Nirvana Effect
Craig Gehring
© 2012 Craig Gehring. All Rights Reserved. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A Ring Publications novel.
Table of Contents
Introduction
BOOK ONE: ONE ISLAND
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
About the Author
Introduction
This in all likelihood is the first broadly published novelization of the events surrounding the rise of the most influential scientist of our times. Although Atlas gave no interview before he died, non-classified excerpts from his journals have recently been released by his foundation. These, combined with unprecedented interviews with both Doctor Knowles and the late Doctor Seacrest, make this fictionalization closer to truth than the many unauthorized biographies that have filled bookstores since Atlas’s untimely demise.
The scientific community may find fault with writing an historical fiction on such a figure as Atlas, but one could argue that in order to understand him and gain context to his accomplishment, one must take artistic license to fill in the many gaps. A timeline does no justice to his life’s work; a litany of his scientific discoveries does not spell out this man’s soul.
On behalf of my research team, co-writers and editors, it is my great pride and pleasure to present to you Nirvana Effect.
BOOK ONE: ONE ISLAND
In order for my early decisions to be comprehended, one must look out from the faulty pair of eyes I wore in 2010. I suffered from tunnel vision. If one desires to grasp my thinking at that time, one must feign the same affliction. One must ignore the affairs of nations. One must divert one’s eyes from such matters as my International Science Foundation. One must focus only on one island, one near-invisible speck on the globe. From there, one must narrow one’s consideration further to a small group of men and women and their conflicting struggles for survival.
This localized viewpoint actually provides the true story of the nirvana effect, all the way up the line to present day – that is, individuals and tiny groups making decisions (with global repercussions, I might add) in their own separate fights for life.
I hope someday that my earliest decisions will be forgiven. Once this journal is declassified, it will be quite plain that my initial actions with the trance substance brought on disaster and unnecessary suffering.
For the gifts I have given Man, I have never desired admiration.
But I hope for forgiveness.
-Atlas
Journal Excerpt, 2023 A.D.
1
A mosquito landed on the anthropology text Edward Styles studied from his lap. The insect was nothing; it scarcely blocked a single character. But since he focused his eyes on it, it was everything. All the world was a blur except that bug.
Much to Edward’s surprise, the bug and the text were blotted by the flickering shadow of a man. Edward looked up. He’d heard no footsteps into his tiny bamboo hut, no real warning sign.
Nockwe, the Onge chieftain, towered at the entrance of Edward’s dwelling, his dark skin punching out the starry sky behind him. The native’s surprise appearance unnerved Edward. It wasn’t like Nockwe to enter unannounced. In his six months of work at the Onge village, Edward had never feared for his safety. For no other reason than a poisonous wrenching in his gut, Edward feared then.
Nockwe wore more clothes than Edward had ever seen him in. Besides the staple loincloth, the chieftain wore ceremonial hunting garb: a feathered headdress, a bearskin for a robe, a dagger at the waist and hunting spear in hand. Edward noticed the spear particularly. The native gripped it as though he intended to use it.
Nockwe communicated with signs. He knew little English, and Edward preferred to not let on how well he understood Onge. Nockwe pointed at his spear, its tip glistening with poison. Nockwe then pointed to Edward.
The missionary stiffened. The text in his lap slid to the floor. Neither man glanced as it pounded the dirt; Edward watched the spear, and Nockwe watched Edward.
Nockwe spoke slowly in English: “White man stay hut.” He searched Edward’s eyes for a sign of betrayal. Edward nodded and tried to make his eyes appear trustworthy. The mosquito flitted past his nose. Edward had no trouble ignoring it.
Edward had a mind for facts. It had served him well in seminary. Facts flitted through his mind like the mosquito through the air. One fact was that Nockwe had become chieftain by dueling three men consecutively in hand-to-hand combat. Another fact was that the village was a forty mile hike from Lisbaad. Another was that Onge custom dictated that only one Westerner be allowed to visit at a time, and that in a village of 1,161 primitives, Edward was the only pale face.
Edward never prayed. He was a priest by profession and creed, and he said the words of the prayers as was custom, but he never put any faith behind his rosary. On mission, alone, where no one could detect him, he didn’t even bother rattling off the empty words.
At that moment, though, Edward prayed. He prayed faithfully, as an instantaneous thought. Make him leave.
The chieftain’s eyes strayed above Edward’s head. The missionary turned to follow Nockwe’s gaze. He was looking at the cross hanging from the wall, fashioned of wood and thorns. A young Onge man, Mahanta, had made it for Edward. Edward would have preferred a local craft, but accepted it graciously enough.
Nockwe walked around Edward to touch the cross. He easily reached it and fingered one of its thorns. Edward had used a chair to hang it up near the ceiling, out of his sight line.
