by Eisele, Kimi
“Make contact?”
“Yes,” Blue said, his gaze unwavering. “With the beyond. But first we must make contact within, deep inside of ourselves. This is why I believe the darkness is a gift.”
Carson realized he was leaning forward in his seat, as if to catch the words as they fell from Blue’s mouth.
“You should stay long enough to hear one of my talks,” Blue said. “I think you will enjoy the ideas.”
There was so much to ask about making contact. With whom? Where? How? But first, Carson wanted to understand how Blue was reaching so many people. “What about your broadcasts?” he asked.
“The broadcasts are an offering. Sound is remarkable that way. Radio makes the invisible audible. Waves you can hear but can’t see. We need no light to listen. In fact, we listen better without it.”
Carson looked at Blue’s face and tried to imagine his younger self, giddy with gadgets, in pursuit of power and popularity. “You mentioned spiritual technology,” he said. “Is radio a form of that?”
“Perhaps,” Blue said. “Spiritual technology is what gets us inside ourselves so that we can better expand to others. Supreme consciousness. If you stay here, you will begin to understand more. I do not wish to conceal anything, but it is more complicated than one conversation can clarify. It is a commitment.”
“I see,” Carson said. He’d expected that kind of response at some point.
“But listening is key. Are you familiar with Teilhard de Chardin, a French philosopher and Jesuit?”
Carson remembered the name. “I believe also a paleontologist.”
“Yes. History was important to him, which I’m sure you can appreciate, Carson. But he was a forward thinker. He believed isolation would inhibit evolution. And he believed that one day, we might all find a common God, one that pervades everything. I think he was on to the idea of spiritual technology. ‘One day,’ he said, ‘after mastering the winds, the waves, the tides, and gravity, we shall harness for God the energies of love. And then, for a second time in the history of the world, man will have discovered fire.’”
“That’s beautiful,” Carson said. He meant it. The words lifted him. The energies of love.
“When everything went dark—as we knew it would—I heard a voice, a very clear voice,” Blue said. “So clear, like a songbird.” He closed his eyes. “It said, ‘Rise. Rise. Rise.’”
Carson scanned his memory for birdcalls he knew. He couldn’t think of any that sounded like that.
Blue opened his eyes and said, “An ascension. That was the calling.”
The calling. Did everyone hear the calling? Randy and Claudia and their two boys and the woman in the red skirt had heard it. Had he himself? Had he been called to leave his apartment? To walk and record? To arrive, eventually, on the other side?
“We do not like to be alone, do we?” Blue said.
Carson pictured Beatrix’s face, the feel of her hand in his, her coarse, curly hair.
Blue swept an arm out. “Cooperation is a kind of technology. Here we work together toward the common goal, whether it is to feed ourselves or call to God. Everyone has his or her task, and they perform it for the whole.
“We started long before the descent, you know. We came here some years ago. Myself and twelve others, my closest allies. Together we laid the foundation. We got the system in order. We prepared for this. This upgrade. I kept doing my work, spreading the good word, sharing my ideas with listeners, letting them know that this was coming. The loss of power was our final invitation. But we had mostly unplugged anyway, in preparation.”
In that moment, Carson found it all entirely credible. He felt some envy for Blue, a soul who had found his way.
“Have you seen our farms? We have acres of farmland and greenhouses. It is all nonmechanized labor, to ensure happy humans and happy animals.”
Just then a prairie dog scuttled over, as if on cue. Blue bent over, reached out his hand, and scooped it up. The animal perched on Blue’s lap with astounding calm, and Blue stroked it like a cat.
Carson felt his skepticism come rushing back. Blue had trained the prairie dogs? Or somehow had built their trust? It was too much.
“Everyone who comes here wants to fulfill his or her deepest desire,” Blue said.
“Must they go through you to do that?” Carson asked, hoping to call out Blue’s ego. He remembered the strange knitters, how they had stood up and stepped over their blankets when they’d seen him.
“I simply offer guidance,” Blue said as the prairie dog dropped from his lap and ran off.
