Origination R.E. Blakeslee
ORIGINATION
By R. E. Blakeslee
***
Smashword Edition
ISBN 978-1615845835
www.reblakeslee.com
Copyright © 2009 by R. E. Blakeslee
All Rights Reserved.
Lillibridge Press
www.lillibridgepress.com
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without permission in writing from the publisher.
Cover by Rebecca Price
www.rebeccaprice.com
Editing by Barbara Friend Ish and Cael Keegan
Dear Reader,
This tale primarily takes place in Buffalo, New York. Yes, some of the locales depicted are real, but I may have moved, renamed or even changed the way they looked to fit my fiction. The characters are figments of my imagination and evolved organically since their “births.”
I would like to mention a number of important people who became invaluable or tutored me in certain areas of this imaginary yarn: Barbara Friend Ish, my story editor and Cael Keegan, my line editor; Beta Readers Ginger Geoffery, Mark Slagle, Marla Wick, and Moira Ragan; Dr. Gary Smith, Ph.D. and Dr. Olga Chernova, Ph.D.—research scientists at Roswell Cancer Institute; Detective Charlie Militello of the Buffalo Police Department; W.A. Hoffman for letting an unknown author quote beautiful words; the friends who listened to me prattle on incessantly about aliens and superheroes; and the Buddha within each of us. Thank you.
I started handwriting the first draft of Origination on May sixth of 2006. It took eight days. Alas, years later it’s ready for people to read—people who wanted a story like this, but were never able to discover one. I hope you take as much pleasure in reading Origination as much as I did in writing it.
R.E. Blakeslee
For my mom and dad who didn’t understand they channeled their inner Buddha when they uttered to me as a youth, “Your life is what you make it.”
We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world.
—Lord Buddha
And that slender siren call wakened the beast of loneliness that had lived within my heart since I first learned that some people are loved and I was not.
—W.A. Hoffman, Raised By Wolves-Brethren
Prologue
Grant stood at the top of the steps, waiting. He glanced up at the suns, shielding his eyes from their brightness as his robe fluttered in the breeze. He didn’t want to be late. How long should he wait? He shifted his vision and noticed Herald striding up the steps. Finally, he had arrived. Grant hadn’t thought he would show and Herald’s eyes illustrated his apprehension. Yet…here he came. They had bonded when younger, but things played differently now. Herald was, after all, a Believer.
When Herald reached the top step he didn’t say hello. In fact, he said nothing at all. They turned, walking through the Corridors of Mahray.
“Are you going to say anything?” Grant thought as they entered, the door closing behind them.
“What do you want to hear?” Herald asked as they passed through the anteroom leading to the Council Chamber. Large, round windows let in the suns’ light, casting intense beams on the floor that were interrupted by their bodies passing through them again and again.
Grant could think of a lot of things to say, but finally thought, “You support us.”
“I don’t, but I’m here.” Herald stopped, turning to look at him. “Brother, is it not enough?”
Grant smiled at him. It was enough…enough for now. It soothed Sylva, their sister, too. The brothers walked on, but neither of them said another word as they came to the door leading to The Tone. Grant placed his hand on the handle and pulled.
“Wait!” Herald’s loud mental thought unnerved him.
Grant looked at his brother. Lines of frustration ran across Herald’s forehead as if he was older than his age. Grant hated seeing them and knowing they were because of him, but there was no other way. Everything in Grant’s being told him this most importantly. He didn’t know why, but he had always known he would do this: voice his thoughts to the Council of Twelve. Grant believed he could only tread this path. He must see where it led for his wife and for his sister, Sylva. Grant’s mind twisted with doubts…doubts about many things, including the validity of The Philosophy.
Grant couldn’t believe in something hindering his people. Besides, his mind would not let him trust those who were in power. Power distorted The Philosophy and its enforcers’ thoughts, which held a group of people down like the two women who meant most to him. The influence the Council of Twelve wielded kept those less knowledgeable in Darkness…Darkness confused for Light.
“Are you sure this is what you want to do?” Herald thought.
An awkward silence hung.
At last Grant replied, “Yes, brother…I must.” Why couldn’t Herald feel the same? Did Herald truly think male and female genetic make-ups so dissimilar? As if one could be less than another.
Grant pulled the door open and entered; Herald walked beside him, but not with Grant. In fact, many times they had discussed The Philosophy and how no woman played a positive role in it. Grant couldn’t get his brother to comprehend his points, points Grant and Sylva understood as flaws—as did the rest of the Questioners. Why was the woman mentioned in The Philosophy deemed misguided, or—worse yet—a maligned temptress eating all things corporeal? A fiend? Of course, there were women in the secret society of Questioners, but few. Most were married off when young girls and it was not uncommon for men to have multiple wives. If they spoke of freedom, they were quickly silenced, and harshly.
Grant knew his people followed an unbalanced path; he could feel it in the air. When the Questioners had “spoke” out before, they were silenced. The Council of Twelve saw to it. And now…two thousand years had passed and the Questioners could be silent no longer.
Grant wanted nothing more than for his brother to understand their sister’s plight and his wife loved him more for it—he was sure. When Grant tried to talk to Herald it seemed as if boyhood conditioning took over and Herald couldn’t comprehend anything else. Or if by chance he did, the suns might no longer warm their lunar home. Grant knew one day the suns would die out, not because of what he or anyone else believed or didn’t, but because everything must end…even The Philosophy.
They headed toward The Tone, a domed semi-circular well, for several steps. Herald finally stopped, but Grant walked on, toward the Council of Twelve. He heard nothing in his mind but a stark, cold silence.
