by Ray Garton
“Are we going to have an opportunity to hear from Orrin?” a black woman asked, holding a microphone toward the gazebo.
Hester looked out at them for a long moment, her eyes anxious and uncertain. “I’ve been getting some uncharacteristic messages from Orrin lately.”
“What does that mean?” a reporter asked with a smirk in his voice.
“Well, some of the things Orrin has said lately have not been terribly, um … positive. I’m not sure that it would be a good idea to—”
Murmurs began to rise from the crowd, some of disappointment, but others of annoyance and a kind of snide satisfaction, as if some people were saying, I figured she wouldn’t do it for free.
She frowned then, her eyes scanning the crowd, and said, “Okay, okay. But I won’t promise you’ll like what you hear. It might not be very positive.”
There was a loud, enthusiastic response from the reporters as well as the on looking crowd.
“All right, all right. Um, let’s see …” She moved away from the microphones and started down the gazebo’s stairs. “I’ll have to ask all of you to move back and, um … Jerry, could I get you to bring two of those cushions over here for me?”
One of her young male assistants wearing the standard Alliance ice-cream suit hurried to her side carrying two large, cream-colored cushions. The reporters backed away and the cushions were placed on the grass before the gazebo as some of the news personnel hurriedly moved their microphones in front of the cushions, where Hester Thorne lowered herself gracefully, sitting Indian style. She wore her usual: baggy pants and blouse, both of white silk.
The chattering voices in the crowd hushed and restless movement ceased. An almost reverent silence descended on Penny Park.
Hester Thorne held the gaze of every eye around her.
For the next few minutes, she went through the same series of deep breaths and jerking motions she’d gone through at her seminar in San Francisco. As he watched, Jordan popped the last bite of his sugar cone into his mouth and put an arm around Lauren, muttering, “This ought to be fun.” Her shoulders were tense, and when he looked at her, Jordan saw that she was clenching her teeth; the rest of her ice cream began to melt as she neglected it, staring hatefully at Hester Thorne. “Try to loosen up a little,” he whispered in her ear. “Your fangs are showing.” To show her he meant well, he squeezed her shoulder.
“Greetings, sweet souls!” Hester Thorne shouted in the same deep, almost male voice Jordan had heard her use in San Francisco.
The crowd responded with a mixture of amusement and respect.
She went on in Orrin’s voice, spouting a lot of wordy gibberish about the spirit of their gathering. “I sense much love here, much unity. I sense a positive spirit that holds much hope for the future, as it shall be.” There was a long pause, then Hester Thorne’s face darkened so suddenly that Jordan flinched. “Your hopes are well and good, but they are not enough and will soon be shattered by the oncoming darkness that will envelope this world … if you do not unite beneath the shelter of truth and light that are my words, if you do not rally ’round this vessel called Hester Thorne!”
Dead, heavy silence in the park.
Jordan looked around at the mass of faces frozen in shock at the harsh tone of Hester Thorne’s voice, at the coldness in her eyes.
Her head dropped forward and her eyes rolled back in their sockets, showing only their icy whites, and when she spoke again, her voice was so much deeper, throatier, and more masculine that several surprised gasps shot up from the crowd.
“Already the darkness is descending. Already those who have slandered this vessel Hester Thorne and the truths that I speak through her are standing in its shadow. Their time is short and yet they continue to shun the light I have offered. The darkness falls even today … and standing beneath it now is the Reverend Barry Hallway.”
Jordan and Lauren exchanged a glance.
Something was wrong with this, Jordan could feel it. Until he’d seen her on stage in San Francisco, he’d heard only innocuous things about Hester Thorne and her invisible entity. But in San Francisco, and again here in Grover, there was nothing innocuous about the things she said to her audience.
“Are you saying that Reverend Hallway is going to die?”
“Even as I speak,” the deep voice continued, “the reverend’s re-embodiment approaches. Only if he recants, only if he withdraws his hateful words and false accusations, will he be spared.”
A prickly chill skittered over the back of Jordan’s neck.
“And there will be others after him, those who have rejected the truth and led others from the light it sheds. See to it that you are not among them. Heed my words, join the Godbody and follow the example of this vessel Hester Thorne and all will be well, you will come through the time of darkness and walk safely into a New Age of peace and harmony, as it is and forever shall be.”
And then Hester Thorne collapsed on the cushions and two of her aides rushed to her side.
There was an explosion of activity among the reporters as they rushed away from the gazebo with their tape recorders and notebooks and cameras and hurried across the street to the pay phones, hurried to their cars and vans, anxious to share their tidbit of information with their editors.
One of the aides stood and politely dismissed everyone, saying that Ms. Thorne would be unable to continue but promising that they would see more of her during the coming days.
“What the hell was that all about?” Coogan asked.
“Some kind of prediction,” Jordan said.
“That Barry Hallway is going to die?”
“Something like that.”
Jordan looked at him. The old man frowned and sucked on his lower lip, deep in thought; he obviously didn’t like what he’d heard, but chose not to comment. Jordan was disturbed, too; there was something very unsettling about Hester Thorne/Orrin’s comments about Reverend Barry Hallway.
