Rumi's Field (None So Blind Book 2)

by Timothy Scott Bennett

  D'Neal winked and dug into his pocket, pulling out a couple of one-dollar bills. "I paid myself a day early," he said.

  Mary glanced around them as they walked between the rows of old cars. "You what?" she said.

  D'Neal shrugged. "I'll pay it back tomorrow," he said. "When I get my check. They won't know it was-"

  Mary turned and grabbed D'Neal's biceps with both hands. "I can't..." she said, her face dark with anger. "I mean... D'Neal. You can't do that."

  D'Neal looked down at his feet. "I was just-"

  Mary reached out and put a hand to his chin, lifting his face up so she could meet him eye to eye. "I don't need candy," she said softly. "I don't need you to buy me anything. Okay?"

  D'Neal wiped a tear from his eye. "What do you need then?" he asked. His voice was filled with water.

  Mary caressed the side of his face. "I need you to be really, really good, D'Neal. Okay? That's all I need."

  D'Neal exhaled heavily. "I wanted-"

  "I know, sweetie," said Mary. "I know. But you can't. Not like this."

  D'Neal looked at Mary and smiled. "You just called me 'sweetie,'" he said, his eyes flickering shyly away.

  "I know," said Mary, returning his smile. "Is that okay?"

  D'Neal gazed around the fairgrounds, then stuffed a piece of the cottony sugar into his mouth. Mary did the same. "Yeah," he said at last, looking her in the eye.

  "So no more of that," said Mary, gesturing toward the bills in his pocket.

  "No more," agreed D'Neal. He took another piece of cotton and ate it, then took Mary's hand and pulled her along with him. "A Corvair!" he said, turning to flash Mary a grin. "My Dad talks about having had one of these as a kid." They stopped beside a small, powder blue sedan. "I can't wait to tell him," said D'Neal.

  Mary squeezed his hand, sharing his excitement. She was about to ask the owner if they could sit in it when she saw her father, standing by the phone booths across the lot.

  He was staring right at her.

  11.9

  Linda and the Fisherman sat in their armchairs, facing off on the Martian plain William had dubbed "Rumi's Field." The sky overhead was washed out pink with traces of yellow, giving them both a bruised and battered cast. The sun interrogated them from directly overhead.

  "So," said William, inhaling deeply. "The aliens. But first I need to flesh out The Families a bit more."

  "Okay," said Linda, shrugging her shoulders as if resigned to the Fisherman's need to explain.

  William closed his eyes for a moment to think, then spoke with eyes closed. "Let me begin by restating that the history of The Families stretches back into antiquity."

  "Got it," said Linda, hoping to hurry him along.

  "During this long history," William continued, "The Families' defining interest has been a spiritual one." He opened his eyes. "In broad strokes, we've been exploring a mystical worldview rooted in large part in the beliefs and cosmology of such groups as the Gnostics and the ancient Egyptians. Our focus is on the evolution, enlightenment, and exaltation of human consciousness and spirit, the primacy of knowledge, intellect, and visionary experience over dogma and teaching, and the ongoing human journey to realms and potentials far above and beyond that which is believed possible in the dominant materialist paradigm."

  Linda smiled tightly. "That sounds like copy from a brochure, William," she said.

  The Fisherman chuckled. "I suppose it does," he says.

  Linda clasped her hands in her lap. "From what I remember, William, the Gnostics and ancient Egyptians are generally considered heretics and pagans by most folks. Certainly Pastor Clinton would paint you all as Satanists."

  William flashed his eyebrows. "You move us forward nicely, Madam," he said. "Yes. Precisely. We are tagged with all sorts of loaded labels, 'Satanist' being perhaps the most provocative. Gnostics. Pagans. Free thinkers. Intellectuals. Occultists. Esotericists. Humanists. All of which are assumed to be bad and wrong. Evil, even. Which leaves us in the rather surreal position of being reviled for believing that humans can be good, and can reach perfection by their own efforts, or for believing that intellectual achievement is a worthwhile endeavor. Were it not so sad, it would be humorous."

  "Trying to get to heaven without God, William?" said Linda with a smile. "How very arrogant of you."