Grant paused at the first step and took a deep breath…and again. His foot hit the top stair with an unexpected click and a shudder of fear ran over him as he realized the only sound would be his audible descent into The Tone. Grant looked down and before he knew it stood at the bottom of the steps. He walked to the middle of The Tone and the light, which fell from the aperture at the apex of the sacrosanct room, washed him in its bright, brilliant beam.
He looked up and through the veil of brightness, seeing the male members of the Council of Twelve. They stood along the perimeter of The Tone, towering and stationary. Their long, rippling robes looked like pillars upon which their heads sat as if locked in the position. Locked…locked with no means by which to escape their hard-as-stone stance.
“The Council of Twelve identifies Grant of Mahray,” said a voice clearly and aloud.
Grant knew the Supreme Chancellor spoke audibly. His voice resonated in the empty room, strong and echoing. Grant didn’t know what to say even though he had practiced his vocalizations over and over again. The words were lost as if he had swallowed too hard and they were in the pit of his stomach, trapped. Perhaps if he threw up the words would come out with his lunch in one great heave.
“I…I have doubts about sending the Seed to the blue planet,” he spoke loudly. The sound reverberated in his ears, seeming like it could crumble the foundation they stood upon.
“Do you mean questions?” asked the Supreme Chancellor. The low rumble of his voice unnerved Grant and his stomach shuddered. Maybe he would throw up after all.
Finally he said, “Not questions, doubts… A great many of them.”
A silence ensued as each of the councilors wordlessly spoke to one another, their mental conversation jumbled and chaotic. Grant had learned as a boy only to come into an exchange when mentally prompted and he was not invited into theirs now, but it didn’t matter. Besides, he could guess what they were saying. They had “shouted” it out time and time again until only a shred of it rang true.
“Tell us, Grant… What are your doubts?”
He knew they would ask this question and he would answer it. He could not lie either. They would sense. They could probe his mind and he would not be able to hide it from them. Some of the elder Questioners spoke of the Searches done by the Council of Twelve long ago. The council kept it hidden from the masses, but Grant knew they probed some of their minds deep enough to kill. He could be somewhat honest without telling all he thought. If they accepted his first query it would not come to it. If only he could be completely candid, but they didn’t want openness. Openness would upset the status quo. They would not stand for it… They would not allow it… Knowing frightened Grant. Not because they could probe his mind if they wanted, but because they could silence him as all the women of his moon. For Grant, having no voice terrified him.
Grant lifted his chin, gazing at them. They were far above and unreachable. His hearts thudded. Even if it didn’t change the council’s minds, he must use his voice. He must.
“The beings of the blue planet are primitive. Only recently did they split the atom, living in fear of it destroying them,” Grant said. His voice became strained, maybe because he couldn’t remember the last time he used it, or the fear in his stomach had worked its way back into his throat. He swallowed hard. “They are selfish! They are deceitful! They harbor hatred against their own species. They eat the living inhabitants of their own planet. Many of their gods have stated they should not kill, but they are unaware and think it only means themselves.”
The councilors converged again, silently speaking to one another. Grant hoped the excuse would work. If it didn’t he would be forced to push them further and prepared to do so—even if it took a stronger voice against sending the Seed. His brother’s forehead laced with worry. Grant wondered if Herald wished he had no brother or sister at all.
“Those concepts have validity. Yes they do. However, the Council of Twelve does not concede this without many hours of deliberation,” said the Supreme Chancellor.
“How can it be your decision? It has only been three hundred years since we have realized the Seed is extraterrestrial. We do not really know what happened here and we do not understand the full extent of the Seed’s power. We do not even know if He will find it.”
The councilors looked to be in a state of meditation, but did not appear to be calm. Their eyes moved frenetically through half-shut lids.
“He must be one of the Questioners,” thought the councilor to the left of the Supreme Chancellor.
Grant’s hearts pounded harder and his breath came faster, perhaps because the councilors all turned at once to look down on him for listening.
“Impossible. His generation has never heard of them,” thought the Supreme Chancellor. He opened his eyes fully, glaring at Grant.
“The Philosophy, written through the divine inspiration of The Betylos, is clear,” said the Supreme Chancellor aloud. “We, the people of Mahray, must help as The Betylos did. Is it not what all believe?”
So here it was… All.
Grant turned, visually following the stairs up to his brother. Herald’s hands were folded at his waist and he did not look at Grant, but at the councilors. Where was Sylva? He knew precisely…deep in the forest where she spent most of her time. Sylva couldn’t be in here. Women did not have a voice, not since it happened all those years ago. Grant stood in front of them—alone, but not alone. Sylva and his wife were here with him, but that wasn’t really true either. He stood here with all of Mahray’s women…as if for judgment.
“Not everyone believes every part of The Philosophy. What does divine inspiration truly mean? Words sometimes have more than one meaning. No one here lived when Betylos inhabited this world.”
“In this sanctum you will refer to him as The Betylos. For the wrath of such blasphemy can be great.”
“I believed once in The Tone I could speak freely. Has this changed?”
A brief silence ensued.
“Of course it has not,” said the Supreme Chancellor. “Although what is said here is not forgotten once The Tone is silent.”
Oh, and Grant knew it. He knew it all too well and so did the few who were like him, as did all the women of Mahray. “My fear is great. Those of us who find speciousness in The Philosophy must not be silenced.”
“The fringe…will always be heard.” The Supreme Chancellor smiled. “But I hear your questions.”
Grant’s anger rose and he struggled to keep it in check. “It is difficult to hear a quiet voice of reason over the programmed roar of dim masses.” Grant wished he hadn’t said it. Maybe he had said too much. He couldn’t help himself.
“I knew! A Questioner,” thought the councilor to the Supreme Chancellor’s left.
From his right, “We should perform a Search to be sure this is speculation,” said another.
