Mihos stopped and hung his head for a moment. Then he turned to look at Emily. "Okay. I'm not really that Mihos, okay? I mean, we cats live a long time, right? And we live double lives in two realms at once. So we're like gods, right? And I am pretty fierce." Mihos regarded Emily for a moment, then flicked his gaze down to the strange, buzzing ground. He hunched his shoulders up and exhaled loudly.
Emily cocked her head and smiled. "You've been wanting to tell me this for a while, haven't you?" she asked.
Mihos closed his eyes and licked his paws for a moment. Then he opened one eye and scrunched his nose. "I just don't want you to have the wrong idea is all," he said. He turned and started walking again. "C'mon, girlfriend," he said. "We don't want to lose the others."
Emily followed. "Is your name really Mihos?" she asked.
Mihos glanced over his shoulder for a second, then turned back. "I just really like Mihos, okay? I mean, who wouldn't? Fierce. Protective. Smart." He stopped and turned. "A cat could have worse role models, you know what I mean?"
"Makes sense to me," said Emily. "I think it's sweet, that you want to be like Mihos. And I’m also glad that you told me... what you told me."
Mihos nodded. "I just thought... you know, it could get sticky again." He looked around at their weird, wild surroundings. "And I already messed up once. I didn't want you thinking I was this, you know... god, you know?" He raised an eyebrow, then turned to walk again.
"I think I'd rather have a friend than a god," said Emily.
Mihos' shoulders stiffened but he kept on walking, acting as though he hadn't heard. Emily followed. Slowly, they caught back up with the others.
"So what's your real name?" she asked, before they got too close.
Mihos glanced quickly back, then away again. "Nicky," he said, his voice so low Emily could hardly make him out. "But I think I'd rather stick with Mihos, if you don't mind."
"Nice to meet the real you," said Emily. "Whatever your name is."
"Back atcha, toots," said Mihos.
10.12
"I would consider The Families to be a specific, and perhaps extreme, example of a group which operates in the secret layer of leadership and control," said the Fisherman, pushing himself forward to the edge of his armchair.
"And those are the groups who are trying to break away somehow," said Linda. "The conspirators, right? The secret societies and cabals and elite clubs and such."
The Fisherman nodded. "Exactly right, Madam. That portion of the wealthy and powerful who are interested in things beyond mere wealth and power."
"Which is easy enough to do, once you've got wealth and power."
William smiled. "Touché," he said. "Yes. Their influence today in global affairs is significant. And I would say that the creation of the modern tendency to scoff at 'conspiracy theories' has been their greatest single achievement, as it allows them to hide in plain sight while they pursue their goals."
"And what are their goals?" asked Linda.
The Fisherman thought for a moment. "To my mind, the defining characteristic of the secret groups is their interest in spiritual matters. These societies are often described, or describe themselves, in religious, philosophical, or spiritual terms. The Bavarian Illuminati, the Brethren of the Free Spirit, the Knights Templar, the Rosicrucians, the Freemasons, the Moriah Conquering Wind, the Knights of Malta, Ordo Templi Orientis, the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, the Black Pope, Al Qaeda, the Priory of Sion, the Church of Scientology, Opus Dei, the Chinese Triads, the Ku Klux Klan, the Thule Society, and Skull and Bones: whether for good or ill, secret conspiracies often describe themselves in religious or spiritual terms, and use symbol, myth, secret knowledge, and ritual as a means of more strongly binding themselves together. Even some of the groups which appear from the outside to be purely secular - the Bilderbergs, the CFR, the Bohemian Club, the Trilaterals, groups like that - have a philosophical or spiritual worldview or vision at their core."
"And those descriptions point to what you called their 'ideological goals'?"
"I think so, yes," said William. "They are attempting to bring meaning and purpose to their lives and their world, in opposition to what they regard as the insanity and meaninglessness of the global industrial culture's pervasive materialist worldview."