  William smiled sadly in return. "Right. Not only do we cut the priesthood out as middleman, we negate the need for submission and obeisance to all the usual pretenders to the Godhood. Of course we must be reviled." He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as if even here he could not say such things out loud. "Let me tell you something, Madam. Some Gnostics considered Yahweh Himself to be part of what they called the Demiurge, a sort of malevolent and false god. For them, the Devil's greatest trick was not in convincing the world that he does not exist. The Devil's greatest trick was convincing the world that he is God."

  "Wow," said Linda. "You guys really are heretics."

  The Fisherman sighed. "Indeed," he said. "And so of course we've been labeled, dismissed, and reviled. The Abrahamic religions, especially their more fundamental factions, are united in the belief that humans are sinful creatures who must remain subservient to, and dependent upon, their God. We have begged to differ, and have argued, instead, that this belief system has kept human beings small and disempowered."

  "And then you went and formed your own club... "

  "Aye. And people hate to be left out, and hate those who would exclude them, as I have said."

  Linda sat forward in her chair and smiled. "So how would you describe The Families, William?" she asked.

  The Fisherman thought for a moment. "In the past decade or so, some analysts, looking from the outside at the various levels we've been discussing, began to use the term "breakaway civilization" to describe the totality of behind-the-scenes elite activity proceeding unobserved by most people living in the public layer." He returned Linda's smile with one of his own. "I think the term works nicely for us, and would say that it's The Families who have articulated, implemented, and funded the overarching plan for that process of breaking away."

  "The word 'breakaway' feels relatively free of derision, William. No wonder you like it."

  "I think you're right, Madam. While acknowledging the separation, the word does not carry the baggage inherent in so many other descriptors. And the people who use this term to describe us seem to understand that, when considering the vast amounts of insanity that exist in this time, breaking away makes a great deal of sense."

  11.10

  They had decided, in the end, to just do it again. Crew up. Pilot The Pokey Joker out to Squirrel Island. Try to dock at the landing. Confront the scary soldiers in their intimidating uniforms. Oppose the system behind them that would steal their President and lock her away. "What are they gonna do, shoot the President's husband?" asked Marionette, finishing her beer and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. None of them could imagine that "the powers that be" would really do such a thing.

  "But mightn't they throw us in prison, like they said?" asked Steve Waymax, his face drawn with worry.

  No one responded, as if afraid that to name their real fears might make them come true. Cole shrugged helplessly, apologetically. There was nothing else to be done.

  The second trip out was much the same as the first, though the wind was steadily increasing and the seas were choppy. The early afternoon sunlight, now filtered through the leading edge of a swirl of clouds moving up from the south, shone down on them from above, giving everything a hazy look.

  And the crew was more nervous. Cole stood again at the bow, watching the island, struggling to maintain his defiant anger as his fears churned in his gut. Stan stood next to him, silent and solid. But even Stan had admitted that he did not know what to expect. Doobie, who'd put on a t-shirt so as not to feel so exposed when they faced the inevitable soldiers, seemed as carefree as ever, but the rest of them were pensive and sober. Steve, the reporter, tried to stand outside
of it all, the fabled "impartial observer" who could report on the affair without being affected by any of it, but it was clear from the look in his eyes that he was terrified. Cole hoped that Steve's presence, and the fabled "power of the press" that came with him, would stand in their favor.

  The black-clad soldiers, six of them now, stood in a line on the dock, an unwelcoming party bristling with weapons and riot gear. As The Pokey Joker neared the landing, maybe fifty yards out, one of the soldiers leveled his weapon and fired. The bullet took out a masthead light, which exploded in a tiny shower of plastic and glass. "Hey!" shouted Cole in surprise. Doobie veered to the left and cut the engine. The boat fell silent.

  From behind the ferry landing rose a helicopter, small, black, and unmarked. It leapt up and outward more quickly than any helicopter Cole had ever seen and rushed The Pokey Joker, hovering and buzzing overhead like an angry dragonfly. Cutting through the noise and the wash came a sharp, emotionless voice advising them to leave the area immediately or be boarded and arrested. As if to add an exclamation point to the demand, a second helicopter joined the first, and a small Coast Guard Interceptor raced around the point and into the cove.