And before Grant knew it—it started. A piercing pain, which began at the top of his head, bore down on him. The Council of Twelve now worked in unison and it hurt like nothing Grant could have imagined. They probed and for a moment he thought he might lose consciousness. But still the Search went on…
“The Betylos—messiah, from above he came,” Grant thought. “Took our sorrow and left no blame.” The council continued the Search, driving their mental probe into him deeper…burning. “He, our liberator, in darkness shone,” Grant thought, his heart racing and thumping. Deeper they went and he fell to his knees, placing his hand on the cold, hard floor. “Mahray united, one people, one tone.”
“There is nothing here,” thought the Supreme Chancellor. “He is not a Questioner.”
The pain ended immediately. Grant steadied himself, relief filling his body. After a moment or two he stood, gazing up at them—grateful they hadn’t searched too deeply. He knew it could have been worse, much worse, but at least he had kept the Questioners’ identities safe.
“We have heard your opinion and it is valued, Grant of Mahray,” said the Supreme Chancellor; the other councilors nodded. “But the Council of Twelve is in agreement. Their time has arrived. The natives of the blue sphere need an expression of their personality before their collective implodes. If light did not appear to us—would we have identified the weak half of our whole?” asked the Supreme Chancellor. “Only when we tempered it did it comply.”
“Just because you believe something does not make it so,” Grant said.
“We wonder… How could someone who has studied The Philosophy we have cultured dismiss it without difficulty?” asked the Supreme Chancellor.
“I do not believe something that happened millennia ago belongs here and now, let alone sent to another planet and forced to be adhered to by the unsuspecting. We do not know if it will work.” Grant glanced up at each member. “I ask the Council of Twelve: who can say they truly understand The Philosophy? It is ambiguous at best. Even among you there is disagreement to its exact meaning.”
“We gave our verdict,” said the Supreme Chancellor. The Council of Twelve immediately turned one by one and left The Tone.
***
Later that night on the fifth moon, Mahray, which orbited the second gas planet in the binary star system, Leonis—the Mahrain males bent their minds to one communal task. The Ritual. However this ritual would be different than any other. Tonight they would send the Seed, which they had been preparing to do for centuries. The members of the Council of Twelve formed a circle around the Altar, a prelude to the Ritual. Grant and Herald were also there, a part of this rite as their ancestors had practiced before them. However, Sylva was not. No women could be.
Grant lit incense around the Altar that cradled the ancient Seed: a small stone of Lapigate, over which Mahray’s most revered Monks and Hierophants spoke invocations and signaled ciphers.
Grant could hear the male lunar inhabitants begin the Chant, an ancient eclogue, flowing on the wind through forests and meadows—filling the air. The Supreme Chancellor walked up on to the mount, beginning his oration.
“Millennia ago The Betylos appeared to us,” thought the Supreme Chancellor.
Grant stood disgusted. He would have to listen to such nonsense and so many of his people believed it. He wanted to scream out to the masses how foolish they were. Conditioning! Habituation! Taming! But he didn’t. He listened with loathing and couldn’t believe the twisted truth that hindered his people. Believers—believers of mendacity.
“The Betylos helped as many people as he could while here, but he was deceived,” thought the Supreme Chancellor. “A temptress came to him in the night. She seduced him and left him tied to a tree, spent. But his bliss was short-lived… The Betylos awakened as the burning rays of our suns destroyed him. The greatest gift he could give us was also the most costly. Women destroy the Light, but through his memory we found our way out of Darkness. Confidently we send the Seed with The Betylos encapsulated. He will be reborn on the blue planet and remind the men their women are cunning, lustful creatures. Let them embrace The Philosophy as we have.”
The Seed assumed a bluish color, burning brighter and brighter. The Chant reached its climax and the Seed initiated its ascent from its consecrated resting place, drifting ever higher into the atmosphere—driven by their combined minds.
Suddenly, a bright flash of light fractured the dark heavens. And the Seed, filled with its transmissible material, disappeared…on its way to the blue planet and the earthling who would find it.
Chapter One
Origination
Eran ran. The moonlit path he fled along twisted precariously beside the edge of the river. The channel, lined with jagged rocks, some towering and others the size of fists, was nearly as turbulent as the words that flowed through his mind—like it too thought the same things his dad did.
The rain struck Eran’s face, but their splatter did not sting as much as the hand of his dad, which had hit it only minutes before. No matter how hard Eran ran he couldn’t escape the words trailing him…stalking him…hunting him. He would never be what Dad wanted and Eran knew it. Deep inside he guessed he always did. If he stayed and listened to his dad’s words he would be caught in their deep, hateful darkness. A place Eran feared to go, a place he hid from—too murky, too scary.
“You sick, dirty, fuckin’ heathen… You’re no son of mine!”
Again Eran replayed his dad’s words as he struggled to gain breath. Each one he took burned, but his lungs eagerly inhaled another and another. Tree branches seemed to have grown downward to gather him in their grip. Perhaps to drag him to the place he feared to go.
Eran pushed, overtaking each puddle more quickly than the previous until the pain in his side became unbearable. Only then did he stagger and stop, dropping onto a rock beside the waterway. He slumped over, pressing his fingers into the ache in his abdomen as maple leaves dropped large beads of water onto the back of his head. He wiped them away with the back of his hand. Was there salt mixed with them? Yes, he thought as droplets of rainwater flew from his lips with the force of his labored breath.
Dark, tempestuous clouds roiled in front of the moon, plunging the river into shadow and clarity…shadow and clarity. Dirty heathen. Dad had never looked away. He had meant every fiery word of it and could never take it back. Eran had heard it numerous times before. Dappled lunar light created eccentric shapes on the underbrush, a mosaic of joyous brightness and forbidding darkness.
There to his left a small rock flashed from time to time. Would he have missed it if it were any other night in June? It seemed to grow brighter when the clouds drew away from the moon.
