, she opened a drawer. In the drawer were two pairs of grey cotton-poly blend pants with elastic waistbands. She opened another drawer and found large, shapeless t-shirts to match.

  “Pajamas and a change of clothes,” she murmured as she recalled Steven’s words, noting how the clothes resembled a prison uniform.

  She walked into bathroom, and was totally unsurprised that it was done in grey tile, with a grey sink, and
a grey toilet seat. She wondered if they had chosen to color everything grey in order to depress all who entered this building. If so, it was working. She felt rather hopeless…. Lost, trapped, and hopeless.

  After attempting to distract herself from her thoughts by performing ordinary rituals like brushing her teeth and washing her face, she decided to take advantage of her solitude by meditating. In her real life, before she had fallen down the metaphorical rabbit hole of meeting Steven that day, meditation had become a helpful activity (or rather, lack of activity) during her months of fruitlessly searching for a job. It helped her feel calm and clear headed, rather than distraught and full of doubt.

  Though being held prisoner by some kind of secret military organization with magic at their disposal seemed a little harder to deal with than looking for a job, she hoped meditation would bring her some peace.

  Sitting on the bed with her legs crossed, she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind.

  “I’m being held prisoner by a secret military organization,” her mind screamed.

  “Shhhhhh, be clear, mind,” she thought, with equal intensity.

  After waging this fruitless battle against her own thoughts for a few minutes, she remembered something she had read in books by Wayne Dyer, Deepak Chopra, Louise Hay, and other teachers of metaphysical well-being: when one is meditating and thoughts enter the mind, one should not resist the thoughts. Instead, one should acknowledge the thought and lovingly, gratefully release it.

  So, she switched tactics. As every thought entered her mind, she acknowledged it and released it with as much love and gratitude as she could muster.

  “I’m a prisoner,” she thought. “Thanks for that, thought, ‘bye now,” she answered herself.

  “This really sucks,” came another thought. “Indeed. I release you now, thought.”

  “Damn it,” she thought. “I left my clothes at the dryer in the laundromat before I went to the library.”

  “And that’s okay, I will ask the military guys to help me get it tomorrow. They can transport people for miles in the blink of an eye, I’m sure they can rescue a load of forgotten laundry. I release you now, laundry thought, thanks for coming.”

  On and on it went, as a seemingly endless parade of thoughts entered her mind, and were released, until finally, blessedly, she found herself in a state of inner quiet. Rather than thinking, worrying, and freaking out, she focused on feeling gratitude, and tried to list all the things she was grateful for.

  “I’m really grateful to be healthy,” she thought, and focused on that feeling. “I’m grateful to be alive, and to have a home to go back to if I ever get out of here. I’m grateful for my parents, and my friends, and all of the love I have experienced in my life.”

  Putting her focus on all of the good things in her life made her feel quite a bit better. She relaxed so much, in fact, that the next thing she knew, she was dreaming. She knew she was dreaming, and that she must have fallen asleep while meditating, but that knowledge gave her no control over the dream as it unfolded around her.

  She was in some sort of great hall. It was an enormous place, with stone walls and floors, and wooden beams overhead. Statues stood all around her; white marble statues, grey stone statues, abstract metal statues… the only thing they seemed to have in common was that they were all statues of humans (although some of the more abstract ones gave her a moment’s pause before she figured that out). Most of them were worn down by the passage of time; some were broken, missing limbs or noses or even a head.

  For some time, nothing happened; there was no movement in the cavernous chamber of her dream. She simply wandered around, idly observing the statues. Silence and stillness permeated the chamber and into the very core of her being. Then, suddenly, parts of each statue began to detach and float toward one statue that stood in the center of the room. This center statue was of a woman, and it was one of the ones that had somehow, over time, lost its head.

  As Deanna watched, various arms, legs, torsos, and heads detached from other statues and floated toward the headless woman. Some of the pieces attached themselves to her in seemingly random positions; an arm affixed itself to her back, a leg to her abdomen. It seemed odd to Deanna, in her dream state, that none of the pieces landed on the top of the statue’s neck, where her head would be had she not lost it. Other pieces landed on the floor around the statue, leaning in the headless woman’s direction as if giving her audience.