"Okay," said Linda with a sigh. "And they need to hide because... "
William smiled. "They need to hide because they've committed the cardinal human sin of exclusivity."
"Not because they're responsible for centuries of human misery and the destruction of the planetary ecosystem?" asked Linda, her eyes widening.
The Fisherman smiled tightly. "I haven't yet-"
"C'mon, William," said Linda, cutting him off. "I mean... we're talking about the wealthy elite here, right? The people who own, like, every government and every world leader and every corporation and every media outlet worth owning. They start wars, order assassinations, sponsor terrorism." Linda ticked the items off on her fingers as she spoke. "These are the people who think GMOs and weather modification and mind control are good ideas, William! The people who vacuumed up the wealth of an entire planet and stuffed it into their pockets. All at the expense of most of their fellow human beings. And the global ecosystem. And these are the people who abducted me, and who were going to-" She stopped and inhaled deeply. Her shoulders shuddered, as if trying to shrug off the memory of monsters. She leaned forward and looked the Fisherman in the eye. "We're talking about you, aren't we, William? You and your Families? People are not very happy with you people," she said, cocking her head to the side. "Did you know that?"
William sat for a moment, holding her gaze. His hands slid along his legs, smoothing his slacks. "We've made quite a mess of things on Earth, haven't we Madam?" he said at last. "And you care very deeply for your people, and for the planet."
Linda stared at him, giving him nothing.
The Fisherman cleared his throat and continued. "As I said, we can regard both the hidden and secret layers as understandable if regrettable responses to population pressure and resource depletion. I would point out that it's the mainstream culture's impulse to dominate and control that is ultimately responsible for the situation. While leaders and groups working in all three levels have played a role in the destruction, the public layer alone would have been sufficient to bring humanity to its present predicament, given its fierce dedication to one of the most planet-despoiling forces ever known: a healthy, growing economy. I grant you that the hidden and secret layers have made things more painful. But I think some of the secret groups are truly trying to break away from the destructive impulses of the dominant global culture, and that they are despised for just the reason I first mentioned."
Linda nodded. "Because they're exclusive."
"Indeed, Madam," agreed the Fisherman. "People working in the public and hidden layers like to maintain the fantasy that wealth and power are available to all who work hard to attain them. But the secret societies maintain no such illusion. They are playing a different game altogether, and it's not a game to which most people are invited. They proceed from an overt philosophical or spiritual worldview, with long term plans and goals, and often with a decidedly uncommon view of the human endeavor, the future of Earth, and the nature of reality itself. And they pursue goals and enact plans which effect everyone, whether they've been consulted or not."
Linda stood up and reached her arms overhead to stretch her shoulders. The sun had moved enough to shift the shadows on the distant Face mesa. A pinpoint of light glinted back from the peak she thought of as the 'nose,' as if one of the aliens William had mentioned was signaling her with a shard of mirror. Unable to divine any meaning from the scene, she took a couple of deep breaths, dropped her arms, and retook her seat. "So you want me to believe that The Families are the good guys in all of this, William?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Heavens no, Madam," said William with a laugh. He stopped and took off his glasses to rub his eyes, then continued. He lo
oked pointedly at the President. "I think you'll find that The Families have been as deeply complicit in the misery and destruction as anyone." The Fisherman stopped and drew a long breath. He smiled tightly. "What did that old wizard say in Star Wars? Something about scum and villainy?" He wrinkled his nose. "No, we have our fair share of psychopaths, Madam, and their long term efforts to accumulate wealth and power have created a great deal of suffering. I will not deny it. We have committed many sins. But no matter our sins, there has always been a core, or a distinct subset, or an aspect of our group that has been trying with good intentions to walk an honorable spiritual path."
"And this is the group you represent," prompted Linda. "The group that stole me out from under the watchful eyes of those who abducted me and brought me here."
"Indeed, Madam," he agreed. "No matter how twisted and cruel many of our fellow Family members have become in these end-of-days, I like to think that we in the Evolutionary Element have managed to stand apart from the insanity as much as has been possible, and that our goals, if not all of our methods, have been to the good."
