by Bill Myers
“Please.” The robed man motioned to the small woven mat on the floor. “You will find that meditating upon his name will facilitate both his arrival and your upcoming discussion.”
Reichner’s frustration rose. “What will facilitate his arrival is your telling him that I do not intend to stay here much longer.” It was a bluff and they both knew it. “I have a busy schedule. I have many pressing engagements.”
The robed man nodded and turned toward the door. “As you wish.” He reached for the wooden handle and pulled it open. Rain and wind blew inside, whipping his clothes. He turned and motioned to the mat one final time. “I assure you, Dr. Reichner, Teacher will arrive much sooner if you simply prepare yourself for his visit.”
Reichner stared at him coolly. The man forced a polite smile, then turned and stepped out into the rain. Reichner stood at the door watching as the deluge soaked the man’s clothing, causing his robe to droop and cling to his body. But he barely noticed as he calmly plodded up the muddy road toward the compound.
Reichner slammed the door with an oath. It swung back open and he had to push it closed, then latch it. He wadded up the paper the man had given him and threw it across the room onto the bed. He wasn’t about to be drawn into some sort of mystical hocus-pocus. “Prepare himself,” indeed. More likely, relax and be lulled into a more susceptible mood so that his sponsor would have the upper hand in their discussion. Well, if anyone was going to have the upper hand, it would be Reichner. That was his specialty. “The Teacher” obviously had his own agenda, but Reichner would manipulate it to fit his.
Fifty minutes passed. Twice Reichner opened the door and thought of heading up the muddy road to the compound where the Peugeot would be, where he would insist on being taken back to Katmandu. But both times the wind, the rain — and most important, the guru’s money — had persuaded him to exercise a bit more patience.
Having eaten the fruit from the bowl, and with absolutely nothing else to do, he eased himself onto the bed. The thin mattress and broken springs quickly reminded him of his recent inoculations. He spotted the crumpled piece of paper nearby and reached for it. He smoothed it out, then examined the name.
Other than the length, eight syllables, and the fact that it was in a foreign language, there seemed nothing unusual about it. He read it again, this time out loud. The soft consonants and gentle vowels rolled pleasantly enough off his tongue. He repeated them again. Interesting how gentle and comforting they sounded. But a “God-name”? Hardly.
Reichner sighed. He tilted back his head and stared up at the cracked, plastered ceiling. The things he put himself through to keep the Institute going. He turned toward the window and stared out into the wet blackness. He looked at the door, examining its rough, hand-hewn planks. Then to the table and chair, equally as crude, then to the fireplace, until he eventually found himself looking back down at the paper.
He repeated the syllables again. Slowly. Reichner knew it was no accident that they conveyed such warmth and peace. That was their purpose: to bring the meditator into a more relaxed alpha state, perhaps even increase his theta and delta brain waves as well. Sarah Weintraub was more familiar with these patterns than he was, but he did know that the lower frequencies often created the most peace while also making the mind more receptive to the paranormal.
Again, he repeated the syllables. He mused over how organic they sounded, how naturally they fit into the mouth. Without even trying, he’d already memorized them. He closed his eyes and recited them again. His warmth and sense of well-being increased. He could actually feel the tension in his body easing, the muscles along his shoulders and into his neck beginning to loosen. He’d be sure to keep the paper, perhaps run the syllables past Sarah when he returned home. Maybe even do a few tests.
Knowing the meditation routine, he decided to continue. What would it hurt? He focused on the sounds, gradually allowing his mind to empty, pushing aside extraneous thoughts, concentrating only upon the syllables. He spoke them again, softer. Then again. And again. Everything grew wonderfully still. Tranquil. And again. There were no other sounds, just the syllables, and the wind, and the rhythmic dripping of water from the roof, and …
What was that? Music? He strained to listen. Where was it coming from? Through the door? Down the road? No. It wasn’t coming from outside the room. It was coming from inside. But from inside himself. Deep within. And soft — softer than the wind, as soft as a breeze brushing a feather. And he could hear harmonies, harmonies too beautiful to describe, too subtle to ever remember. They resonated through his mind, filling him with their beauty.
He listened, spellbound. He’d read of this type of thing in Eastern mysticism but had never experienced it. Then he noticed something else — an energy, a light. A tiny pulse began somewhere in his feet and gently rippled up through his legs, his stomach, into his chest, through his shoulders, and on into his head. When it was gone, another wave began, washing up through his body, a little brighter, a little faster. Then another, brighter, faster. And another. It was as if his entire body was beginning to breathe, to vibrate to this organic, euphoric rhythm of light. The sensation grew until he realized that he must either give himself over to it entirely or put an end to it. He hesitated a moment — then released control.
Immediately, he began to merge, to meld, to blend into all that was around him. He was no longer Dr. Reichner, owner of two Ph.D.s. He was no longer a single individual. He was part of something greater. Vaster. The vastness was him and he was the vastness…growing more and more into the vastness…growing into everything…everything growing into him…one with everything…one with the universe…becoming the universe…he was the universe…the universe was he and —
Excellent.