  Cole motioned to Doobie and the young captain restarted his engines and punched the accelerator, keeping them in a tight turn that would take them away from the landing. For a few moments it looked as if they were on a crash course with the Interceptor, but as they closed in the Coast Guard boat veered to the right to circle around behind them. It followed nearby, a mirror-windowed escort itching for a fight. Doobie whisked his crew away as quickly as he could, with the Coast Guard turning away only when they were halfway back to Boothbay Harbor. The Interceptor sounded one harsh, blaring siren, then sped back toward Squirrel Island.

  The helicopters dogged them the whole way, one buzzing the small seaside town while the other hovered over The Pokey Joker, flattening the umbrellas on the Thieving Seagull's deck as Doobie pulled his boat up to the dock. Then they were off, back toward the Squirrel, moving so quickly that it was difficult to keep an eye on them. Cole, his face red with helpless anger, watched as they receded in the distance. It was difficult to tell for sure, but it appeared as though one of the copters changed shape as it neared Squirrel Island. It looked almost as if it had become a sphere.

  Cole raised his right hand and shook his fist in frustration. From between his fingers shot bright sparks of hot, white light.

  11.11

  Jay Sinclair rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, a habit he'd fallen into recently, even though it left his eyes dry and sore. There was something about the tickling sensation that helped to ground him. He looked up at the young man standing in front of his desk, a messenger sent from Security.

  "You can't find one silly girl with a backpack?" asked Sinclair, his voice tired.

  The officer's eyes narrowed. "No sir," he replied. "As you know-"

  Sinclair cut him off with a wave of his hand. "I know what I know, officer," he said sharply. "What I care about is what you know."

  The officer stiffened. "The target is on foot, Sir. Or was. Somewhere near Augusta, Maine. We assume she-"

  "I asked what you know," said Sinclair, cutting the messenger off. He picked up a pencil and tapped it on his desktop, noting the brass "Guy Legrand" desk plate and thinking, for the thousandth time, how good it will feel to dump that stupid little sign into the trashcan. He looked up at the officer. "Do you know anything?"

  The officer looked at the floor and took a quick breath. "We do not know where she is now, or where she is headed."

  Sinclair leaned back in his chair. "You've interrogated this Arthur fellow?"

  The officer looked up at Sinclair. "He claims to have no knowledge of the target's -," he stopped and looked squarely at Sinclair, "-at your daughter's whereabouts, Sir. Standard interrogation techniques confirm the truthfulness of his claim."

  Sinclair smiled slightly at the officer's euphemism. He hoped for the boy's sake it had only taken the drugs. "You're running IR scans on the area to isolate possibles?"

  "Of course, Sir," said the officer.

  Sinclair pulled at his tired eyes with his fingertips. He would have to go to Maine himself. He was about to request a wok when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Glancing at the officer, he pulled out his phone and looked at the screen.

  The new text message said, simply, Urbem Orsus.

  Sinclair closed his eyes and exhaled a silent curse. Dammit, Gabrielle! He made a mental note of the hour and slipped his phone back into his pocket.

  Their time was almost up. The loading had begun.

  11.12

  Despite what Mihos had told the kids early on, it seemed that location did, indeed, matter here. Having been free his entire life to blink about the Astral, he found it both a surprise and a bother to be stuck in Doggyworld, where apparently they had to go walkies all the way across central Maine. It was taking forever, and Mihos was sick of the constant wariness and the crazy visual effects.

  "You got any idea how much further, Muttley?" Mihos called to Dennis.

  The old Whippet, still leading by a nose, turned and wrinkled his muzzle. "Smell bigger," he said with one eyebrow raised. Then he turned back and kept walking.

  "Oh. Smell bigger. Well, that's a relief," muttered the cat. He inhaled heavily. "I need a rest, yo," he said, just loud enough for the kids to hear him. He sat back on his haunches and started to lick his front paws. Emily was the only one to turn around at his words. She cocked her head and gestured him back into motion with her hand, then turned to follow her brother. Mihos sat right where he was and ignored them.

