Clearfather began winding through the spiral of mirrors but immediately saw that something was wrong—there were no reflections.
“What is this?” he asked.
“Look closely,” Wiggler said. “Reality has to hide.”
Clearfather peered into the silvery mirrored surface and saw . . . what at first he thought was a giant, infinitely complex ant farm.
“Shit!” he cried. “You can’t mean—”
“Go farther,” Wiggler said, leading him deeper into the gallery. “Look closer.”
The mirrored hall spiraled like a creature. Clearfather felt a rush of confidence. It disconcerted him not to be reflected . . . but he marched on . . . and with each step the glassy surface of the walls began to change.
“This isn’t a hall of mirrors,” he said.
“No,” said Wiggler. “You’re looking into the Vortex. A spiral door. And in that doorway waits . . . my sister . . . my twin . . .”
Wiggler removed the blue-lensed glasses he wore to reveal eyes that shone vertigo green.
“You mean . . .”
“Look through the window . . . into the mist.”
They’d reached the innermost whorl of the spiral. Clearfather peered into the center panel—more a membrane-thin film of excited quicksilver than a sheet of glass. For a moment all was dark, like an empty aquarium at night—and then slowly—out of the absence—there emerged an insinuation. She was there, he could feel her . . . suspended in a slow but profoundly powerful whirlwind of light and darkness. But the moment he saw her clearly—she changed shape, slipping deeper in the Vortex.
“I can see her—”
“But you can’t say her,” Wiggler finished. “Perceive her and she fades. She lives deep in the Vortex and even when I’ve been inside it . . . when I’ve given myself to it . . . she remains out of reach.”
“The girl in the city of cyclones. She waved at me.”
“What city of cyclones?” Wiggler puzzled, and then, as if to himself, “Hm. Perhaps you’re powerful enough to perceive the Entities and the Vortext directly.”
“So . . . Kokomo is really . . . your sister?”
“No! My sister is whom you almost see . . . in this humble little window on the Vortex. Kokomo, as you call her, was my hope, my inspiration—to bring something of my sister’s spirit to life again. The problem is, my sister never lived. Kokomo was an imagined version of her—what she might have been, had she not died to save me.”
“How did she die to save you?”
“I was born alive. She was not.”
“But that wasn’t your fault!”
“How can anyone know that?” Wiggler asked.
Clearfather was about to question this concern . . . when he saw how firmly fixed it was in Wiggler’s mind. Here in the heart of Labyrinthia, he realized he was looking straight into Wiggler’s own vortex. The wonders and the pursuit of forbidden knowledge were all driven by an irrevocable sense of remorse, stunted possibility, and elusive hope.
“You have had glimpses of the Vortext. You draw on its strength. But to merge completely . . . finally . . . must be your choice.”
“I didn’t think you were going to give me a choice,” Clearfather said.
“You wouldn’t be what I’d hoped you’d be otherwise. You see, it is I who am vulnerable and dependent. Either way you decide, I am in your hands. A part of me would like to fortify the Canyon and just fade away. I know I don’t look old, but I am. I’m tired. If you would stay here with me . . . I think sometimes that that would be better than Transubstantiation and Combat . . . whatever happens to the world outside.”
“What would happen?” Clearfather asked.
“I don’t honestly know,” Wiggler said. “It could be that the disaster would begin right here. Then again, without our intercession, matters might go on as they are for a long while. APPARATUS has a much greater immunity to time than we do. We might just grow old and broken and die, and leave our bones here like the other animals and machines.”
Clearfather didn’t know what to say. They circled back to the midway and a pavilion overlooking the diamond Ferris wheel, which Clearfather noticed this time had what appeared to be access for very small wheelchairs.
“Do you know,” said Wiggler, sitting down at a peppermint-striped café setting, “the real reason why the Federal forces attacked Hosanna Freed and his followers?”
“I feel like I should,” said Clearfather. “But no.”