The voice didn’t surprise him. It came naturally, as naturally as the music. As the light. As himself.
You do that very well, Doctor.
It was the voice of a child, a boy, maybe eleven or twelve years old. He used adult words and tried to sound grown up, but there was no mistaking his youth.
If you want, you may open your eyes.
Dr. Reichner’s lids fluttered, then slowly opened. He was still in the room. Still on his bed. But coiled on the floor before him was a python, at least fifteen feet long. Its head was raised, and its pale golden eyes were locked directly onto his. But Reichner felt no fear. He was part of the python and the python was part of him.
Good evening, Dr. Reichner. Although the jaws did not move, it was obvious the voice came from the creature.
Reichner gathered his thoughts, preparing to speak, but he was surprised to hear his thinking broadcast before he opened his mouth. Is this — a vision?
You may call it that, the creature thought back. I find it a more accurate form of communication.
Are you — Reichner hesitated. Are you the one they call…Teacher?
I am called by many names. My mother of birth called me Eric.
Reichner was surprised. Eric was a Western name, certainly not Eastern. Then perhaps the rumors were true. Perhaps he did originally come from America. Perhaps there was some truth to the rumor of a genetic experiment gone haywire.
The python swayed its head silently, waiting for Reichner to complete his thought before it continued. Others refer to me as Teacher. Some call me Shiva.
Reichner recognized the name. Shiva was a major god in the Hindu pantheon. The god of destruction.
Still others call me Krishna, Buddha, Mohammed, the Christ.
Reichner nodded. The boy certainly had no lack of ego.
My appearance, does it frighten you?
Even now, amidst the experience, Reichner knew he’d have to be cautious. Provided that he was not going crazy, and provided that this was really the guru he was scheduled to meet, he knew he would have to play him very carefully. You are a Nagas, he answered. In Eastern religions, deities often appear in the form of serpents.
Very good…but of course you don’t believe I’m a deity.
/> Reichner hesitated, already caught.
There was gentle amusement in the boy’s voice. Don’t worry. What you believe is of little consequence to me.
What is…of consequence?
This age is drawing to a close. And there’s a stirring.
A stirring?
The one we’ve been waiting for has finally arrived.
Reichner scowled.
He’s young, but his spirit has already been stunted. His narrow religious training has prevented his growth. We’ve decided he needs a tutor to help unlock his gifts.
We?
The cartel who first introduced me to my powers and…The voice seemed to hesitate.
Reichner pressed in. And?
I also have a tutor. The one who guides me in all knowledge of good and evil, but he is not your concern.
Why are you telling me this?
Because we’ve chosen you to be the youth’s instructor.
Reichner’s suspicions rose. Me?
You understand these things more than most. We sponsored your institute because we knew that this day would come. We told you where to build, because we knew that Bethel Lake is where he would surface.
Reichner’s frown deepened. He’d always wondered why they’d been so insistent he locate at Bethel Lake. In the three years he’d been there, he’d encountered only one person in the area who had shown any pronounced psychic ability — a kid, Lewis Thompson. That had been nearly eighteen months ago, and it had been a bust. True, the first few months had been remarkable; he and Lewis had made tremendous strides in developing the boy’s paranormal abilities. But then Lewis had lost control, the voices had taken over, and he could no longer control his impulses. As far as Reichner knew, Lewis was still there in the vicinity, but the kid was far too unstable to work with.
You’re not talking about the young man I experimented with last year? Reichner thought. He’s psychotic, far too risky to —
Lewis Thompson was a mistake! the voice angrily interrupted. Your mistake!
The outburst surprised Reichner, and he grew quiet. It was time to wait and watch.
The voice regained control. This one is far more gifted, Doctor. And you will instruct him in how to release and develop those gifts so that he may usher us all into the new paradigm.
Reichner almost smiled. The boy was obviously trying to sound older than his years. And yet, at least for this meeting, he seemed to be the one calling the shots. Of course Reichner knew that there was a high probability that this was all a delusion, that the sedative probably wasn’t the only drug they’d slipped him in the car. But if there was any element of truth to this hallucination, if this guru boy in the guise of a snake was actually communicating with him and making this request, the financial possibilities could be staggering. Who cared whether such a “stirring” actually existed, much less lived near the Institute. If Reichner played his cards right, he could ride this financial bandwagon for another year, maybe two. Who knew how long he could milk money out of —
I am not a fool, Dr. Reichner.
Reichner looked up, startled.
The voice continued. If you won’t find him and work with him, then we will utilize another. We will —
No, wait. Reichner fumbled, flustered at having his thoughts read. Who is this kid? Does he have a name? How will I know him?
There is a dangerous road ahead for him, Doctor. Many enemies surround him. That is why he needs your help. That is why you have been chosen.
Before Reichner could respond, the python dropped its head to the floor. Then it silently slid over its coiled body toward the door.
That’s all? Reichner silently called out. You brought me all the way over here to tell me this?
There was no answer.
Reichner threw his feet over the side of the bed and rose. What if I make a mistake? What if the same thing happens to him that happened to Lewis? What if —
He stopped and watched in amazement as the head passed through the door as effortlessly as if the wooden planks were mist.
