The Flooding

by Sean Hancock

  His reply, as it can often be, is cryptic. “You must remember in order to forget.”

  Remember what? I ask, noticing that Ainia is no longer on the boat, no longer anywhere . . .

  Ashkai stops rowing, grabs his weapon and stands. “You must leave,” he says, stringing an arrow and taking aim, eyes looking straight through me.

  What are you doing? I ask, but instead of responding, he lets fly, the caimans nudging the boat, trying to unbalance him.

  Because I have left my physical body behind, the projectile passes through me harmlessly. Seconds later, I hear the arrow thud into something solid. I turn to discover a black hawk with white-tipped wings screeching and tumbling through a still darkening sky. The instant the bird splashes into the water, it is torn apart by snapping jaws and teeth. But the threat is not over. Thousands upon thousands of the same birds are pouring through a swirling black hole rimmed with gold, a portal from another dimension or place. Their wings are tucked in unison, a battering ram of feathers and claws just seconds from reaching us.

  Turning back to Ashkai, worrying for his safety, I use telepathy to say, Why is this happening?

  “The fear inside of you is fighting to protect itself.”

  From what?

  “From your light and from my love.”

  What should I do?

  “You must return to the physical realm, and you must do so now.”

  Following his orders, I visualize Rosa on the bed. I attempt to reenter her body, but nothing happens. Even though I can feel her heart beating wildly, I can’t punch through. I watch helplessly as Ashkai kicks a reptile away. He unsheathes a second arrow and holds it close to his mouth, whispering what sounds like an ancient spell. But it’s too late because the birds have arrived, their claws and beaks somehow sinking into me, even though I am without form or substance.

  I am deeply afraid and also blind because it is completely dark now, as dark as the subterranean chamber I found myself in at the start of this journey.

  A beam of sunlight shaped like an arrow cuts through the void and pounds into me. I burst into flames, and the birds release their grip. I am plunging toward the river now. There is a large caiman with its jaws open, waiting to devour me.

  Time slows, and I have a moment of clarity, realizing that everything in this dream has been about fear, my fear.

  If it belongs to me, surely I have power over it?

  I am not afraid, I say, embodying the statement, believing it. I AM NOT AFRAID.

  As I surrender, let go and trust myself, no longer trying to control what happens; the light of the sky returns, and the predators vanish. I crash into the cold, bracing river and immediately feel clean, safe, and renewed.

  I am in Rosa’s body, swimming naked beneath the surface, the water like silk against my skin. I am surrounded by hundreds of dolphins with long, thin noses, each animal saturated with color and light. The magnificent coral reefs and the many odd creatures that live among them have the same mesmerizing quality.

  Part of me wants to stay here—such beauty, such peace!—but it’s not an option.

  It’s time to wake up.

  It’s time to face my fear.

  It’s time to fight.

  EIGHTEEN

  By the time I shower and change, throwing on flats, denim shorts, and a yellow, long-sleeve T-shirt, using concealer on my face to hide the violence of the past few days, it’s just after half past three in the afternoon. I’m thinking about Ashkai and Ainia, the Amazon and caimans, the portal and hawks. I’m aware something special happened during that dream. There’s a feeling in my bones and my blood that I can do anything I put my mind to.

  Moving objects without touching them, bar nudging a small pebble a centimeter or two, and that only after prolonged periods of deep meditation, is not a skill I have mastered. Undeterred by that fact, I am standing in the middle of my hotel room, staring at the circular handle on the door, asking the myriad pieces that make up the whole, elements forged by the heat and power of exploding stars, the genesis of all matter, to do my bidding. I become aware of a girl’s voice in the hallway but manage to block it out as I laser in on the task at hand.

  You are me, I think. And I am you. I feel the curve of metal in my empty right palm. I’m gripping tightly and rotating slowly. I’m elated, but not surprised, when there’s movement. I watch the handle turn—Yes!—and the door swing open, but then I crash back to Earth when a skinny, blonde girl appears, phone in one hand, doorknob in the other, wheeled suitcase behind.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, startled and apologetic, early twenties, pretty face. “I thought this was my room.” Closing the door now, she says sorry over and over before explaining the situation to the person on the other end of the phone. I take a deep breath and consider making a second attempt, but the moment has passed, and I have work to do.

