Corvus, p.11
Corvus, page 11
40
WHY WASN’T HE IMPRESSED? HE LOOKED again out the windows at the same blue, the same wispy clouds. It hadn’t changed. There was no brilliant sunset. Tonight Michael Stonehammer’s cabin was on the wrong side of Bel Arial. It faced north. There might be a stunning view from the other side, but George doubted it. This was just like one of the preferred scenes depicted on those huge screens that people without windows displayed on their inner walls. Even some people with windows chose to have them covered with vision screens. Why look out at the ugly building across the way, when you could have a mountain view, watch for the elk to appear, or a seaside and watch the surf or, if you had aspirations of extreme success, a Bel Arial vista.
It was made of Heliofoam, lighter than air. Sure it was safe. You could fire a rifle through it and the helium wouldn’t leak out. The bullet would puncture a few tiny bubbles in the foam and make no difference. But the mass of it, the amount needed to keep it afloat, was far greater than he had imagined. It was nothing more than a giant glob, with tiny apartments carved into it.
Granted, when the Net went down, everything here still worked because they were on their own independent system, completely solar powered, the outer skin mostly covered in photovoltaic cells. But there was more to life than connectivity. You still needed food and water. Maybe they could get water from the clouds. He wasn’t sure. But there were no gardens, at least none that he’d seen. So they were dependent and vulnerable, just like everyone else.
Why are you being so negative?
You used to want to live here, remember?
Is it because you can’t afford it?
Is it a big case of sour grapes?
You can’t have it so you don’t want it?
It didn’t feel that way. George didn’t feel small and petty. He felt better than he had in decades. Strong. Yeah. He thought about it. It was strength that he was feeling. Not muscular, a different kind of strong, a strength of spirit.
Spirit, really? That wasn’t one of his words. It was something new. Probably from Isadore. No, from Two Bears, definitely from Two Bears.
I was a spirit traveling across the universe, just a little dot of blue light.
It’s all about the experience, isn’t it?
George came back into the group, his friends — people, humans, spirits even. He should enjoy this. It was good, the food was good, the whisky was good. He felt his smile tweak his cheek muscles, felt the warmth in his stomach, the calm in his mind — and mixed in with it all an urge to put an arm around Lenore’s waist, draw her close, share the moment.
She wasn’t there. He looked around, sighted her near the door, sitting by herself on the little landing, one step down to the main level, her knees up, her legs crossed. Even from here they were nice legs.
Sitting in near foetal position, she looked like she might be hugging herself, except for the very full glass of wine she held in front of her with both hands.
“Hey.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say.
She looked up. “Take me home.” Her eyes met his. “Please George.”
41
SUNSET. THAT MOMENT BETWEEN TWO WORLDS, when day and night meet and shake hands over the western horizon, when it’s not one and not the other; a time when the exceptional becomes possible. Richard understood this, not completely, but enough to know that if he put thoughts out, those thoughts or prayers would flow through the gap of space and time, between dark and light, and travel. He did not pray to God or the Creator. He prayed to something greater than those simple concepts. He had no delusions about a bearded man sitting on a throne throwing lightning bolts at him. He needed his prayers to reach the farthest possible, but he didn’t really have a name for it.
Long ago he’d prayed, “Creator, God (whether you are a woman or a man), Jehovah, Great Spirit, Great Mystery, Allah, Buddha, the force that flows across the universe, the force that holds the universe together, life, whoever wrote our original instructions, our DNA codes, I am just a man and do not have the capacity to understand you in your entirety, yet I want to talk to you. I seek to know you more and know I can never know all of you. When I talk to you, when I put my thoughts out to you, what name should I call you by?”
He’d never received a concrete reply, no single word ever entered his mind in response. Instead he’d experienced an overwhelming sense of peace and calm, wherein he’d heard his own heartbeat, his own breath rising and falling in rhythm. Joy had been the best word to describe this otherwise indescribable thing. His communication had been successful. But he still did not have a name for that which he sought to understand.
Now when he put his thoughts out there, when he prayed — if you could call what he did prayer — he first tried to find that space, that place of calm and peace, and once he was there, which was becoming easier and easier every time he did it, he started out with a simple, “Hey you . . . ” or more often just, “Hey . . . ”
“Hey, this is me, this is Richard. Thank you for this beautiful day . . . ” No matter what the weather had been that day, no matter what might have happened. If he was alive at the end of it, it was a beautiful day. “Thank you for my life.”
Sometimes his mind wandered as he communicated, went down a path parallel to or at odds with what he was putting out there. He didn’t let it frustrate him. He simply caught those thoughts, gently, and continued putting his words into the great mystery.
He was getting good at it, enjoyed it. He looked forward to sunset and sometimes waited awake through the last hours of dark before sunrise in anticipation of when he would go to his special place and connect with something wondrous. It made a difference to both his day and his night. He slept better and he walked gentler. He paid attention to where the sun was, where the moon was, and the relationship between the two.