“It wasn’t because they were living privately in ways that threatened or offended the establishment. Even in Texas, the state that gave us George W. Bush. The problem was that Hosanna Freed was about to take the act on the road. They’d bought a big bus and were going to travel America as evangelists for their beliefs. In what was called ‘the Obelisk Sermon,’ Hosanna called on the community to join him—to get out among the world. He said it was easy to practice one’s faith beyond the walls of a monastery or a fortress—the test was to go out openhanded to face enemies and the indifferent.”
“I like the sound of that,” Clearfather said.
“He was murdered for that belief,” Wiggler pointed out. “You were murdered. Your body was torn to shreds with heavy ammunition and when you were dead, they desecrated your corpse.”
“So what are you saying? Better to hide?”
“I can only stay hidden if you stay with me. To complete the Transubstantiation, to march into battle . . . when I come to take the final step . . . I am afraid. And now to trust myself—means trusting you.”
There was something about Wiggler now that looked shriveled and defeated, and the thought about the wheelchairs confused Clearfather.
“Tell me about Dustdevil,” he said finally. “Did you build the weather station . . . the tunnels and underground shelters?”
“I had tunnels built there long ago but I know of no weather station. I try not to think of the place. It brings back painful memories. I should think you would understand.”
“You don’t go back? You haven’t been back in—”
“I certainly don’t go back! How long it’s been I don’t remember. Before your murder.”
“And never since?”
“Never since.”
That’s odd, Clearfather thought. If it wasn’t Wiggler who’d been there—then who?
“One final question,” he said.
“Ah,” said Wiggler. “I’ll answer if I can. There should be no secrets between us . . . because soon there can be no secrets between us. If you allow the Transubstantiation.”
Clearfather produced the faded ivory ball he’d been carrying since regaining consciousness on the Greyhound.
“Do you know what this is?”
Wiggler rolled it in his hand and then like a magician made it disappear—which caused Clearfather to gasp. Wiggler closed his hand and opened it again and the ball was back.
“Do you want the full detailed answer?”
“Yes!” said Clearfather.
“The answer is no. I don’t know what it is. There are many things I don’t know, which is why there’s much that I do. I can see that it’s important to you—disproportionately so. It must be magical.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’ve endowed this ball with significance.”
“You mean it doesn’t have any?”
“I just said—and you clearly believe—that it does.”
“But you said—”
“Don’t get hung up on where the significance comes from. You’ll get all tangled up with questions of what’s real and what’s a symbol and lose sight of the fact that there’s nothing more powerful than a symbol. That’s what this is.”
“You mean it’s not anything—”
“Scientific? What were you hoping for—an exotic pharmaceutical or a miniature anti-gravity machine? You’re still thinking like the Marshal.”
“What’s it a symbol of?”
“That’s another question,” Wiggler replied. “A h
arder question.”
“You didn’t give it to me?”
“No. Maybe the resistance community in New York did, I don’t know. This has a very personal meaning that I think only you can know. Its simplicity supports that intuition. What do you think it means?”
“I . . . I don’t know,” Clearfather muttered. “Something that’s been with me from the beginning—that has survived the perils with me. Something unknown . . . that is at the same time familiar. Something both simple and complex.”
“You see?” said Wiggler. “You knew all along. I think you’ve described one of the oldest and most sacred symbols of all. The Jewel in the Lotus. The Lotus is Universal Being. The Jewel is the talisman of the Individual.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Clearfather asked.
“Keep it. Cherish it. Give it away. You’ll know what to do with it. I’m certain you know much more than you give yourself credit for—and things that are far more valuable than nanotechnology and neurochemistry. Like Blind Lemon, you know things that can’t be taught. But we must rest now. Go back to the hotel. What lies ahead will be testing.”
Clearfather didn’t know what to say and shuffled off awkwardly, feeling both ungracious and intensely ill at ease. He was led back to the surface by a robot whose body was a skeleton of gold and whose head was a golden death mask of young King Tut. Wiggler remained alone behind.