  He could handle the indignity of being led by a dog. Like, really, why would he envy somebody so intimately involved with the world of odors, stenches, and stinks? And then there was Dennis's obsequious need to please monkeys. Did he have no shame? And besides, when things got crazy with Grace, was it not Mihos, Son of Bast, who went first into the Murk? Mihos, whose bright eyes Grace could use to find her way back? Mihos, who was the first to understand Lassie's barking when lil Timmy fell down the well, and who could explain Dennis's plan to the rest of them so that they could act as swiftly as they had? Yes, it was Mihos, wasn't it? And Mihos knew that, when things got scary, it was his brain and his eyes that were going to make the difference.

  It was just that... well, the kids were like, "Oh, Dennis, you saved her!" and "Oh, Dennis, you're leading the way!" and "Oh, Dennis, we couldn't be doing this without you!" Mihos rubbed his paw across his eyes and forehead. Sure. Right. They'd thanked him too. Told him how great it was. But it just didn't have that same... whatever. Mihos didn't have the word for it. Warmth, maybe? Feeling? Like, they said it, but it just didn't feel the same. They were different with Pluto. Like... they loved that damned dog.

  Criminy, thought Mihos. Maybe he couldn't handle the indignity after all. And maybe he wanted to be loved as well. And maybe... and this felt like the hardest part of it... maybe it had something to do with him. Mihos closed his eyes and sighed. Monkeys had always confused him. And he wasn't sure he understood what 'love' really meant. If it meant that Mihos, Son of Bast, Protector of the Innocent and Lord of the Massacre, had to become some sniveling, face-licking, stick-retrieving, butt-wagging, ball-licking sycophant, than these monkeys could keep their whole "love" thing. He wanted no part of it.

  Mihos opened his eyes and looked up. Nobody had stopped for him, and they were now far ahead. Mihos pulled himself back to all four feet and started plodding forward. Things were so much easier in the physical world, where love had never been part of the equation, where life consisted of simple calculations based on food and water and warmth. Mihos had learned, over his many lives, to keep his expectations low. But these darned kids were changing that.

  11.13

  Linda scanned the desert plain on which they sat. The distant sun was lowering in the sky. Another day was passing. She looked at William and raised an eyebrow.

  William shifted in his ch
air and continued. "Human history is packed with the exploits of men and women," said the Fisherman, sounding like the narrator of a British documentary series. "Warriors and kings. Inventors and industrialists. Politicians and generals and celebrities of every description. What is more striking, I think, is that human history is also packed with the exploits of the gods and spirits. High gods and low. Angels and demons. Pantheons and elementals and fairy folk of all sorts. There is no argument today that spiritual belief systems have profoundly shaped the course of history. But the question of whether gods and spirits are actually real has become a source of great conflict. In these materialist times, many people regard such beings as little more than delusions. And yet across the expanse of human history the gods and spirits were a known reality that intersected in important ways with the human experience." William stopped and smiled tightly, as if proud of his summary.

  "Go on, William," said Linda.

  The Fisherman drew a long breath. "The Families have long concerned themselves with this question of gods and spirits," he continued. "The experience of spiritual beings is open and available, of course, to anyone who is ready, willing, and able to meet them. For many, that access comes through individual visions and callings, participation inside an established religious framework, shamanic journeywork, the fairy traditions, the encounters made under the influence of various psychoactive substances, things of that sort. The rich and powerful pursued all of these paths, and more, and rose to positions of influence and control wherever they could. But some of them were also inclined to create more private institutions, traditions, and texts that could contain their accumulation of knowledge and ritual, and carry them forward through time."

  "Of course they were," said Linda with a smirk.

  The Fisherman flashed his eyebrows. "Let's face it, Madam, in the dominant global culture, it's the rich and powerful who have had the time and resources for such pursuits, not being shackled to the daily task of mere survival. They've felt, perhaps, with their accumulated wealth and influence, that their stakes were higher, requiring more from the gods and spirits in terms of guidance, omens, knowledge, and the like. And, as winners in the great game of competition, they were deserving of the gods' attention. The rich and powerful did not think of themselves as fallen, sinful creatures worthy only of subservience and worship. They wanted to meet the gods as colleagues, and join them as equals, and share in their immortality."