  They have free Internet at the hotel, so I jump on one of the computers in reception, using Google Maps to work out how far it is to Kaya’s meditation studio. It turns out it’s just a fifteen-minute walk. I step into the California sunshine, Ray-Bans on, and enter a vibrant world of street performers, political graffiti, muscle men, and medical marijuana outlets. I get all the high I need from the Pacific Ocean, her vastness and power just a stone’s throw away.

  Kaya’s studio is located in the basement of a four-story building that’s also home to Love Yoga and an enterprise called Float Works. On the way in, I spotted a sky-blue Mini Cooper covered in “Lotus Meditations” branding, thinking it’s the kind of thing a manager or owner would drive, meaning Kaya’s probably on site.

  The first thing I notice as I step out of the elevator is the large arrangement of plants and flowers directly below a circular skylight, wafts of lavender and jasmine tickling my nostrils. Beyond that, standing behind a long white counter, and below a wall quote that says “Bring your mind home,” is a man in his late thirties, athletic and toned with dark hair and brown eyes.

  “Hey, how you doin’?” he says, smiling, raising a hand, slightly effeminate, “Joey” on his nametag. “Welcome to Lotus Meditations.”

  “Thanks,” I reply, taking in the neutral, sleek, modern décor, flowers providing splashes of color, and scented, flickering candles lining the bookshelves.

  “Is Kaya around?” I ask, noticing the display of magazines on the front desk. All of them are the same issue of Cosmo, a beautiful blonde with washboard abs gracing the front cover. Emblazoned around her are provocative statements, such us How To Climax Together and Meditate Your Way To Better Sex.

  “She’s teaching right now,” Joey says, nodding toward the closed door on my left, then glancing at the clock behind him—3:52 p.m.—adding, “Take a load off; she’ll be out soon.”

  “Thank you,” I say, sitting on the bench adjacent to his counter and underneath the bookshelves.

  “I love your accent,” Joey says. “Where you from, Australia?”

  “England.”

  His eyes sparkle with excitement. “Amazing. London?”

  “Yes.”

  “I was just there in May, loved it, so much fun. You on vacation?”

  “Kind of. Arrived today actually.”

  “Fantastic. Welcome to Los Angeles. You a friend of Kaya’s?”

  “Not really. We’ve been e-mailing, though.”

  “She’s the best, make sure you catch her breathwork class if you have time; it’s incredibly powerful. You meditate?”

  “When I can,” I say, standing. “There a bathroom I can use?”

  “Over there,” he says pointing to his left. By the time I return, there are people leaving the studio, putting shoes on and grabbing bags, all of them saying thank you to a lady standing by the exit. I assume this is Kaya. She’s mixed race and has ringlets of dark brown hair. She’s in her early forties and slender with good posture and smooth, glowing skin.

  Not wanting to disturb her, I return to my seat and wait. On his way to the empty studio, most likely to get it read
y for the next session, Joey winks and says that she won’t be long. I’m looking at the right side of Kaya’s face from where I am, instinct telling me she’s someone I’ll like and get on with. I hope she feels the same, especially as I’m going to need her help.

  As soon as the last person leaves, I stand and clear my throat. “Hi, Kaya,” I say, walking toward her, hand extended. “I’m Rosa, you e-mailed me yesterday about . . .” I stop midsentence, watching the color seep from her face as the energy in the room goes from calm and tranquil to anxious and spiky.

  Kaya steps back, saying, “How did you find me?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” I say, after a bewildered pause, realizing she knows me or at least thinks she does. “Have we met?”

  “You need to leave,” Kaya says, pointing toward the elevator. “Now.”

  “Why, who do you think I am?”

  Joey reappears. “Everything okay?”

  “This girl needs to leave,” Kaya says, her employee standing between us now. “I don’t want her here.”