Clearfather was almost to the hotel when he saw them again—the three little Chinese men hovering just off the ground—as bright and yet transparent as moonlight.
“You have seen us before,” said the three little men in unison without moving their lips. “We have a message for you. You are hard to reach. You ripple out like the rings in a pond. Listen carefully for we will not appear for you again. Do you know the little boy you have seen . . . in the bathroom with the candles?”
“Yes . . . ,” whispered Clearfather, feeling the fear and shame rise up inside him again.
“You have been haunted by this image from your past life. We have come to unburden you. You do not need to be afraid. It was not something that you did—it was what was done to you. You are that boy. The image in your mind is the memory of the terrified child’s projection—the desire to escape. In that bathroom, with the ritual candles, your stepfather in your previous existence would sodomize you. In pain and darkness did you grow up, and yet you never let the agony and the hatred destroy you—however bad the nightmares became.”
“I didn’t hurt any children? I didn’t—”
“No. You must give us that fear now. You have carried it too long.”
“What about the light of the sun . . . the blinding and the choking?”
“An orderly at the boys’ home you were sent to. His impotence did not stop him from abusing you with his flashlight. When he set upon another boy, you struck out at him. He almost died of his wound and you were sent to a more serious institution. We want you to be free of these memories now. Will you give them to us?”
“Y-yes,” said Clearfather as the three men circled around him. He heard a faint sound, like silkworms in a mulberry tree.
“Can you tell me what I . . . should do? Should I stay . . . or go with . . .”
“We cannot advise. Our message to you was of the Past, not the Future.”
“But I have hurt people. People died in LosVegas. I went mad!”
“We cannot relieve that pain. We have taken the burden we came for.”
“But how can I be forgiven? How can I be free? I have to make a decision.”
“Seek to prolong your doubt and a certainty emerges.”
“What does that mean?”
“To find a door, first look for a wall. Look for us again and even you will not find us.”
And so saying the Chinese men were gone—like moonlight across the planks of the boardwalk.
CHAPTER 5
A Convoluted Canyon
Clearfather dreamed that night of being curled up with a warm dog. In the dark he couldn’t tell what kind of dog it was, but he knew it was a good dog. He woke to find his conscience clear and his mind made up. The Marshal and Maggie were breakfasting in the hotel dining room, served by one of the Harijans.
“Wiggler’s coming back when we’re done,” the Marshal informed him. “At which point the lassy and I are going to head out. You’re more than welcome to join us—although I understand that that’s a difficult choice.”
“I’m coming, too,” Clearfather announced, attacking his scrambled eggs. “I have no idea where I’ll go or what will happen—but I have to leave.”
“Is that so?” a voice said—and he turned to see Wiggler in a white robe. The tinted blue shades were gone, and the man’s green eyes sparkled like lysergic acid. “So you’re just going to throw in the towel on human culture and abandon your broken-down old dad?”
“It’s not about abandoning you,” Clearfather answered, looking up from his plate. “I can’t be true to myself if I stay . . . whether to look after you or to lead your army.”
“I see,” said Wiggler, folding his arms. “After all I’ve done, you falter in the face of this challenge.”
“I don’t think of it that way,” Clearfather answered. “Whether this is heaven or a prison, I reject it equally. And divine combat, too. My battle’s in everyday life. There are plenty of enemies waiting for me there—and unexpected allies. I don’t need hypnotic assault weapons or telekinesis. What’s the point of having powers you don’t understand or weapons you can’t rely on—or worse, don’t have the wisdom to use properly? I understand Diagonal Thinking and I’ve got spizzerinctum—and with a bit of luck—that’ll be enough. Maybe you’ve been helping me all the time, watching out for me. Maybe not. Perhaps my real quest starts now. Either way I mean to leave here with my friends. Whatever part of you is inside me already, I’ll take with me—and try to honor. But we’re leaving this Canyon and we’ll have to live with the consequences.”