You will make no mistakes, the voice spoke as the rest of the python’s body vanished through the wood.
How can you be so sure? Reichner called.
The response was distant and faint but still clear enough to hear. Because I will be with you, Dr. Reichner. Wherever you go, rest assured, I will always be with you.
A moment later Reichner opened his eyes. He was surprised to see that he was still sitting on the bed. He looked about the room. The door remained closed, the rain still poured, and the python was nowhere to be seen.
Apparently, his meeting with the boy guru had been brought to a close.
Gerty’s hand rested on the worn handle of the refrigerator. It had been three days since she’d last eaten. Three days since she’d had her vision of anointing the boy with the long black hair and piercing gray eyes in the river. She was weak and starting to grow light-headed. Common sense told her to eat, or at least to drink some juice. But sometimes common sense carried little weight in spiritual matters.
This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting.
She’d read that verse many times during her seventy-eight years. And she’d practiced fasting more times than she could remember. In her younger days, a week-long fast, even two, hadn’t been that unusual. But the older she got, the less tolerant her body became of the practice, and the longer it took to recover.
And still the impression stirred and rose within her:
This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting.
It really wasn’t a voice. Just a knowing. And it certainly wasn’t a demand. Instead, it was a quiet request. If she refused, she knew it would go away. There would be no condemnation. After all, she’d been praying and fasting for the boy three days now. Surely, three days was long enough.
She pulled on the refrigerator door. The seal around the edges cracked and popped as it opened. Inside were the usual: bread, bologna, apple juice, tomatoes, a few vegetables. Not well-stocked, but enough, considering the size of her social security check.
For the past several minutes she’d been thinking of toast. A nice, gentle way to break the fast. Warm, soft, crunchy toast — maybe with some of that peanut butter she’d bought the other day. Already her mouth began to water.
She took out the loaf of bread, shut the refrigerator door, and shuffled over to the counter. She undid the plastic fastener, opened the wrapper, and pulled out two slices. But before she dropped them into the toaster, she held them to her nose and breathed in. What a marvelous smell.
This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting.
It wasn’t incessant, just a tender reminder making sure that this is what she really wanted to do.
She dropped the bread into the toaster and pressed the lever. As she waited, she thought of the words. They were the words of Christ, when he’d spoken to his disciples about casting out demons. But what did demons have to do with the boy? She’d known him when he was a baby, had watched him grow up from afar — had even drawn sketches of him and written letters she’d never mailed, hoping they’d all be of help to him someday. His gifts were pure, she knew that. They were God-given, God-ordained.
This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting.
Unless …
Maybe those pure gifts were being threatened by something impure, something demonic. Maybe he was being threatened. It had happened before, during other times in his childhood. That would explain why the verse kept coming to mind now, why she felt the need to continue interceding.
But it had been three days. Three days of not eating. Surely her Lord didn’t expect more than that.
She opened the cupboard and pulled down the small jar of peanut butter, yet her mind was still on the boy. He was so young. And when he had looked up at her from the river, he’d seemed so lost, so frightened.
She removed the lid to the peanut butter and pulled off the aluminum foil. The aroma of
peanuts filled her senses, almost making her dizzy. If she had been hungry before, she was ravenous now.
Of course, she knew that the boy’s emergence would not be easy. She had always known that the forces of hell would do all they could to stop him.
But she was so hungry.
But he looked so frightened.
She opened the drawer and reached for a knife to spread the peanut butter.
This kind can come forth by nothing but by prayer and fasting.
Again, she saw his eyes, felt her own beginning to well up with moisture. She stared at the toaster, watching it blur as tears filled her vision. The boy needed her help. Her continued prayers.
The toast popped up. The combination of warm bread and fresh peanuts was more than she could stand.
But hell was preparing to destroy the boy and God was giving her the opportunity to help protect him — if she wanted.
Another moment passed. And then, ever so slowly, Gerty’s veined and wrinkled hand reached for the lid of the peanut butter. She screwed it back on as tears spilled from her eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you, dear Lord, thank you.”
She turned and headed into the hallway, her slippers shuffling along the threadbare carpet. She entered her tiny room and crossed to the bed. Reaching out both hands, she eased herself down onto her bony knees.
And there, on her knees, Gerty resumed her prayers for the boy. Not because she had to, but because she wanted to. Because she understood the high calling. Because she counted it a privilege.
“Thank you, dear Lord. Thank you, thank you …”
CHAPTER 4
IT HAD BEEN SEVERAL hours since Brandon’s little scene at the printing plant. Now he was in the company’s delivery van, grinding the gears in an effort to find reverse. Once he’d found it, he eased the vehicle backward into the loading dock of Moran Research Institute. It was a low-lying building, mostly brick and tinted glass. On its roof were multiple rows of solar panels. Frank, who’d been there more times than Brandon, had always made a big deal about the cool futuristic equipment they had inside. Brandon had never taken the time to check it out, but he did know from experience that their employees’ lounge had the best junk food in town.