Blue reached both of his arms down and touched the tips of his fingers to the ground. “Root,” he said. Then he stood and lifted his arms, pointing his hands straight to the sky, like a football referee calling a touchdown. “To rise.” He then opened his arms out into a T and said, “To then disperse.”
All this strange gesturing, Carson thought.
Blue smiled opaquely, his eyes as slow and chilled as glaciers. “By that, I mean connect. Make contact.”
Carson cleared his throat. “Will you rise, too?”
“I should hope so!” Blue said, sitting down again.
But what did it mean “to rise”? A strange sensation crept from Carson’s neck to his tailbone, like tiny hands grabbing each vertebra.
“You seem to be a smart man,” Blue said. “I see you are searching for something. I have every reason to believe that you will find it, but, of course, that is not up to me. What I can say is this: I do not know that what you seek is here. If you want information to give to people, you can simply tell them that we are here for them. There is abundance here and redemption for those who wish to have it. I cannot say for sure when we will rise, but I can say with certainty that we will. The darkness has allowed us to turn inward. We root to rise. Everything is possible. Everyone is welcome. They need only come with an open heart and faith.”
Carson turned over Blue’s statement in his head: I do not know that what you seek is here. True enough. Carson had no intention of staying. But he felt a little rebuffed. If anyone could join them, why was he being excluded? And what was it Blue assumed he was seeking?
“Do not perplex yourself,” Blue said calmly. “Within darkness, there is light. All we need to do in this life is move toward that which lifts us.” He placed his hands on his knees, leaned forward, and pushed himself up to standing. “Take another day or two of rest here, if you like. Before you go, Marcy will give you a tour of the grounds. We have nothing to hide. On the contrary, we hope you will share this beauty with the world.”
Wait. That was it? Carson felt ambushed by the sudden end of his interview. What about their power source? How were they broadcasting across the country? How was he feeding everyone? And as more and more people arrived, how would he keep feeding everyone? Dizzy with frustration, he shook Blue’s hand, and the preacher held his gaze, his eyes so blue that Carson felt like he’d lost gravity and was spinning in midair.
Engineering was not a skill in Beatrix’s own inventory of assets, but thankfully it was one Gary and a handful other neighbors shared. Over two days, a crew of PBB riders, a horse, and three engineers managed to locate, transport, and assemble parts for a new tower to raise Halcyon Radio’s antenna.
It wasn’t exactly pretty or sleek—a tangle of metal, wire, and conduit with a pyramid of stanchions reaching to the ground, but Beatrix marveled at it. The final segment of the tower pleased her the most: a fork from Flash’s collection of bike parts, its bright-yellow paint visible from the ground.
“I was never gonna find the tires for that baby,” Flash said, when he’d handed it over.
“Like a tuning fork,” Gary said, after they’d welded it in place.
“A beacon,” Beatrix had said.
When Gary gave her the signal, Beatrix went into the recording studio. “This is a test. Halcyon Radio, AM ten-eighty. After some technical difficulties, we’re back with you. Are we? This is a test. If you’re hearing me now,
tune in every evening five to eight for Halcyon Radio.”
Then, in case people were listening, Flash announced the upcoming first episode of The Red Raven in his signature style: “Finding the wings within . . .”
PBB riders streamed in throughout the afternoon. They’d set up test stations around the neighborhood and beyond. Thumbs-up, all their reports said.
“Back in action,” Flash said.
“Where there’s a will,” Gary said.
“A small miracle,” Beatrix said, as she and Flash left Gary’s and bicycled home.
“Gary himself is a miracle,” Flash said. “Mad skills.”
“He’s absolving himself of past sins.”
“Hey now,” Flash said. “He just made different choices than you did. I’m betting no matter his politics, he’s always had a kind heart. Besides, he’s pretty key to this whole radio operation. Seems a born helper to me.”
Beatrix nodded. It was true. “Like you,” she said.
“And you,” Flash said.
“And the PBB riders, those engineers, Thelma,” Beatrix said.
“All true. Everyone plays a part. Kinda like you envisioned, right?” he said. “And The Red Raven hasn’t even aired yet.”
But two days later, it did, on an evening that carried the first faint chill of autumn.