Nockwe left abruptly. He swatted a mosquito off his arm on the way out.
Edward slid down to the floor to join his text. He flattened his hands on the hard dirt. The earth felt cooler than the air.
He picked up his book and examined it. One of its corners had dug into the ground. He picked each speck of dirt away and slid the book back onto his cot.
Edward looked outside from where he sat. He could not see far. Onge nights were darker than any he’d experienced. Only the stars and moon lit the village clearing, and even they had a rough go of it through the constant cloud cover. The tropical Isle of Lisbaad rained in seeming perpetuity.
This night was clear enough. He was happy to not have
to endure his leaky roof.
Edward noticed that the nearby huts were tinged in the subtle warmth of a far-off campfire.
His mind had started racing for an answer for Nockwe’s uncharacteristic threats from the instant the chieftain had swatted the mosquito. The possibilities were few.
Either the tribe had gone to war (unlikely, since the only force to go up against on the island was the Sri Lankan government) or else they were having a ceremony to which Westerners were not privy. The campfire tended to confirm the latter. The lack of war cries, or any voice at all, for that matter, allowed Edward to finalize his conclusion.
He already knew what ceremony. It was Mahanta’s coming of age.
Edward lay down. The dirt felt a better pallet than the cot for the time being. The difference in temperatures and the hardness of the floor helped him think. He felt a soft spot where the handle of Nockwe’s spear had broken up some of the dirt, and fingered the grains of soil idly.
Edward did not pray, but he did meditate. Meditation was a way of the Jesuit. St. Ignatius would approve. Edward meditated on the ceremony and the dirt, gradually slowing his gyrating heart.
So Mahanta will come of age tonight. His thoughts beat in rhythm to his pulse. He gathered a handful of dirt and poured it out of his palm. And they don’t want me to see.
Edward guided himself into a light trance as he considered the key events surrounding the ceremony.
Weeks ago, Mahanta had mentioned the ritual. Edward’s mind travelled back to the moment.
“In a few moons, the tribe will try to make me a man,” Mahanta says in Tamil as he guides Edward through the jungle.
“What do you think of that?” Edward asks, noting the odd way Mahanta phrased it.
“Well, I’d like to stay a boy forever, I think,” he says.
Mahanta was hardly a boy by any standard. He was a hardened, muscular seventeen year old who could have passed for twenty-five in the West. His dark hands bore the callouses of labor.
“Me, too,” says Edward. “How will they make you a man?”
“It is not something for outsiders.” Mahanta will not discuss it further.
Edward breathed in deeply and let the oxygen circulate through his veins. Nockwe’s threats were fresh in his mind. The more time distanced him from them, however, the more easily he recognized that Nockwe’s intimidation act was probably for Edward’s own benefit. Must be some Onge law forbidding outsiders, just like Mahanta said.
Finally, Edward recalled his mission instructions. He would follow them tonight, not because he really cared what Brother Anthony thought, but rather because they provided a good justification for the decision he’d already made the moment Nockwe had told him not to leave the hut:
“You have too inquisitive a mind, Brother Styles. It is why I’m sending you to the Onge. No white man has ever changed their culture. I know you‘ve heard ‘you‘re not your brother’ plenty of times – and you definitely are not Allen. But in this one case, perhaps, it’s a good thing. Don’t do the preaching that you hate, anyway. Just study, and study well. Teach these people western science - irrigation, basic medicine. Do not fail to learn everything about this tribe - every secret, every way. You must understand these people. Only then can you help them. Maybe after that we’ll send in Allen.
“Why did you become a Jesuit, again?” It was Anthony’s running joke. He always said it with a serious face and then laughed sharply, in a staccato chortle. “Your heart’s in the right place, my scientist priest. I have no doubt of that. God has a purpose for us all.”
These Onge had mystified Edward. In six months, he felt no closer to understanding them than when he started. Perhaps Allen would have done a better job after all. The Onge not only resisted change; they rebuked it. Their women lugged water over half a mile from a nearby stream, yet were utterly disinterested in irrigation. They let Edward practice medicine on individual tribesmen, but refused to learn medicine’s procedures themselves. If he could just understand some fabric of their culture, he could relate enough to help them. As it was, he was planning on packing up, soon.
He would not miss this opportunity to observe them. Nockwe had the right idea in being so forceful in his warning; yet the only way he could have avoided Edward’s watching would have been to never bring it up in the first place.
Edward’s thoughts turned toward more questions. He had no idea what the ritual would entail. He had not a clue what lay in store for him outside the hut. He didn’t bother reflecting on it. He would soon find out.
He paused at the doorway and gripped the bamboo. It dug into his skin. He weighed the consequences of satiating his curiosity, then shrugged them off. He just wouldn’t get caught. That was that.