It was cloudy, high, thin clouds blocked the sun. He judged its position by the light, by its intensity, or rather its lack of intensity. Maybe another half hour, he guessed, until sunset. What would he pray for tonight? Blessings for the Ashram, its people, blessings for the environment, for the earth, for all its inhabitants, for the microbes that looked after the soil, for the life that came from there, for Lenore.
He took out Virgil’s book. He’d loaned it to Lenore, but she hadn’t taken it with her when she left. He’d found it again on the little shelf by the bed. Maybe she wasn’t interested. Maybe she’d been simply in a rush when the Net came back up. Now it was something to fill these last minutes of the day. He flipped through randomly through well-worn pages with his thumb and let the flutter of paper stop near the middle of the book where he began to read:
It is a hard thing to do, to stay in the moment, stay always in the now. We were given a mind with the capacity to imagine. With this wonderful mind of ours we can go into the past and into the future. But we were not given it so that we could wallow in regret or waste our lives with hope. We have the ability to remember the past so that we learn from our mistakes, so that we learn action and consequence. We can imagine the future so that we understand that whatever we do in this moment will have repercussions later.
A mind is not an easy thing to control. Its only limits are those we impose. Left to itself, it will seek out its potential. It will remember and it will anticipate. Perhaps when it goes into the future we should use it to look back on where we are. Whatever the crisis we find ourselves in in the moment, it is going to look different if we project ourselves into the future and look back on it. What will the circumstance of your now look like in a hundred days? Probably smaller, not so urgent? What will it look like in a hundred months? Maybe something to be smiled at. In a hundred years, will it have any significance at all?
And if our mind takes us into the past, perhaps we might look forward from there to here and ask, “What did I hope for then for myself now?” because even though it is always better not to get caught up in hope, not depend upon it, not abandon now for it, our minds have such capacity and, despite our best efforts, we will hope. It is part of who we are; it simply should never be all, or most, of who we are. Use it. When your mind takes you into the past, remember what your hopes were then, and come back to this moment to see if they have been realized.
Richard closed the book, his finger marking the passage. If he was to hope, what would he hope for?
42
HE DIDN’T HAVE TIME TO DECIDE what it was that he hoped for; Geneva interrupted. “Katherine has a cold.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I said Katherine has a cold.”
“Where is she?” Richard was thinking: Colds aren’t common, people die from colds, she needs to be isolated. Colds spread. A lot of people could die.
“I’ve got it. She’s home.” To Richard this meant she was at the Earthship along with four other women, which then meant that there were four more at risk. “I’m looking for somewhere for Tasha to stay.”
“Of course.” That was obvious. She could stay with him. “What about the others, what about you?”
“Got it covered. Tasha is here with you, Emily is in with Walter and Dianne, Vivienne jumped ship at the first sniffle, she’s gone to her sister’s apartment across town.”
“And you?”
“I’m going to stay and look after her.”
“Are you sure, Geneva?” What he was really asking was: Are you ready to risk your life for her?
“I’m an old woman. I’m eighty-six years old. Seen lots, done lots.” There was a distinct finality to her voice. She was not to be argued with.
Tasha moved in, threw a little pack onto the cot. Gave a quick, “Thanks Richard,” and left. All she needed was a bed, she didn’t need his company. She was always like that: curt, decisive, and direct. He didn’t know her well, thought about it, realized he didn’t know her at all, probably no one did.
A cold. Damn. There was no cure for a cold. There was nothing to be done. Absolutely no sense in taking Katherine to a medical centre. They’d just isolate her until she died then sterilize and cremate the body. Much better that she died in her own bed. At least Geneva would be there.
Richard paced. She might not die. Some people pulled through. Maybe it wasn’t that serious a strain. Maybe it was one of those cold bugs from before they began messing with cold bugs. He knew it wasn’t. That never happened. If someone got a cold it was always the killer strain, the one they’d accidentally created when they tried to manipulate the virus, played with its DNA. They’d actually sold it to people, promised the cure to the common cold. Bastards. He kicked the ground because there was nothing else to kick, sent a little clod of earth flying.
“Aw, man. Oh man.” He felt the hurt beneath the anger. “What to do?” And the answer, of course, was nothing. Nothing could be done.
He found himself at the buffalo pens, slipped through the pole fence to walk among them. He hadn’t planned on coming here. He’d been walking around angry and when the anger dissipated he found himself among these animals. Maybe that’s how it happened. Maybe his anger brought him here, or maybe he knew somehow that anger couldn’t survive for long among them.
The rock where the buffalo rubbed themselves sat in a hollow gouged by hooves and large bodies that rolled and tossed. Most people believe that they rubbed against the rock to relieve an itch, that it was just a scratching rock, a louse killer. Richard had formed a different idea. He’d watched them and it didn’t seem like that was what they were doing. It seemed more like they were trying to get closer to the rock; they rubbed against it the way a cat rubs against a person’s leg, but not quite. Cats rub against people to put their scent on them, to mark their territory, to say this person belongs to me. Buffalo came to the rock to get closer to it somehow; it was more ceremonious, something akin to worship, as though the rock was an altar, something sacred, and rubbing was a form of prayer. But those were just his ideas.