He looked away and glanced back. Was he hallucinating? It looked like a stone, but it pulsed a blue and white. In fact, it looked like something from another planet. However, Eran knew it couldn’t possibly be the case. Everything falling from the cosmos stopped glowing when it broke through the atmosphere and struck the ground, didn’t it? He had always thought so.
He stared at the strange thing, perplexed. What made it glow? Who dropped it here? The strange object was barely visible, only the edge showing. The deluge of water must have exposed it. How long had this fantastic thing been here?
Eran reached for it. The odd gleaming rock pulsed harder and began emitting an abnormal melody—almost calling…but for what?
It seemed as if he should know the words to the melody, like he had heard it before. But he couldn’t have, could he? How peculiar. He listened closely, trying to come across the lexis in his mind—a mind he was unsure he understood anymore.
He pulled away from the rock, fearful. Something did not feel right and he didn’t know why. But he did know, with sureness, that something was amiss.
A moment later the aria enraptured Eran again. It sounded completely different from anything he had heard before. It reminded him of a tin whistle or some new woodwind instrument, and its extraordinary melody seemed more hypnotic with the accompaniment of the rain and river.
Eran wiped his right palm on his wet shorts and slowly extended his arm. As if sensing it, the stone burned more brilliantly. He paused abruptly, staring at the strange object, anxious. But the song christened him again. For some reason his fear told him not to touch the stone, but his wonderment urged him to seize it, hold it, and maybe carry it. Against his better judgment, he reached forward, grasping the shimmering rock in his right hand. It was much heavier than he expected, and he rubbed it to clear away the mud and mire that concealed its true beauty.
The circular stone glowed brightly and vibrated rapidly, rising up to float above Eran’s palm. How could this be moving? Was there something inside…something hidden he couldn’t see?
As soon as Eran blinked his eyes, bright indigo symbols began to form on and around the glowing stone. The signs seemed to be spelling out an ancient cryptogram with unfamiliar runes. Dazzling streams of blue and white currents danced sporadically within the secret language. The twisting bi-colored energies could have been mistaken for a sequence of nameless DNA.
Maybe it was some sort of microprocessor, but that was impossible—it looked thousands of years old. The radiant stone continued to beat an astonishingly bright, cerulean light. Where could this have come from? It looked like an ancient ritual object of some kind, but none of the Native American artifacts he had learned about in high school looked like this.
The song reached its ethereal climax and the pulsing lapis and white radiance suddenly vanished along with the vibrations. A flash of fiery light burned up Eran’s arm and into the starlit heavens. He collapsed to the muddy ground.
***
The sun warmed Eran’s face and he squinted when he opened his eyes. He knew it was still early, maybe nine or nine-thirty. He realized where he lay and sat up with a start. What happened? Eran didn’t have any idea. He remembered a bright light and then nothing. Could he have been hit by lightning? He doubted it. It would have stopped his heart or killed him. He looked down at his hand, gazing at the stone he still held.
It did not look ordinary, faintly shimmering an extraordinary shade of blue. He did think it beautiful. It reminded him of Momma’s blue dress. It did not vibrate or make any noise as he studied it more closely. Where did the symbols disappear? When he received no answer he put the stone in his pocket, doubting any of his memories were real at all.
Eran rubbed his eyes to get out the sleep and ran his fingers through his hair, which was plastered to his head, caked with mud. Yuck. Eran twisted when he stood and looked down. This was exactly how Dad saw him—dirty like this.
If Eran ever had a son he wouldn’t talk to him like Dad. Eran paused. Maybe he should stay here. And what, live off the land? He had to go back. He needed stuff. He could go get it and leave. While walking up the hill toward the farm, a plan formed in his mind.
***
Eran strolled through an orchard, spotting a buck as it ate the forbidden fruits. It flitted off into the wood and underbrush; perhaps afraid of the imagined torment Eran might give.
You don’t even hunt. Every Aeggle hunts. I swear you’re the milkman’s baby. You don’t even look like my side of the family or your mother’s. God rest her soul. You got that black hair and blue eyes. Now Bobby…he’s every bit an Aeggle boy. What did Dad want from Eran anyway?
What did looking like the milkman’s baby mean? Dad should say Momma cheated on him. But Eran knew Momma would never do it. She was perfect the way he remembered her.
A half-hour later the southern cow pasture came into view. Eran let the tops of the tall, tufted timothy grasses brush under his palms as a small rabbit scurried into its burrow. Perhaps it too was frightened by Eran. The little thing had better stay in its hole because things die out here. Everything dies, leaves or doesn’t love anymore. He had learned it a long time ago. But being left didn’t hurt nearly as bad as not being loved.
Eran was only ten when she left, January 26th 2067, and Dad didn’t hug him or kiss him that day or on any day after. In fact, shortly after he had started to hit Eran. The worst part wasn’t the slaps or punches, but the things he said when he did it and the look of revulsion seeping from his eyes. How many times had he said he wished Eran dead and Momma still alive? Eran had lost count. Get me another beer, or you’re to be seen and not heard, Dad would say. Eran hid countless bruises “being seen” created. It happened constantly—night after night—until he began to hide in his room, busying his mind in botany books.
The sound of a truck speeding up the road snapped Eran out of his walking dream and back to reality. He crawled between the barbed-wire fence and out of the pasture.
Bellinsbridge Road had recently been tarred and the light gray stones the road workers spread on top already had sunk into the blackness. Eran could smell the fumes of the dark viscous substance; on hot days the baking sun created bubbles with the tar. He smiled at the thought of the sound his orange bike used to make as it popped them. He must have only been six or seven.