Before Edward could even roll off the balls of his feet to poke his head outside, the air filled up with a low, hair-raising drone. The sound seemed everywhere, as though without source or reason. He could feel it.
The ritual. It had begun.
Edward couldn’t help but fear for Mahanta. Many of the primitive initiation rites he’d studied were none too pleasant for the initiate. Edward liked the young man. He was different than the rest of the Onge. He had an ear sharp for all things Western and a head full of questions.
Edward hoped that difference wouldn’t result in consequences for Mahanta during the ceremony.
The droning enervated Edward. He tried to place the sound, momentarily drained of all his enthusiasm to sneak out. He steeled himself to push on along the course that his curiosity had pointed. He poked his head out. No guards.
He slipped outside. The sound became more localized to his ears. It was coming from the bonfire area. Edward crept around his hut and peeked in that direction.
A fire blazed higher than he’d ever seen at the camp. Edward could tell a sizeable crowd had gathered. He could view its fringes even from his dismal vantage point. It must have been half the tribe.
He knew he could risk getting closer. He didn’t see anyone around. The camp felt abnormally still. If the tribe had their vision burned out by the fire, they wouldn’t be able to see his spying. He cursed to himself using his favorite Onge curse: “Niet wan-wan.” Fools die fools.
Edward crept to the next closest tent, and then another, edging as closely as he dared to the gathering. All the dwellings were empty. Everyone was at the fire.
It was the medicine man who was droning. Edward could see him clearly, twisting and contorting on the ground, his chant incongruously monotonous. The crowd watched raptly. Their long flickering shadows stretched behind them as though to reach Edward as they shifted to follow the vagaries of the light. Edward stopped approaching when their shadows met his own.
He heard the witch doctor more distinctly now, bellowing at a monotone which eerily lacked sanity or humanity. Edward had the dim realization that he was awfully close. He suddenly was aware of his heart pounding as though lodged in his ears. He had a fleeting thought which he quickly quelled. I should go back.
He peered around the edge of the hut closest to the fire, watching with the one eye he dared expose. They stood in rank and file, every Onge with a weapon in his hand, dressed similarly to Nockwe. There were more than four hundred of them. It must have been all the males in the village. Even the children attended. The light flickered ominously off their dark skin and weapons.
On the far side of the bonfire writhed the medicine man. He lay horizontal on the ground, his erratic gyrations out of sync with the constant, insane chant that came deep from his gut. He may have been in his death throes of a drug - or it may have been all ceremony. The whole village was silent, though, except for this “witch doctor” who would have been committed to an asylum in any Western culture.
Edward’s ears started to separate out the sounds of the night. Besides the chant, there was the faint rattle of the medicine man’s beads. The birds and the animals of the jungle let out their occasional cry. Over it all he heard his own breathing, his heart racing as though if it ran fast e
nough he could escape whatever threat the jungle people might throw at him.
Over his own breathing he heard another. A tiny yelp behind him clued his ears to it. He twisted around quietly, Nockwe’s poison-tipped spear flashing in his mind’s eye.
It was only Mahanta. The young man sat in a hut forty yards away. Edward wondered how he’d heard him. Probably the fear was stretching his perceptions.
He saw Mahanta through the hut’s entrance. He sat there alone on a mat with a surgical needle in his hand, his arm straight out. Blood pooled red on the pit of his arm. He’d given himself some sort of shot. Edward wondered if that was a part of the ritual.
The anachronism gave Edward something to ponder, but he filed it away for later. His mind never stopped; fear seemed to work it all the harder.
Mahanta would be leaving that hut soon, and might have the same injunction toward keeping the ritual’s secret as Nockwe. Edward saw the young man was breathing hard, staring straight forward. The missionary quickly took cover behind another hut, out of view of Mahanta’s path to the gathering. Again, Edward peered out to the fire.
The medicine man’s chant grew softer. His body now matched the droning, immobile on the dirt surrounding the fire. An ember blew from the fire onto his arm. It rested there, singing his skin before finally smoldering. He didn’t move, and the droning didn’t stop. The whole village was absorbed in his performance.
Except Mahanta. Edward peered back around the corner. Mahanta was no longer in the hut. Edward spotted the his shadow shrinking toward the fire. Edward turned back around again.
Mahanta walked stiffly towards the gathering, nearing the now quiet medicine man. The villagers bunched closer to the fire to watch. Their weapons gave them more the aspect of a militia than a religious or communal gathering. Edward wondered what was in store for Mahanta.
Edward heard a sudden shriek of pain. He risked craning his neck out to get a better view. It was early in the morning, but he felt he’d never been more awake in his life. He examined his options. If he sprinted at the first sign of the ceremony ending, he could make it without being spotted. Still, it was too close. He thought again about running back.
Nirvana Effect Page 1