Beatrix went to the station for the live broadcast and watched, full of joy, as the performers brought the story to life. When the violins finished the show, Beatrix looked over at Thelma and saw tears of pride streaming down her face.
“It was well worth the wait,” Dragon said afterward. “A boy reborn as a bird. I love it.”
Even Maria del Carmen offered praise. “Very enjoyable.”
Beatrix felt relieved, as though she’d been waiting for approval from a parent or a mentor. Maybe everything was possible.
The Center’s farms were not quite the expansive agricultural fields Carson had initially imagined, but garden upon garden, linked with trees and shrubs. “Part of a perfect system,” Marcy explained. They walked along winding paths, past natural fences and windbreaks formed by trees, through areas where chickens and rabbits and fish resided in spacious pens and ponds.
Carson was trying to shake off the strange feeling he’d had since his meeting with Jonathan Blue. It was a physical sensation, not horrible, but not necessarily gratifying either—like walking through a cobweb and having the strands of it stick to him. He willed himself to keep his head on straight and looked out over the gleaming zucchini.
“Everything nourishes everything,” Marcy said. “We are part of that. The food nourishes us, and we nourish the food. Permaculture. But with spirit.” She pulled two biscuit cookies from her apron and gave one to Carson. “Snack?”
He was hungry but not free of suspicion. He declined.
“They’re full of good nutrients. Healthy grains but no sugar,” Marcy said. “But maybe they take some getting used to.”
A dozen or so Pilgrims, now Blue Birds or Blue Corns or Blue Somethings, were at work weeding and harvesting. Marcy gave the Ascensionist wave to all who looked up.
“We hunt as well,” she told Carson. “Mostly deer. Sometimes bison. I’m sure they’ll send you off with some jerky.”
They walked through gardens and ponds and rabbit pens, and Carson wondered if this was what Blue meant by “spiritual technology.” He also wondered again if all this was enough for the new arrivals. Or if they would eventually grow too big to sustain themselves, like so many others had before them.
Once they were through the gate, Marcy gently took hold of Carson’s arm. It startled him. The feel of her small hand against his biceps made him quiver in an unexpectedly pleasant way. Embarrassed, he coughed.
No one else was on the path, and Marcy tightened her grip. “Listen to me.” She looked up at him, her golden-hazel eyes were striking against the thick, dark eyebrows. But in her eyes was worry, and it struck Carson that it was the same look the knitters had given him. “There is more to it,” she said.
“What do you mean?” he said.
“He is not who he says he is. Something is happening up the ridge, beyond the farm. I don’t know what, exactly, but we are not allowed to go there. I don’t want to stay here anymore. Can you take me with you? They are making you leave today. I can go with you. Please, can I go with you?” Her voice climbed with desperation, her brow knit with fear.
“What do you mean?” Carson said, aware again of the cobweb sensation. They were making him leave? Why? Did he know too much? And the knitters—had they wanted to go with him, too?
A man came toward them on the path, almost bouncing. He appeared so quickly and silently, Carson felt like he was suddenly in some sort of odd aviary, bird-men flitting about.
“The chicken manure does wonders for soil,” Marcy said, her voice broad and bland. “I was just finishing the tour,” she said to the man.
“It is something, isn’t it?” the man said. His face was narrow and smooth, with glasses over wide-set eyes. “I’m Russell,” he said, holding out his hand to Carson. “I’m one of Mr. Blue’s twelve. I was among the first ones to come here to the Center.”
Marcy turned to Carson. “It was a pleasure to meet you. I wish you a safe journey.” She gave him a little curtsy, then turned to Russell. “I’ll be heading back to my post now, if you don’t mind.” She glanced at Carson. “In the kitchen.” She turned away down the path.
“I hope she was good to you,” Russell said, his voice suddenly deeper and curt.
“Oh, yes, very thorough,” Carson said. “She explained the system perfectly.”
“Good,” Russell said. “That’s something you can share with the world. We have gathered your things for you. We hope you had a good rest and that you got what you came for.”
Carson nodded. “Yes, I—”
“As Mr. Blue says,” Roger interrupted, “true connection is a commitment.”