  “Let’s go,” Joey says, stern and professional. An older couple appears out of nowhere, startled looks on their faces, asking Kaya if they should come back later.

  “No, it’s fine,” she says, talking to them but looking at me. “Just head through. I’ll be in shortly.”

  “Time to leave,” Joey says, putting a hand on my shoulder, ushering me toward the elevator. I don’t appreciate being touched by people I don’t know. I lash out and shove him, although I’m aware it’s an overreaction. Kaya marches over to the counter now, reaching for the landline.

  “That’s it,” she says, dialing. “I’m calling the cops.”

  “Why?” I say, pressing the issue. “What have I ever done to you?”

  “I have an intruder on my property,” Kaya says into the phone. “And they’re violent, so please send someone quickly.” She starts giving the address and answering other questions, all the while looking straight at me, her eyes brimming with . . . not anger, not hate, but fear.

  “I don’t know who you think I am,” I say, “but you’re wrong about me. I’m a good person.”

  Kaya holds the phone against her chest. “Then go,” she says, which is exactly what I do.

  For now.

  Forty-five minutes later, the branded Mini pulls out of the car park and onto the main street. I get a glimpse of Kaya as she turns right, heading away from the coastline, moving quickly.

  From the backseat of my parked taxi, I dart an arm forward and utter the famous line, “Follow that car.” I’m speaking to Janet, the African American driver to whom I agreed to pay a hundred bucks an hour for as long as I needed her.

  While pulling out, she says, “Who we following?” There are pictures of cute kids on the dashboard and a miniature Jamaican flag hanging from the rearview mirror. Everything smells of air freshener and cocoa butter.

  “It’s my boyfriend,” I say, wanting to motivate her. “I think he’s cheating, and I need to know one way or the other.”

  “Say no more,” Janet replies, picking up speed, getting to within three vehicles of our target. “Girl, where there’s smoke, there’s usually fire. Especially when a man’s involved.”

  At the second set of lights, Kaya indicates off the busy road onto quieter residential streets, eventually turning into a driveway in front of a lime-green craftsman house with a eucalyptus tree out front.

  I keep my head down as we cruise by. Janet says, “That’s who he messin’ with? Looks twice your age.”

  “Doesn’t make it hurt any less,” I say, glancing left. Kaya is hurrying toward her front door, looking over a shoulder before opening it.

  What’s she so scared of?

  Janet parks a few houses down, and I give her a hundred-dollar bill.

  Thirty seconds later, I’m on Kaya’s front porch. Maybe she forgot to lock the door? No such luck. I peek inside, but there are net curtains over the windows, meaning I can only make out shapes and outlines. Seeing what look like a piano, a sofa, and a mirror on the wall, I snap my head back because somebody entered the room.

  Moving quickly and quietly, I make my way to the back of the house. Once there, I discover a cute deck with a rocking chair and a huge array of potted plants: pansies, violas, basil, oregano, perennials, shrubs and . . .

  I do a double take.

  Is that what I think it is?

  I lean forward and laugh quietly to myself. After all, I’m looking at an ayahuasca vine! Just as I remember, it’s thick, knotted, and fibrous like a strong piece of rope, with large green leaves growing on the outshoots. I do a quick scan of everything else up here but fail to locate the second ingredient required for the shamanic brew: Psychotria viridis, aka chacruna.

  Why have one without the other?

  I become aware of a police siren in the distance as my gaze returns to the ayahuasca vine and the ceramic pot holding it. I notice circular marks and scuffs on the white decking, the kind of superficial damage you’d expect if, say, there was a spare key under there for the cleaner. I’m about to stoop and investigate when the back door swings open.

  “Give me an excuse, and I’ll pull this trigger,” Kaya says, her legs apart, double-handed grip on the semiautomatic pistol aimed at my head.

  “I’m not looking for trouble,” I say, palms raised. “I just want to talk.”

  “How did you find me?” Kaya asks, wearing black leggings and a loose- fitting gray cardigan. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

  “It was the other way around,” I say, ignoring her second comment.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You wrote to me yesterday. I was looking for a place to drink ayahuasca in the United Kingdom.”