In the middle of the road Eran saw a vision of Momma. She radiated a happiness that sparkled in her eyes. Remarkable. Wasn’t that the way parents should be? He would never have learned to ride his bike if she hadn’t been there pressing him forward, encouraging him. He would remember the day forever…the day he did something on his own with just a tender touch from her. He reluctantly turned away from the illusory image and walked up the driveway, noticing the sweet smell of the last of the violet lilacs still blooming. Even though Momma wasn’t there he remembered she loved them.
Eran quietly crept into the house, listening for any signs of life, but heard none. He walked out of the mudroom and into the kitchen. There…tacked to the doorframe, hung a note. Heathen scrawled in bright orange marker filled the page. He could tell Bobby had written it.
Eran couldn’t stay here. His dad and older brother respected no one, least of all him. He could not be a part of this family. Family? They didn’t understand the meaning of it.
What could he do? He didn’t know anyone but them. How could he look at them again when he would see it in their eyes? He listened closely as he walked down the hall to the bathroom.
Eran shut the door behind him, opening it again when he realized he might not hear them if they came home. He set the stone on the sink. It looked less alive there, if it were possible for a stone to look alive.
Eran quickly peeled off his dirty clothes and showered, periodically peeking his head out—listening. Then he got out and toweled off.
Eran noticed his reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall and his stomach began to tense and shake. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He walked up to the mirror, peering closer. The image appeared to be someone else’s. Two separate identical brands marked each of his shoulder blades. Each dark, blue tattoo had two parallel horizontal lines and above each line were two precisely spaced dots of the same color like a barcode on a book.
“Goddess…they’re burns,” Eran said aloud. Horrified, he ran his fingers over them as if a sort of ancient Braille, which he had never mastered.
Panic filled his abdomen and he wanted to run, but Eran looked over at the blue stone. What did it do to me?
He could never tell anyone how he had gotten the tattoos. Besides, who would believe him if he did? He didn’t know if he believed it himself.
Eran needed to rush: Dad wouldn’t be gone long. Who knew where Bobby was? Eran hurried to his room, dressed in a flash and grabbed his bag from beneath his bed.
He brushed up against the bookcase holding his small collection of botany books. The Gaia Theory sat prominently as the largest hardcover on the shelf. Long ago, he had made a tight plastic cover for it and often took it with him when he hiked. Eran delicately opened the book and the Alluvium Institute brochure inside the dust jacket rested exactly where it always did. Safe.
Eran wanted to leave and he only needed a tent. He put it in the pack with the book and pamphlet before he zipped it. This would be the last time he would see any of this. Oh, he almost forgot! He gathered the sixty dollars he had saved in an old coffee-can from haying, stuffing it into his pocket.
He walked out of his room and down the hall. He stopped and looked at the picture of Momma, which hung on the wall. She wore her favorite blue dress; the same one she wore when she visited Eran in his dreams. He took the portrait off the wall, bent the pins holding the glass in place and slipped it into his bag. No way could he leave without her.
Eran left the house on Bellinsbridge Road, letting the door close behind him. It bounced open and slammed again. A shudder of fear ran up his back, but he forced it away. He realized he’d never have to look back, checking to see if Dad ran after him, his anger and hatred blazing. A beast.
The long walk over the hill to Lansing, the place where he could get a transport to Buffalo, would take some time. Dad and Bobby had seen the last of him. Eran didn’t care what they thought. He would get accepted at the Alluvium Institute.
***
Moonbeams lit the dirt road Eran traveled, but it somehow now seemed different than when he walked it in daylight. A loud crack to the left edge of the wood scared him. He jerked toward it, seeing only pine, black walnut and maple trees. Something shrieked farther off and he shrugged, throwing off his mind’s eye, which wanted to turn it into a fiend in the darkness—like Dad at bedtime when he drank too much.
Eran kept walking, but at a faster pace. After a while his mind eased, as did his feet. He contemplated Dad and the loneliness of living with him and Bobby. What if Eran needed to come back? How could he ever look at his dad again? He didn’t think he could. He didn’t think he wanted to. Anyway, Dad never wanted to see him again. He had made it perfectly clear. Eran could not care less. He didn’t want to see Dad again either…
Eran set down the backpack on the ground, rubbing his back and the tattoos. He stuffed his hand in his pocket and pulled out the stone. It sparkled along with a prickling sensation he hadn’t felt earlier. He moved his shoulders around to scratch the tattoos against the cotton fabric.
He couldn’t remember it vibrating any other time today, not that he had looked. Eran slid the lustrous stone back in his pocket, pulling up his pack and walking again.
Tupping’s Nature Preserve sat at the crest of Bellinsbridge Road. Eran knew he would not make it to the transport station tonight. He glanced in the direction of Lansing beyond the hill, defeated. He peered apprehensively at the preserve, threw his pack over the barbed wire-fence, crawling between them.
Eran found what seemed like a flat area beside a pond, deciding he would set up his tent there. He needed a fire, but required wood first. He wished he had brought a flashlight. Come to think of it, he wished he had brought a lot more than he did. Stupid. He looked up at the moon, pleased that it shone so brightly.
Eran spotted some brushwood at the edge of the forest that turned out to be connected to a much larger fallen tree. He kicked off some of the smaller branches for kindling. He hoped a few of them remained dry despite the storm last night. The mid-June humidity grew as he worked. When he had finished with a good bit of kindling, he pulled off his shirt, tossing it on the ground to his left.
The moon hung high and bright in the sky, giving off enough light for him to see his likeness in the pond’s water. Bunches of cattail and sphagnum moss softened the edges. The fog bank, thick like creamed soup, the sounds of the midnight forest, and the smell of the loam gave the preserve an unfamiliar feeling as he stared at his reflection. Eran bit one of the biscuits he grabbed off the counter before he left. He had no idea what he would do and thought he might cry. His gaze fell on the biscuit. He’d better save some of it for morning. If he had grabbed more stuff maybe he wouldn’t feel so destitute. Oh well, he couldn’t go back now. He took another small bite, wrapping it back up and tucking it away.