“Or die.”
“Take it from me, death is overrated.”
“You certainly talk a good game.” Wiggler smiled, producing a lighted loco-foco. “Perhaps a malignant brain tumor and a stump don’t worry you.”
“It’s a big stump. As for a tumor—I have to take your word that it’s there. After what I’ve been through, I’m not afraid of another bomb inside my head.”
“Yoo tell ’im!” Maggie cheered.
“Settle, Ms. Kane,” said Wiggler, blowing a series of smoke rings that merged to form the image of a brain. “I just hope there’s no lemon curd around when it happens. But perhaps if you’re so confident about turning down my assistance for yourself, you may want to think twice about how I could help the Marshal.”
“What do you mean?”
“Shall I tell him, Marshal—or were you going to?”
“What’s he saying?” Clearfather asked the lawman, but he suddenly had a very bad intuition. He’d been so focused on himself . . .
“In one of the psych wards I was in—a recovery program after my wife’s death—I participated in an Efram-Zev experiment and I contracted Bushrod’s Disease. It’s lain dormant all these years, but now . . .”
“What will happen?”
“Ask the genius.” The Marshal glowered.
“Don’t blame me. Efram-Zev was bought up after I was locked out,” Wiggler sniffed. “But the effect will be a loss of control of all bodily functions. Your mind will remain perfectly clear—in fact your intellectual capacity will be perversely enhanced. But you will need minute-to-minute care. You’ll soon be messing the bed like you did last night—every night.”
The Marshal bit his lower lip with pride. “You didn’t have to say that.”
“No. But a shit-stained sheet makes the point so forcefully, don’t you think? Now, I can’t yet cure Bushrod’s Disease, but I can retard its development for many years—and in that time I can almost guarantee a cure. That’s not a bad package deal, Winchester. Dignity and a prolonged life.”
> “Isn’t dignity what I’d have to trade?”
“I wonder if you’ll think that way when you’re getting your ass wiped every day. How about it, Ms. Kane? Will you be kind enough to clean the Marshal’s bottom when he poops in his pants for the fourth time that day?” So saying, Wiggler blew a smoke ring in the shape of a bedpan, just like old Judd’s back in Texas.
“Yoo are sick!”
“Well actually,” said Wiggler. “So are you. You have Hepatitis E and the beginnings of kidney failure. The body odor you’ve been noticing is because you’re well into the uremic cycle. Oh, and most likely your child will have birth defects.”
“Say whot?”
“Does that surprise you? You’ve been a street whore since puberty and a substance abuser since childhood.”
“Noa . . . I mean—”
“That you’re pregnant—carrying a black, damaged baby?”
“Yoo lie!”
“They always want a demonstration, don’t they?” Wiggler frowned and blew a series of smoke rings, which took the shape of a first-trimester fetus that reminded Clearfather of the Nourisher’s little sand mummy.
“This is what’s inside you right now,” said Wiggler. “Hardly looks human, does it? Imagine the problems it will face.”
“Don’t listen to him, Maggie!” the Marshal brayed. “No baby that age looks human. He’s just trying to trick you.”
“Our sassy lassy isn’t so sure. Ordinarily an abortion would be strongly advised—but have no fear,” he said, blowing away the baby. “You are here. How about it, gentlemen? You may be stupid in regard to your own health, but would you really doom Ms. Kane and her helpless unborn?”
“You’re a prick, Wiggler,” the Marshal cried. “No honor. No decency.”
“Marshal, I have a strong stomach for what needs doing. I’ll give you a minute to talk among yourselves. I’ll be waiting outside.”
As soon as Wiggler left the room, Clearfather asked, “Do we need a minute?”
“Noa fuckin’ way!” Maggie yelled.
“Not on your life,” the Marshal answered. “But I’m bringing the guns. May not do any good, but I’ll feel better.”
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