  All of this happened in just a few seconds. Once all of the fragments of other statues were apparently satisfied with their positions around the statue of the headless woman, stillness once again reigned in the hall. Deanna realized she was holding her breath, and she exhaled slowly. As she did so, a bright, glowing orb appeared above the tableau, right where the center statue’s head would have been. It was like a tiny sun. Even in her dream, Deanna had to shield her eyes from its brightness.

  After it shone for a few seconds, music began to play. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, as if an entire orchestra was all around her and playing for all they were worth while simultaneously being invisible. The pieces that had so recently attached themselves to and surrounded the statue now detached and floated a short distance away. As they landed, they joined together and even grew new appendages. Each one, once a broken piece of statuary, became whole. It was like watching the birth of an art gallery, or possibly the creation of the Universe. Deanna couldn’t decide which. She knew only that it was absolutely exquisite to watch, and even more so in the bright light of the tiny sun.

  The light began to dim, and Deanna turned her attention back to the headless statue of the woman in time to see the light fading and becoming a head. The process took a moment. Then, that statue, too, was whole, and disturbingly familiar. Deanna stepped closer to it, scrutinizing its new head. She stood directly in front of the statue, examining its features. She realized it bore quite a bit of resemblance to the face she saw each day in the mirror, and smiled to herself at the notion of a statue of Deanna. She had an arbitrary desire to touch the statue’s face, and her hand floated up to do so. She felt very detached, almost disembodied, as she watched her hand drift closer to the statue’s white marble face and her fingers caress the marble.

  Suddenly, the statue’s eyes snapped open and the mouth smiled at her. Although its countenance could only be described as joyful, the sudden movement startled Deanna. Her own sudden intake of breath forced her into waking.

  For a second, she had no idea where she was. Then, she remembered: the organization, the locked door, the tiny bed in her “quarters.”

  “Well, no wonder I’m having weird dreams,” she thought. “I’m having a pretty freaking weird day.”

  She lay there for what seemed like a very long time, staring at the ceiling and remembering her dream. She didn’t feel like she could fall back to sleep, but she was locked in the room and had nowhere to go. She desperately wanted a cigarette, but had none on her and imagined that even if she did, lighting one would probably set off some fire alarms or even sprinklers in this institutional setting.

  At some point, she must have dozed off. The next thing she knew, she was being startled awake by a hand on her shoulder. She gasped and sat up, causing Steven to take a step back.

  He held up a mug in one hand, as if it were some kind of a peace offering. “I brought coffee.”

  She eyed him warily for a moment, gathering her wits before reaching for the mug. The light was no different in the small, windowless room than it had been when she first went to sleep. It was discombobulating.

  “What time is it?” she finally asked, after sipping the coffee. It had a lot more cream and sugar than she would have liked, but beggars can’t be choosers, and she did love a hot cup of coffee in the morning.

  “Seven. We thought you should sleep in a bit,” Steven replied. It took her a second to realize he was serious. Obviously, secret government agencies worked on a different schedule than former restaurant
employees.

  “Um….thanks,” she said with as much sincerity as she could muster through the sleep-addled haze of her mind. “What now?”

  “Breakfast. Then we have some more tests.”

  Breakfast was not what she expected. She had not spent much time picturing what it would be like, on their walk through the empty halls, but when Steven stopped at a door that looked like every other door, she did not expect it to lead to a fairly large, well-lit cafeteria in which twenty or thirty other organization operatives were enjoying their breakfasts. For a second she just stood and stared.

  “This is the cafeteria,” Steven explained.

  “I kind of got that,” Deanna answered.

  “Well, you looked confused.”

  “It’s just….” Deanna faltered, then rallied. “It’s so bright. And I didn’t know anyone except you, the General, and those techie guys were here.”

  “Well, there are quite a few of us,” Steven said, as he motioned for her to walk with him to the food line.

  The room was about the size of a school cafeteria, with white floors, tables, and chairs. Fluorescent lighting cast its horrifyingly bright illumination down on the black-clad men and women of the organization. Many of them seemed to examine Deanna as she passed. She felt very exposed, and very out of place.

  Steven drew to a halt in front of what Deanna had originally mistaken for an ordinary cafeteria food line, and took two black trays off of a pile at the end of the counter. Once Deanna was close enough to look properly at the food line, she realized that there was no food under the glass sneeze guards, nor were there employees waiting to dole out food behind the line. Instead, there were matte black squares around another raised black square under the glass. Steven put his hand on one of the matte black squares, and a plate heaped with eggs and bacon appeared on the raised square.