"And yet you've still allowed the insanity to proceed, William," said Linda, cocking her head to one side. "Why is that?"
The Fisherman flashed his eyebrows. "Well that's the question, isn't it?"
10.13
"Five hops forward, five hops back, Teddy my boy," said Carl with a grin. "Looks like your ass is stuck on that alligator."
"Shut up," said Ted.
Carl glanced up from the board. "So you said you played this as a kid?"
Ted stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. "It was my Aunt Peg," he said with a wistful tone. "Funny, how I remember that now." He looked at Carl. "Like, wasn't it just yesterday we were talking about how we couldn't remember anything?"
Carl shrugged. "Yesterday or a year ago. I can't tell."
Ted put his card back on the deck. "She was this tall, thin woman, Aunt Peg. Always wore these expensive dresses. Glasses. Gray hair. All very neat and proper. We'd play for hours and hours."
"Was she a favorite of yours?" asked Carl.
"I guess," said Ted. "I was there a lot, when I was little. My mother... she would start drinking. And my father was gone a lot, which was the good news. So I'd end up with my aunts. They were good to me. They talked to me. They gave me treats."
"So there was more than one aunt," said Carl.
Ted's eyes widened. "It's like I don't remember anything and then you ask and then I remember. Yeah! There were a couple more aunts. Henny. Nora. They were my haven. They just let me be me, you know?"
Carl took a card, read it, looked at Ted. "So your father was bad news?"
Ted scrunched his eyes and nose for a moment, then shook his head and pointed at Carl's card. "What's it say?" he asked.
"You dodging-?"
"It's your turn," said Ted, pointing again at Carl's card.
Carl read his card. "It says I'm to head straight to the five and dime."
"And from there to number thirty five. Lucky you."
Carl moved his marker, then looked at Ted. "So, your father?"
Ted leaned over and picked up a card. "I don't want to talk about my father," he said, reading his card.
Chapter Eleven
11.1
They'd picked up a State Police escort at the U.S. border. When Gabrielle asked about it, a blonde, young businessman sitting in front of her explained that it was standard procedure these days, as there had been so many problems along this line. There weren't always soldiers on this bus, he said, running a hand through his curly blonde hair. And there were some rather "wild and lawless people" in this part of the country. He pointed out the shotgun now resting ready-to-use in the metal tube next to the driver's seat. "It's a different world," he said, shaking his head in wistful remembrance.
Gabrielle smiled politely and stared out the window, noting the distant columns of smoke she'd been seeing since entering the U.S. "Pastor Clinton's goddamn Burners," a soldier behind her muttered. A different world indeed.
Gabrielle watched as the police cruiser put on its blinker and the bus driver followed suit. They were coming into another small town - Winthrop, the sign said - and the driver announced that they'd be taking a brief stop, long enough to grab something at the restaurant and use the facilities. The bus slowed behind the cruiser and they both turned into the large gravel parking lot of a place called 'Snoot's Safe Spot.' Gabrielle hoped that Snoot was right.
She'd heard on the news, of course, about how unstable things had gotten here. As bad as things had been in Canada since the global economic crash, they'd been worse in the U.S. Sickness, hunger, riots, looting: both countries had seen their share. But somehow things had gone easier in Canada. Or at least that's how it had been reported in the news. Gabrielle had to admit that her own life circumstances were so insulated, both at home and at Freemantle, that she really had little idea about the reality of the situation. And now, with Greensleeves raging across the continent, who knew what she'd encounter?
What she had noticed, riding through the New England countryside in a bus full of soldiers and government types, was how empty everything seemed. Boarded up or burned down houses and businesses, abandoned cars, empty streets, apocalyptic graffiti; she felt like she was in one of those post-plague movies on Netflix, where ninety-nine percent of the population had died. She knew that wasn't the case. She knew that many people had ended up in the many shelters the government had built. And she figured that those who remained in their homes were likely pretty shy now, remaining out of sight when a bus went by. But it sure looked like a movie. It felt creepy.