“Something wrong?” Jordan asked.
“Mmm.” He shook his head, still frowning, and turned around, staring out at the street with his hands tucked in the back pockets of his pants. “Never seen the place this crowded. Can’t say I like it.”
Jordan took Lauren’s hand and they headed out of the park, Coogan walking with them. Lauren tossed the remains of her ice-cream cone into a garbage can and they crossed the street.
The sidewalks were crowded with pedestrians who walked slowly by shop windows; parked cars and recreational vehicles lined the streets.
“It’s not even this crowded during the skiing season,” Coogan said softly, looking around.
Jordan and Coogan made small talk as they walked aimlessly down the sidewalk, dodging other pedestrians, but Jordan paid little attention to the conversation. Hester Thorne’s words weighed heavily on him. He was sure that Lauren, so wrapped up in her son’s situation, had dismissed the channel’s predictions, but Jordan could not. From what he knew of her, it seemed unlike Hester Thorne to make such a risky prediction.
Unless, he thought, she has a good reason.
But what would that be?
He considered discussing it with Coogan, but decided to keep his thoughts to himself. He had a plan for that night—the very thought of which, especially in light of everything he’d learned and seen, made him nervous—and hoped that perhaps he would learn something then.
2.
Mark Schroeder missed reading the newspaper. He even missed watching television once in a while. But there was no outside reading material, televisions or radios allowed in the complex. It didn’t really matter, though, because he only missed those things when he had time to think about them, and that was seldom.
Right now, for instance.
He was seated at the desk in his small square room with four white walls, bare except for the painting of the Alliance emblem over his desk and the PA/intercom
speaker over his bed, studying one of the many books that made up the list of reading materials required of new seekers. He wasn’t sure what time it was—there were no clocks in any of the rooms in the dorm-like structure and watches were not allowed because Hester said they had to learn to rely on their “inner timepieces”; the time was announced over the speakers on the hour—he only knew that it was time to study. Later, it would be time to sleep—for a while, at least—but that time wouldn’t come soon enough for Mark. His head was drooped over the desk and his heavy-lidded eyes burned from the light of his small desk lamp. Sometimes his eyes would close and he would sway forward slowly, then jerk awake, sitting upright with eyes open wide, and go back to his studying … until his head began to bow again and his eyes began to close.
He didn’t think of Nathan as much as he had when he’d first come to Grover, which had been … how long ago? He wasn’t quite sure, but it didn’t matter much. He didn’t think of Lauren, either, except to pity her because she was missing out on so much. In fact, the person he thought about most was Hester Thorne.
Since his arrival, he’d learned a great deal; he and Hester had become very close and she’d made him feel he was an integral part of the Alliance’s movement. Being a part of the Alliance, though, involved a great deal of work and very little of it was easy. Each morning, a young woman brought to his room a gallon of salt water which he was required to drink as quickly as possible so he would vomit and cleanse his body of stomach mucus. He was assigned a number of chores, some of which were apparently senseless—like moving rocks or wood from point A to point B and then back again—to strengthen his powers of concentration and teach him humility. His diet was entirely vegetarian with emphasis on sprouts, carrot juice, asparagus broth and lots of garlic to cleanse the liver. Every three days he received a colonic containing something called Bentonite and he was required to inspect his stool afterward, looking for the black speckles in his feces that would prove to him that, before joining the Alliance, his body was riddled with vile impurities. Mark’s least favorite part of the program was the bodywork session that he endured every day. He was told that his muscles retained all of the psychological traumas of his life, and in order to restore the “physical peace” necessary for him to retain truth and enlightenment, it was necessary for a bodywork technician to grind knuckles, knees and elbows into the major muscle groups of his body for one hour each day, which, needless to say, was excruciatingly painful. The bodywork sessions were held in a pyramid-shaped building called Physical Peace Plaza and, walking by, one could hear the screams and cries of those receiving their treatment; it sounded like a torture chamber. The studying, meditating, “ascension therapy” and other requirements of the program were easy in comparison, but they were still—although he would never say so aloud—tedious. In spite of it all, Mark was thrilled to be there because—
—he knew that great events were coming that were to usher in the New Age, events that would be at once wonderful and horrible because of the resistance of those who did not believe. The certainty that he would be actively involved in those events excited him and made every sacrifice and inconvenience worthwhile.
A burst of static sounded and Mark jerked, backing away from the single puddle of light in the dark room to turn toward the speaker over his bed.
The familiar female voice said, “The time is eight p.m. The time … is eight p.m.”
The static crackled for a moment longer, then stopped abruptly.
Sometimes Mark wished the voice would give the day and date, too; he often lost track. But that was okay. Hester had told him once that when the New Age finally began, which would be soon, things such as hours and minutes and days and dates would become relics of a past best not remembered.
There was a quiet knock at his door and Mark called weakly, “Come in.”
As if his thought had summoned her, Hester entered the room smiling. She wore a flowing silk duster over a blouse and slacks, but in the poor light, her clothes—as well as her hair and skin—lost their color and took on a sickly grayish hue. “Good evening, Mark. Studying?”