  She thinks for a moment. “Rosa?”

  I nod.

  Pause.

  “What’s it been, two, maybe three weeks?”

  “Since what?” I ask, the police siren getting louder . . .

  “Your Flooding.”

  My heart quickens with fear, excitement, and hope.

  “You’re like me,” I say.

  “I am nothing like you.” Her voice is laced with disdain.

  “What is it you think I’ve done? Tell me so I can explain myself or apologize if I’ve wronged you.”

  “It’s not what you’ve done, Samsara; it’s what you’re going to do.”

  “How do you know my name? And what are you talking about? I have dedicated my lives to helping others.”

  “The only thing you’re dedicated to is Ashkai, and he is not who you think he is.”

  Instinct takes over, and I step forward. “What do you know of my master? Where is he?”

  “Any closer,” Kaya says, raising her voice, “and I’ll put you to sleep for another eighteen years.”

  “And when I awaken, I will find you and return the favor.”

  There’s a knock at the front door.

  “This is LAPD,” a male officer says. “We’re responding to a 911 call regarding an intruder.”

  “Leave now,” Kaya says, talking to me, keeping her voice low. “Or get arrested for harassment and trespassing. You won’t be much use to your master then.”

  “I’m not the person you think I am.”

  “Yes, you are. You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Have you always been such a bitch?” I ask, and Kaya starts counting down. “Five, four . . .”

  Another knock. “Can you open the door please; do you need assistance?”

  “Two, one . . .”

  “It didn’t have to be like this,” I say, turning, slipping into the narrow alley behind the house, promising myself the next time I see that woman, she won’t have any choice but to tell me everything I need to know.

  NINETEEN

  Many hours later, in the dead of night, I get out of the taxi a quarter mile from Kaya’s house and start walking. I’m wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a zipped-up hoodie and feel exhausted. My mind has not stopped work
ing since this afternoon, posing question after question after question . . .

  How did Kaya know my name? What does she think I am going to do? What is the nature of her relationship with Ashkai? What did she mean about him not being who I think he is?

  It’s approaching 2 a.m., and that chilly ocean breeze is making me wish I’d thrown on a jacket. The residential streets of Venice are eerily quiet, that is, until a helicopter passes overhead, drawing my gaze, forcing me to notice the crescent moon and dusting of stars, each one slashing trails of light across the dark expanse of the boundless universe. Yet another question enters my head: how many stars are out there? It’s one I have pondered many times before, which might explain why it has stirred a long-forgotten memory . . .

  I suddenly feel dizzy and am forced to sit on the sidewalk. I close my eyes, knowing that I’m about to have another one of my flashbacks. The signs, by now, are unmistakable.

  When I open my eyes, things have changed. For example, instead of sitting, I am on my feet. Instead of being alone, I have Ashkai by my side. He says, “There are more stars out there than grains of sand on Earth.”

  We are in ancient Egypt, and I am the luckiest slave to have ever lived.

  “Including the great desert?” I ask, the two of us enjoying a midnight stroll through the royal gardens of his Theban palace. I’m still coming to terms, both physically and mentally, with the reality-shattering ordeal that was my Awakening. That’s not to say I’m not feeling good—on the contrary, I have never been better—but Ashkai has stressed it will take time to fully process the experience.

  “Including every desert and every beach, even on lands yet to be discovered,” my master says, wearing a linen wraparound from the waist down, his long, dark hair, gray streak included, tickling those broad, powerful, battle-scarred shoulders.

  “How is that possible?” I say, aware of Ashkai’s bodyguards, who are always close by, knowing how much they resent and despise me for rising up from my position as a slave, not that I’m the only person he has taken under his wing. Ashkai recently adopted a street urchin. The little girl, who is deaf, blind, and dumb, managed to evade the Royal Guards during a recent parade. She reached out and held his hand. Since then, she has been like a daughter to him. In fact, just half an hour ago, the two of us tucked “Angel Face” (his nickname for the child) into bed, showering her with hugs and kisses.