Eran pulled the rock from his pocket again, sitting down in the high grasses. The color it radiated reflected up in to his eyes and he squinted. He wondered what power hid inside it. Was it bioluminescence stuff like in the ocean, or a firefly or something more sinister he could not identify? He didn’t like the thought of the latter, and so believed the former.
Eran continued to watch the little stone for quite a long time, but it did nothing more than glow and he became less interested. He set the pebble on the ground next to his shirt.
Eran stood, moonbeams washing across his shirtless back and the raised, branded tattoos. The annoyance he had felt earlier unexpectedly grew to a fervent fury. He fell to the ground, his insides churning; the pain was like being burned by a white-hot branding iron, except from the inside. He screamed, contorting in agony. As he rolled onto his back the acute torment finally subsided.
Eran stared for quite some time at the vastness of the sky, breathing slowly, attentively. When he felt somewhat better, he rolled over and stood up. The light from the moon illuminated his back for a second time. Something pierced the skin of his left shoulder like an incisor, and then repeated on the right. He howled in anguish—terror.
Whatever had connected to him forced its way deeper into his flesh, and he could barely stand with the extra weight added to his body. Fear kept him from turning to gaze at where the hurt might originate.
The explosive pain probed deeper as tears steadily rolled down his face. Eran lurched to his knees, but caught himself with his hands as another eruption of pain arrived. He closed his eyes, pressing them as if squeezing tighter might make the agony diminish. He couldn’t take much more. He was on the verge of passing out when the torment suddenly ended.
Eran panted for air on all fours, terrified to move. He didn’t want to open his eyes, it would start again…somehow he knew it.
After the throbbing faded, he gained a sense of perspective. The weeds scratched his face, making him more conscious of the pain’s cessation. He got himself up into a standing position, never opening his eyes. What had latched on to him? For the life of him he didn’t know and was horrified to find out.
Eran, little by little, opened his eyes. A great burning light blinded him. It appeared to be emanating from everywhere behind his body. He blinked several times before his eyes adjusted and he could make out the tree line. Everything behind his body radiated light, as if vents had opened in his back and his inner body had magically developed into illuminated diamonds. What moments ago had been in darkness became visible.
Steadily gaining his bearings, Eran turned, apprehension filling his mind. This was a dream… This could not be reality… He stared at a pair of flickering ten-foot, imposing blue-white wings. His mirror image in the naturally moonlit pool entranced him.
They appeared translucent, yet looked solid. The newly formed wings seemed to be on fire, but weren’t ablaze. They vibrated somewhat like the stone and their interior mass of lapis and white shifted as if made of smoke, merging and scattering.
The wings did not have a definite outline: they looked like a picture constantly being painted and effaced, but never quite gone. Every so often a piece of one of their edges cleaved off, dissolving into the night air, mist-like. Eran’s skin had turned from tanned to white—snow white, but glassy like a pearl.
Suddenly the rock began to hum a different song than it had the night before. The notes of this were strung differently, yet similarly. He turned to stare at it, anxious.
The pain began at once, less intense than the wings’ entrance, but still excruciating. As the note rose in tone, the wings began to extend, stretching as if bound for eons and eager to be free.
“No more,” Eran screamed, “No more. Please…”
Eran trembled violently, overwhelmed as the throbbing wings broadened. When they reached their zenith he thought he might collapse. They came back towards his body and settled, moving in and out when he inhaled or exhaled, steadying him.
As suddenly as it had begun the humming rock ceased its song. A concentrated stream of radiance erupted from the stone, shooting to the night sky. Eran stood motionless and terrified at the thought of what might happen next.
Eran watched the light puzzled when the unimaginable happened. What the? This was impossible… This couldn’t be, this couldn’t be. A man appeared. He walked out of the brightness and onto the long blades of grass.
“My Betylos,” he said, looking directly into Eran’s eyes and bowing.
Eran stared at him. The seven-foot man wore long, silver hair, which he wrapped up around his head like a turban. Some tendrils had fallen out of the mass as if from a storm. His eyes could not be human… Human eyes aren’t completely black with white centers.
The man seemed to be about eighty years old, maybe even ninety. He looked eerily human. The stranger wore a white linen robe, and the embroidery along its edges sparkled a bluish hue. The man had tied up his dressing gown with a thick sapphire cord. After a brief moment of eerie silence, the man approached him. Eran stumbled backward.
“Do not be frightened.”
“Well, I am. How did you come out of light? Why do I look like this? Who are you?”
“I am Herald. I come from the moon, Mahray. Our people sent the Seed. You are The Betylos.”
“What?” Eran had no idea what this guy was talking about. All of this extraordinary information and pain had nauseated him. “My name is Eran, Eran Aeggle.”
“You are The Betylos until the day you cease. The Seed filled you when you picked it up. Origination! The labor must have been violent. Your species has a more delicate body than ours.”
“Seed?”
Herald pointed to the shimmering rock lying in the grasses.
Eran looked at the Seed. “Are you saying it impregnated me?”
“You seem bothered by the concept.”
“Guys don’t get pregnant. Women do.”
“The Philosophy is clear. Men are the originators. Women are hosts.”
It seemed like a strange way to look at it, but Eran couldn’t respond. He didn’t know about their philosophy. Finally he said, “What am I going to do with a pair of wings?”
“Valued so lightly?” Herald asked, cocking his head a little. “These are not hollow bird wings. They will provide you with speed no other sentient mortal can match.”