The bus pulled up alongside the cruiser. Winthrop looked a little livelier than the other towns they'd passed through. Across Main Street from Snoot's was an open grocery store with real shoppers in it. And there were people walking on the sidewalks. Even a child on a bicycle. It was probably the proximity to Augusta that explained the difference. A bit of law and order near the nation's capital. Most likely policed by local forces intent on holding onto their lives for as long as they could. Good for them.
Gabrielle stood with the others and hiked her backpack up over one shoulder. She stepped off the bus to see a few of the soldiers and a couple of the government types lighting up cigarettes. How they could smoke in this heat she didn't understand. She smiled at the driver, who stood near the door, then noticed the State trooper from the cruiser standing near the door to Snoot's. So who were the two military types wearing black uniforms and black helmets with mirrored visors, standing in the middle of the parking lot, surveying the scene? Were these guys the reason Winthrop still seemed to have some life in it? Gabrielle shuddered. The two black-clad soldiers both appeared to be watching her. With their mirrored faceplates, she could not quite tell.
Ducking her head, she hurried into Snoot's, glancing back over her shoulder as she passed through the door. The two strange soldiers were now headed her way. Something told Gabrielle to get moving. A flash of memory, a part of Zacharael's legacy to her, showed two similarly-uniformed soldiers rising up out from what looked like a flying saucer and shooting people in fur parkas with weird laser beam weapons. She had no interest in meeting a similar fate.
Her heart pounding, Gabrielle quickly surveyed Snoot's little pub, then headed straight toward a dark hallway in the back where the restrooms were. The young, blonde businessman who'd spoken to her on the bus turned on his barstool as she approached.
"Something wrong?" he asked.
Gabrielle grabbed the sleeve of his sports coat and jerked him off his stool, pulling him along with her to the back hallway. She turned to him with fierce eyes. "I need your help," she said, gesturing back toward the door with her head. The blonde guy turned to see the two black-clad soldiers enter the pub. With their faces covered by visors, they looked like a pair of evil robots.
Gabrielle grabbed the blonde man's shoulders from behind and whispered into his ear. "Stop them for me," she whispered. "Please?" Before
he could respond, she fled past the bathroom doors and ducked through the exit at the end of the little hall. The sign on the door said "No Entry."
She passed quickly through the sparsely stocked storeroom and pushed through a metal door at the back. Outside, in the rear lot, she found a flying saucer much like the one she'd seen in that snippet of Zacharael's memory. It hovered inches above the hot gravel. There seemed to be nobody in it or near it. Looking both ways, Gabrielle ran quickly across the lot to the tree line, passing the strange craft on the left so that it would block her from view from the side lot where the bus was parked. Once in the trees, she just kept going, pushing her way through a rusted wire fence and down a short, steep slope to an abandoned railway.
Glancing toward the sky and finding nothing, Gabrielle began to run.
11.2
Ness did not see the two nurses when they opened the door and looked in on her. She was lost to that world. Dancing, whirling, spinning, singing, Ness moved around the room, just inside the bounds of her construct, her arms flailing about like a wild conductor leading an orchestra that hovered around her, above and below. Her voice, thin yet strong, sang out a nameless tune from another world. There were words to her song, sometimes rough and muttery and sometimes low and drone-like, but what they might mean she had no idea. She did not know she was singing. She did not even know she was dancing. The consciousness of Ness had sunk into formless bliss.
Ness did not see the large, purple sphere that had formed around herself and the three lost children. It flowed like syrup and pulsed like a heartbeat, and tiny flickers of energy skittered across its surface like fairies, buzzing faintly in the quiet room and filling the air with the scent of power. The sphere responded to Ness's presence and movement, mirroring her body with purple opacity and sparkling motes. It looked, from the outside, as if the sphere were alive, a friend of Ness's, a thick cover of living light that clung to the construct like flesh on bone.
Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2) Page 34