He spent the night there with his back to the buffalo’s altar, touched it sometimes, ran a hand over its smooth parts, greasy from the tallow of their hides. He’d found that special place within just before sunset as the light became dim, and he’d spoken to the universe. “Hey you, it’s me, Richard. You know I never ask for anything for myself, all I want is to understand. But today I need a favour. I need some help here. I know you don’t interfere much, let us make our mistakes and adjust the universe accordingly. If you could, if you would, please look after Katherine, give her good health. Help her get through this. And look out for Geneva too, would you?”
The dim light had turned to dark. There was no moon tonight. It was in that final stage, the dying stage. A sliver might show itself before dawn, but not likely given the clouds. With the darkness had come silence and both now felt thick, smothering. There was depth to the darkness, almost solid, so solid that sound didn’t penetrate. Occasionally a buffalo stirred, moved around, something blacker than the night; something, it seemed to him, only slightly more real than the dark.
He stayed, not moving, waiting perhaps, waiting for light. He pulled his knees up and hugged them for warmth in the last hours before dawn, sat huddled and shivering. There was no reason not to go to his cabin and the warmth of his bed. He thought about it. No reason at all to stay here. But it didn’t seem right. It seemed better to be here with the buffalo at their altar.
He tried to imagine what Katherine might be going through. It wasn’t good.
Twenty-four hours, they said. Twenty-four hours was all it took. Quick. One day good — a sniffle, a little cough — and the next day gone. Today, after the sun came up, today she would walk out of the Earthship, or they would carry her out. He tried not to hope, consciously tried to stay in the moment, in the dark, feel the cold on his skin, the moisture in the air, but he couldn’t. The moment always turned to daylight, to hope.
He spoke again to the universe in those moments of light as the sun began to rise. “Hey you, thank you for everything, thank you for today. Know what I’d like to see today? I’d like to see Geneva and Katherine today, that’s what I’d like.”
And he did. Early afternoon she came out, Geneva at her elbow. “I needed some sunshine.” Katherine’s voice was a bit weak still, but she was obviously past the worst of it. Geneva helped her into a reclining lawn chair. She leaned it back and stretched out full in the heat of the sun. “Now I know why they call it a cold. It felt like my bones were in a freezer, just couldn’t get warm.”
“Do you need anything?” Richard was the only one near other than Geneva. The rest of the Ashram kept back, out of range of a cough or a sneeze.
“Yeah,” she sat up, “my hair feels a mess. Could you get me a brush?”
“Just happen to have one.” And he did. In the pack, the pack that he carried everywhere, that had become so much a part of him.
He’d intended to offer the brush to her, simply hand it over, but when he got to her chair and looked down at her sitting there, still weak, slouched slightly, he changed his mind and began to brush her hair. It was one of those things, unplanned, a simple act of kindness, that changed both of their lives forever.
Raven remembers his cousins Huginn and Muninn, the ravens of Odin. They sat on his shoulders and spoke into his ear. They told the God King all the happenings, all the doings of men. They were his spies; flew out into the world and gathered the gossip, gathered the lies. But more than the words, more than the mutterings, Huginn and Muninn could hear the thoughts, hear the silent cries, hear the hate that burned behind men’s eyes. They returned and croaked in whispers, of words and deeds, spoken, thought, and done.
And sometimes, very rare, a Shaman man did seek to learn their language, speak their tongue and learn from them who flew the whole world, one wise word to use. One word from Huginn, one word from Muninn, to change the shape of things, to shift between the worlds of man and beyond.
Raven remembers those old times, those days of Odin, when men sought to learn his language, to speak, to converse, and to learn.
43
NOT LIKE THIS.
They shouldn’t have done it like this.
They should have gotten Robert Lane to summon her to his office, sit her down, show her the video and then tell her in person.
But this, this was an insult, to send her a message.
Someone didn’t have the courage to say it to her face.
Conflict of interest, bullshit.
Richard wasn’t a conflict.
Lenore closed her platform carefully, deliberately, not slamming it on the desk, not letting her anger rise. But it wasn’t all anger. There was hurt there as well.
And there was no signature to the message. It came from no one, from higher up, a superior with no name. And the evidence was a video of her and Richard in the Blackwater Café. Not disputable. A video of her going to the Ashram.
Conflict of interest because he had a criminal record, and because she had prosecuted him.
Continued association with the subject can have permanent repercussions with regard to your appointment as a prosecutor. Conduct yourself accordingly.
It wasn’t right. They didn’t know Richard. Didn’t know anything about him other than he had a criminal record and that she had stayed charges against him.
She picked up the platform to read the message again, to make sure those were the exact words.
But no.
She changed her mind and put it down again without opening it. The truth was there was a conflict, but it was inside herself. Continued association with the subject would have repercussions for her and George.
Maybe the reprimand was a good thing.
A blessing.
Did George know?
Probably not.
Confidential communication from head office, encrypted, sterile. Maybe it was better this way, that they didn’t have Robert Lane do it — the less people who knew, the better.