Eran walked away from Herald towards the wood. Multiple questions boomed in the front of Eran’s mind and he didn’t know what to ask. Dew droplets on a trillium reflected the light from the moon. Eran unexpectedly noticed its sapphire color as it melded into the green of the stem. Color? He saw multiple shades of green blanketing the wood’s floor.
Eran stared back at the flower, and then into the forest, amazed. He marveled at the countryside, turning back. The Allegany Mountains looked as if the sun was ready to set, but it should have been pitch black on top of the hill. He could see all the colors of daylight, but flatter—like a watercolor painting fading in the sunshine. A strange thought occurred to him. “How do you know English?”
“Come now, you don’t think I came without studying your language. Simple grunts and groans strung together. Not very difficult.”
“Of course,” Eran said, unsure if he was being insulted.
“One further thing you must know before I depart,” Herald said. “The intense brightness provided by the orange star of this solar system can burn off your wings entirely. Just as on Mahray…you will surely die.”
Eran stared at him. “I can never go out in the sunshine? I should have had a say in this!” he spat furiously, walking off towards the edge of the forest. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? I want to be a botanist. Don’t you think I’ll need to go out in the sunlight?”
“Forgive me. I think you misinterpret.”
Eran stopped, but didn’t turn around. He stared out into the wood a few yards ahead of Herald.
“Your wings can be veiled anytime you desire.”
“What do you mean?” Eran asked as he pivoted back to look at Herald, the wings shifting behind him.
“They can be hidden within,” Herald explained, pulling up the sleeves of his robe. Eran walked back towards him, guarded.
“I need you to explain. How do I do it?” Eran inquired.
“Single-pointed thought.”
“Single-pointed thought,” Eran reiterated.
“Your conversion is almost complete,” he said and turned, vanishing into the light beam emanating from the stone.
Eran stared at the Seed. What does single-pointed thought mean? Why did Herald think Eran was Betylos? He was just Eran. Further more, what was a Betylos? Why would they send the Seed here anyway? So many questions flooded his mind, but no answers.
Eran stared at his reflection in the water for what seemed like an eternity. His goal had been Lansing; he only sought a transport ticket to Buffalo. He needed a job and he wanted to go to the Alluvium Institute. So far some crazy-ass guy had told him about women being hosts and concentration. He didn’t believe it. Momma was just Momma, not a host. And another thing, Eran didn’t want wings. He didn’t want any of this. He should have been asked… How dare someone try to make someone into something he couldn’t be? He was already different. Why add to it?
Mind-boggling. Surely Eran dreamed…this couldn’t actually be real. Could it? How could he see the bright green color of the salvinia and water lettuce at night if it weren’t?
Eran gazed at his reflection in the pond. The wings radiated extreme amounts of light behind him. They looked extraordinary. He moved his shoulders back and forth. The wings stimulated the air, mesmerizing him. Their movement sounded like the crackle of charged static energy.
He reached up and ran his fingers over one of them. The energy tingled his fingertips like a bizarre electrical current, cool to the touch, but not cold. He looked at his reflection once more, unsure of who or what looked back.
Eran sat down in the grasses, staring out over the tops of them. The moon looked on its way to setting.
***
Eran stood at the bottom of the hill, watching the river water as it fell from far above, splattering out and off the rocks at the waterfall’s base. After a moment or two, he sat on a craggy outcrop just below and off to the left of the bank. It’s a beautiful night, almost magical, he thought, gazing up into the night sky. Hessle, the third moon, shone brightly, Gom peeked out from behind it. The others wouldn’t be up for a few more hours. Across the sky a meteor streaked above him, but it didn’t burn orange like the ones he had seen before. It glowed blue and he watched incredulously as it landed not fifty feet or so from the base of the waterfall.
Without a moment’s thought, Eran stood, walking toward where the strange thing seemed to have landed. It took him several moments to find it because there were no scorch marks, broken trees or burning bushes pointing out its descent, which seemed odder. The only reason he found the meteorite at all was because it still glowed, not red or orange and burning like Ows, their first sun, but blue like their second smaller star, Blawu. When it started to hum and sing an enchanting melody he had never heard before, he walked closer, picking it up.
Captivated by the extraordinary rock, which surely should have burned him; he fell to the ground, holding it. Visions of strange places he never visited stirred his mind, and then a name filled him like a hunger finally fed: Betylos.
***
Whose memory was that? Eran had no idea, but he did know it was not his. Perhaps it was the real Betylos’ and he had somehow inherited it when he picked up the Seed. Eran noticed that the moon was ready to set and fear filled him. He remembered Herald had said, “The intense brightness provided by the orange star of this solar system can burn your wings off entirely. Just as on Mahray…you will surely die.”
The sun would be up in a few hours. What if Eran couldn’t make them go away? Would he die? He stood, scared. Okay, Herald said single-pointed thought. Was Eran to think of concealing the wings or what? Herald didn’t say what to think. Eran went with hiding the wings…it made sense. He tried to focus on the wings, only the wings.
Pain erupted in a devastating fury, transporting Eran to a new reality. Horror swiftly overcame him, as he understood what Herald had meant when he said the conversion was almost complete. Eran fell to his knees, clenched his teeth, bracing himself for the “birth” to conclude.
***
Eran woke to the sound of buzzing. Bees and butterflies sucked nectar from the wild, blue phlox and Indian paintbrush nearby. He lay shirtless and sore in a circle of crushed needle grass. He struggled to get to his feet. The sun had come out, which meant he hadn’t died. Thank Goddess.
Eran picked up his shirt, shaking it to remove the dust. Well, he guessed he needed this. He slipped the strange rock in to his pocket. Not even out of Farmington and already in a fine mess. Another thing Dad could hate about him. Not that Dad needed another reason.
Eran repacked the tent and the rest of his stuff. Too bad Herald hadn’t told him how to fly. He didn’t want to walk or take a transport.