He stood, nodding as he returned her smile. Although he’d spent a good deal of time with her and felt closer to her than he had when they’d first started meeting, he was still overcome with a boyish clumsiness whenever she was near. It was silly and embarrassing … and yet at the same time it felt rather nice.
“And what’s next?”
“A rest.”
“Ah, that’s nice. Are you sleeping well? Are you comfortable?”
“Oh, yes, fine.”
Actually, he hadn’t slept well when he’d first arrived. The seekers were allowed only three hours of sleep at a time—Hester said there was far too much to accomplish to spend more than the absolute minimum amount of time sleeping—and at the top of every hour, the time was announced over the speaker loudly enough to frighten Mark out of his sleep.
“What are you scheduled to do after your rest?” she asked, taking a couple steps toward him.
It was going to happen again, just as it almost always did whenever they were alone. Mark tensed with anticipation. “Chanting and meditation,” he replied. “At eleven-ten.”
“Well.” She moved closer and ran her fingertips lightly up and down his left arm. “As long as you promise to make up your chanting and meditation period—and as soon as possible, because that’s very important—I’d like to borrow you for a little while.” She lifted her other hand and her gentle strokes became more intense as she met his gaze with a slight smile.
“Oh? Borrow me for what?” His voice broke only slightly, as it always did when she touched him. He fought to resist becoming aroused in order to avoid the frustration it would bring, because her advances never went any further than touching and kissing. He often wondered if she treated any of the other seekers that way, but always decided he didn’t want to know.
“In your studies, you’ve come across references to the Inner Circle, haven’t you, Mark?”
“Of course. We’ve even talked about it.”
“That’s right. But you still aren’t quite sure what it is, are you?”
“Well … no.”
Her voice a whisper now, a sweet-smelling breath: “I’d like to give you your first Inner Circle experience.”
Mark felt a rush of excitement. It sounded important, this Inner Circle experience, even though he didn’t know what it was. He was thrilled to be involved in the Alliance at all, but to be taken into the Inner Circle … that was more than he’d ever imagined.
“Would you like that?” she breathed, her lips touching his, her arms encircling his neck.
He tried to respond, to tell her that yes he would like that, of course he would like that, but her tongue began to tease his lips and he slid his hands tentatively over her back and enjoyed the kiss, until she finally pulled away, smiled, and stroked his face.
“I’ll see you at eleven,” she said, then left his room.
Mark stood there for a long moment, reliving the kiss and wondering what might lie ahead of him. Then he undressed and got into bed, doubting that he would sleep now that he had something to look forward to.
He did sleep, though, and he dreamed of Hester. She stood just a few feet in front of him in a very dark, cold place. An icy breeze blew her shiny blond hair, she was smiling seductively with her arms open to him, beckoning, and she was naked; her nipples looked like hardened dabs of chocolate against her pale skin and light from an invisible source glistened on the small triangle of wheat golden hair below her naval. He moved toward her, wanting to touch her skin, taste it, hold her body to his, but—
—as he moved forward, she moved backward, not walking—Mark couldn’t even see her feet—but … gliding, like a ghost, beckoning him to her but moving away from him, taunting, teasing, as Mark noticed that—
—something was looming behind her, a shape in th
e darkness, a huge mass that was even blacker than the darkness around it, and from the shape a reddish-orange glow began to appear, growing brighter as Hester continued to float away from him in slow motion, arms open, breasts swaying a bit, moving like honey, and then—
—there was a sound and Hester’s mouth opened as if to speak and the darkness filled with a horrible hissing sound, a garbled electronic sound, and—
—the familiar female voice blared over the speaker, “The time is nine p.m. The time is nine p.m.” and—
—Mark sat up with a gasp, his fingers digging into his thin mattress.
The static stopped.
The room was silent.
He lay back down with a sigh and, eventually, drifted back to sleep.
And the dream continued. …
3.
When Jordan stepped out of the bathroom, he was pleased to hear Lauren’s gasp of disbelief.
“So what do you think?” he asked.
“It’s incredible.” She moved closer, squinting at his face, looking for flaws, for some hint that it was makeup. “Absolutely incredible.”
Jordan turned to the mirror over the dressing table. He was somewhere in his seventies with a ruddy prune-like face, stringy white hair and a large bald patch on top. He wore dark clothes that weren’t likely to be seen in the woods at night, and he would cover the white hair with a cap.
“Okay,” he said, taking a small AM/FM radio from his night stand, “here’s the plan. I’m gonna leave this radio playing in the bathroom. Anybody comes, you tell them your husband’s taking a bath. It might be a good idea if you put on your nightgown and a robe, too. Make it look like we’re getting ready for bed. Okay?”
She nodded.
He found some music on the radio and put it beside the sink in the bathroom, then he slipped on a slightly tattered tweed sport coat, a small wool cap and found a small flashlight. From his suitcase, he removed a pint of vodka, unscrewed the cap and took a couple of wincing swallows, then exhaled with a groan. “What’s that for?” Lauren asked.