He guided Carson back along the path, toward the river to a wooden gazebo, where his pack was waiting for him. Carson unzipped the side pocket and found that the gun was still there.
“We would not take anything from you,” Russell said. “We are good people, and we are not wanting here.”
Carson stared at Russell for a moment. He seemed a competent thirtysomething man. Had he placed his faith in Blue? Was he not troubled by whatever troubled Marcy? Was he somehow, as a man, protected from that? What was really going on here? He felt a twist in his gut.
The teenaged girl who’d served Carson breakfast came and handed him a knit sack. “Vegetables. Some buffalo jerky and honey,” she said, flashing her gapped teeth. “Be sure to refill your water bottles at the tank, as well.”
“Thank you,” he said, looking at her closely, scanning for signs of discontent or doubt. “So this is it?” Carson said.
“It is,” Russell said.
Carson put on his pack, hoisted the wonderfully heavy bag of food, and walked with Russell to the road, stopping at the water tank on the way. They passed the large sculptures, and Carson slowed to look at them more closely. The arrow, the infinity sign, the ampersand, the cross. He stopped at the fifth sculpture—two circles with a vertical beam reaching through them, upward. “What symbol is this?” Carson asked.
“It means to turn inward,” Russell said, his finger tracing the shape in the air from the top.
“I see,” Carson said. He looked again at the shape and, this time, saw that it looked unmistakably like the letter B.
Anxiety fluttered through Carson’s chest. Blue didn’t seem like an evil man. He seemed taken with an idea, but he didn’t seem crazy. Still, for all his talk about a spiritual shift, a renunciation of his old ways, his ego was not small.
Carson reached his hand into his pocket and found one of the cookies. Were these Blue’s Kool-Aid? Had Jim Jones seemed evil to those who knew him? David Koresh? Marshall Applewhite? Carson blinked his eyes and shook his head. Wits. Keep your wits, he told himself.
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nbsp; “We hope we have given you what you wanted,” Russell said. “Please spread the good word. We are here to unify.”
“Thank you,” Carson said. He paused and then said, “Marcy . . .”
“Marcy?” Russell said.
Carson stuttered. “Uh.” What was there to say? Was he offering to rescue her? Did she need to be rescued? Did any of them? Did he want to rescue her? No, he didn’t really want to take Marcy with him, but— He looked at his boots. “It’s just that . . . she was very kind,” he said. “I wanted to make sure to give her credit.”
“She will be credited,” Russell said. He put his hands together over his heart, the odd Ascensionist wave. “May you be uplifted,” he said before turning and walking away.
Carson stood for a long time, staring back at the industrious so-called paradise, wondering if everyone who’d arrived wanted to stay. Did Blue offer the true light in everyone’s darkness? An “upgrade,” he’d called it. Or was it a trap? Were there others like Marcy, somehow plotting an escape?
Carson walked away uncertain, the weight of the knit bag full of food digging into his fingers.
Beatrix and Rosie stood at the chicken coop, watching the hens scratch and peck.
“So, I have to know,” Rosie said. “How did Reilly discover the Settlement? And what happens to his friend Coyote when Reilly leaves the animal community?”
“My lips are zipped. You’ll just have to keep listening.”
“But,” Rosie began.
Beatrix tossed a handful of weeds into the coop. The birds scurried away before realizing what had arrived for them, then circled back. All except for one, who huddled against the door of the egg house.
“Hey, Miss Demeanor, are you okay?” Rosie said to the hen. Against Rog’s advice, they’d named each of the hens—Miss Take, Miss Teek, Miss Informed, Miss Nomer, Miss L. Toe, and Miss Demeanor. “She doesn’t look so good, Beatrix.”
Beatrix crouched down for a better look. Miss Demeanor waddled away slowly, her chest swollen and dragging. “No, she doesn’t.” She stood up, worried. “Mr. Greeb will know. We’ll go talk to him. And ask your grandma.”
“Not a chance,” Rosie said. She scuffed the toe of her sneaker in the dirt, a slow-motion imitation of a hen. She looked like she was about to cry.