The trek of fifteen miles from the top of Tupping’s Nature Preserve to the station in Lansing could take its toll. Eran kept a steady pace as he walked, his eyes focused on the road. His skin had looked astonishingly beautiful and white last night, almost like a Casablanca lily. Bobby would never have been able to take such pain. Eran pressed his chest out a bit more than usual. Every once in a while he would look up and name a flower or a bush in sight. He had invented the game long ago. He called it Botany Bingo.
Eran arrived at the transport station at three-thirty and bought a ticket to Buffalo for thirty-five dollars. The next transport didn’t leave until nine, so he needed to waste some time.
Eran purchased a couple of hot dogs from a street vendor. He sat on the dikes of the Allegany River, pulled the Seed from his pocket and studied it. How could he get Herald to come back? Maybe it was like the wings and he could only come out at night. Eran ate his second hot dog then put his backpack behind his head, settling and gazing up at the orange and azure sky. Unintentionally, he drifted off to sleep by the side of the mighty river.
***
Eran opened his eyes. The sun had already set and the northern star had appeared in the sky. The stone hummed softly, radiating bright blue-white light.
Oh no! Eran put the Seed on the ground. Not again!
He jumped up and watched as the shaft of light penetrated the nocturnal firmament with the same intense brightness as the night before. Herald emerged, looking ghostly in the illumination.
“You survived last night,” he said, bowing.
“Yes, barely,” Eran replied bitterly. “You could have told me it was going to hurt.”
Herald walked around Eran, who spun in a slow circle, following the stranger’s progress.
“You have much to learn. I am here as a messenger to help you,” Herald said as he circled around him.
“So what is the message going to be tonight?” Eran asked. “If there is pain involved—I don’t want it,” he said, smirking.
“You will never feel the pain of birth again. The wings are a part of you eternally,” Herald said, as if that kind of pain could easily be forgotten.
“How do I make them come out again?”
“To call the wings out of hiding, you need only use your mind as you did to veil them.”
Eran glanced out at the river. The thick cover of mosquitoes above the waterway danced an in the halo of light from the nearby streetlamps.
Eran stood more relaxed before the messenger with the strange eyes. An air around Herald made him seem peaceful.
“Would you like to open them now?”
“Are you sure it won’t hurt?”
Herald nodded. “I assure you.”
Eran wondered if he would be able to fly. In fact, he had thought about it all day. Didn’t everyone want to fly? He paused, took a deep breath and exhaled.
Eran could do this. He had done it last night. He closed his eyes and pointed his thoughts, visualizing the pair of brilliant wings shining behind him.
An unexpected ripping startled him. He opened his eyes, gaping at Herald with uncertainty. Was Eran doing something wrong? He looked down at his torso as the last of the fibers of his t-shirt revealed his pure-white chest before it tore in half. This could be expensive.
“Beat them,” Herald ordered.
“How?” Eran asked.
“How does one walk? They are now you, as those legs or arms,” Herald suggested, as if people from Earth were gifted with wings every day.
Little by little, they moved out and in—not exactly, more like out, around and in. With each full movement, Eran’s body started to become as light as a quill. He thrashed them harder and the dike’s grasses moved like water dancing in the wind. Gradually, he began to hover slightly above the ground, becoming lightheaded from the exercise.
“Very good.”
“Can I fly wherever I want?” Eran asked, incredulous.
“Anywhere your wings take you. Consider—the intense brightness such as the orange sun will burn them. You will descend to the water planet like a meteor pulled by the gravity of this sublunary world,” Herald replied. He turned into the light.
“Wait,” Eran said. “I had a vision last night.”
Herald stopped, turning to look at him.
“I found something. I think it was the Seed.”
“Yes, how expected. We believed there could be echoes of your previous life. We were not sure you could live here, but we had to try.”
Eran didn’t know what to say. He stared at Herald, dumbfounded. This was weirder than getting a pair of wings in the first place.
“I understand,” Eran said, but he didn’t. In fact, confusion reeled in him, but he didn’t know what to ask. This all seemed too incredible.
Herald turned quickly, disappearing into the light of the Seed.
Eran looked at the pack with the picture of Momma. He picked up the Seed, pulled out the photo and ascended into the blackness.
He didn’t feel scared being airborne, but his movements were timorous and wary. Excitement flowed through him at having this new freedom…true freedom. He flew slowly at first. A half hour later he became surer and soared on the streams of warm air.
How could he ever explain this to anyone? Words could never express what it felt like to have the wind blow through his hair or look down at the Earth and see how everything merged into everything else. Was this what Gaia saw when she gazed down? If Dad knew Eran thought she was the creator, he’d be pissed.
Eran jubilantly yelled at the top of his lungs, plunging toward the earth. He landed, gathering his things and flying to the soft grasses and nighttime songs of Tupping’s Nature Preserve.
Chapter Two
The Box
Simon stood on the north end of his studio, picking at the end of his charcoal pencil. His mind focused on the scratchy tip as if it was why he couldn’t draw anything but a straight line. He glanced back at his easel and sighed. Would he ever get through this? He doubted it. Maybe if he did some yoga poses it would clear his head. The phone rang and he glanced toward the house. He thought about letting it go, but finally dashed past several of his unfinished canvasses. He ran into the house to answer and caught it on the fourth ring.
“Hello.”
“Hey, it’s me!”
Tee Tee always said that and it made Simon smile, forgetting what he drew for a moment. “Hey, me.”
“So, are you ready for tomorrow?”
“I guess,” Simon said, but knew it didn’t matter.
“I can’t believe the night before graduation you aren’t even a little excited.”
“Oh, I am. It’s just…”
“Tell him,” Tee Tee said.
“You know how he is,” Simon answered. “He doesn’t care about anything except his precious company.”