Jonah Page 11

  Then Crystal spoke. “You have learned a new song of love, one strong enough to sing down those walls—” She pointed at the demolished castle, “But to move mountains, you will have to include Abra in your circle.”

  “What?” they all cried, hearing the craziest thing they'd ever heard.

  “Come,” Crystal said, holding out her hand, “join me and the one who once helped you solve many problems, and I will tell you a great secret.”

  Gabriel was doubtful, but he loved his sister, so he took Abra's wrinkled hand, gestured for the others to join together, and again they formed a circle.

  “I promised you a secret and it is this,” said Crystal. “Your magic may be great enough to sing down walls, but to shout down mountains, you must forgive your enemies, for the ancients said, ‘If anyone desires to cross with you, you must include them, for no one crosses alone.’”

  And so, believing Crystal, they all began to dance again, first turning to the right, then to the left, and a new song they began to sing, one more beautiful than the last, and again they twirled faster and faster, and sang louder and louder….

  BOOM!

  “Down came the mountains!”

  As Jonah shuts the door to Coral's room, he wonders again where he first heard this story. Each time he tells it, he embellishes, but he feels a strong taboo against changing certain words. Maybe Grandma Ida Mahoney told him the story before he grew wise beyond her at the age ten….

  Never mind. Tonight there is another mystery afoot. There is a woman in the house, who has provoked in him powerful feelings, and he is unsettled.

  He's so wide awake, he wonders if he drank a pot of coffee behind his back. With all the ruckus, possible; in normal times, he could be as oblivious to a cup of coffee in his hand as a monkey clutching a banana.

  Out in the living room, he settles on the sofa and tries to read some in Tony Hillerman's novel Sacred Clowns, but he can't concentrate. The wind has kicked up and is whistling over the house, eerie groans and wheezings, which does not help him relax after such a strange and tumultuous day.

  One light is on, the pole lamp behind the easy chair with the old cowboy blanket slung over it to hide the places where Thunder clawed the upholstery, exposing the foam rubber innards. Sly Jerome, part-time lamp maker and turkey raiser, gave him the pole lamp as payment for the time he helped Jerome raise a fence around his birds. The pole is a polished birch limb that appears to suffer from scoliosis, and the small shade is a hat for an old crooked man, at home in his crooked house. Everything in this room is either crooked, soiled, or shabby. Jonah feels depressed. He gets up and paces, smacking his fist in his palm. What are you afraid of?

  The question sits him down again to ponder.

  Jessica's pregnancy was his first big wake-up call. That's when he discovered the quiet man behind his outward jive. The quiet man whispered, you screw this up, the mask will never drop. You will be a clown for life, smile so big, and painted with such bright colors on your ashen face, no one, last of all you, will notice your lips puckered in grief for the man you will never be.

  That year, waiting for Coral to be born, and then receiving her into his trembling arms, was emotionally charged, but once he settled in Apple Valley, the clown returned, Tarzan leaping on vines, hee-hawing in the trees with the other apes, feet rarely touching serious ground.

  That's what frightened him. He felt like a hairy animal man in Zion's presence. His quiet man was whispering again, telling him to listen up, you don't want to screw this up, you could. More going on here than a beautiful woman landed on his doorstep after a hasty prayer. Good copy for a romantic comedy, but isn't that exactly what he has to be alert to? He could do that, waltz through a three-act play, big orange ball on his nose. But in real life, the audience always gets up and goes home, the lights dim, and the actors are left on the stage, the applause ringing in their ears. Leading lady takes off her satin gown, puts on pedal pushers and goes home to relieve the babysitter. Hero hangs up his fake sword, gets behind the wheel of his pickup, and drives off into the dusty dawn, to wake up the next day to a pile of bills and customers yawning over coffee, everybody avoiding saying it out loud: Is this all there is?

  Thunderpaws slips through the cat door and jumps up on Jonah's lap. He strokes the cat, scratches the furry black diamond on his head.

  “You know what this is like, Thunder? Not that I have any experience with it, mind you. But it feels like instead of Zion just now showing up, feels like it's the reverse. Let me explain. Thank you for being so patient. Feels like we've been separated for a long time, and now she's back to see if I'm grown up enough to resume our relationship. Get my meaning? This isn't new…it's the latest in an ongoing episode. But I hate that, sounding like those yokels who have to find excuses for their lust by claiming they're soul mates or had past lives together. Am I one of those people, Thunder? Is this what too many years alone comes to? Why can't we just act on our natural urges, see if we fit, and forget all the New Age rhetoric? Or maybe people need it since the old morals died in the wake of birth control pills. Can't just erase all the old taboos, we have to dream up a whole new mythology to replace the fear that used to make us think twice before dropping our drawers.

  “You never fell for the fear trip? ‘Course not. Your god is liberal. Some would say evil. You think I should what? Jump her bones tonight? You know I'm not that evolved.”

  Thunder jumps down, pads over to the fireplace, curls up below the hearth, tucking his mitts under his chest.

  “I don't blame you. I'm disgusted with myself, too. She's here two days and I haven't even kissed her.”

  Twenty minutes later, Jonah has on his jean jacket. He's standing in the living room, looking out the window, contemplating a brisk walk under the stars. Maybe that'll do the trick. The ticker on the mantel reports it is after midnight, but he still feels pumped, as wide awake as he felt three hours ago.

  Thunder yowls.

  Jonah spins around.

  The cat's ears are flat; his tail is puffed. He hisses, low and mean. His gaze is fixed on the dark hallway.

  Jonah sees a flash of light. Hears a noise, whomp! The whole house trembles.

  Did Zion scream?

  Chapter N (14)

  Some claim the story of Adam and Eve is pure myth, calculated to blame women for all of the ills in the world. Sounds unfair, but think about it: The look in Eve's eyes when she proffered the precious fruit. Adam was one hundred percent an Earthman. Of course he ate the apple! Chomped it down, they got it on, she stayed home, raised the applets, and the rest is history.

  Speaking of apples, how about that tree that got our first parents into so much trouble? Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, the Good Book calls it. This town used to be one big apple orchard. Inhabitants consumed the fruit, chopped down the trees, built roads, condos, fast-food joints, churches, and pool halls, and the debate is still raging over the good or evil of cutting down trees to supplant with an empire of tar and concrete.

  But I think Eve got it right, heeding the counsel of that old reptile, and I think the story shows Adam was humble to let the little lady take the lead. He probably wanted her so much, his balls ached, but he was trying to impress God with what an obedient guy he was. The serpent gets a lot of bad press, but all he did was pass on wisdom. He knew if Adam and Eve were going to rock and roll, they would have to know each other, the good, the bad, and all the shades of gray between.

  What was on God's mind, forbidding sex, like so many claim the story means? How else were we going to jam the planet with six billion people?

  J.Q. Mahoney

  At the sound of the scream, Thunderpaws is out the cat door like ball lightning. But the lion of the house is down the hallway, rapping on the door. “Zion—you okay?”

  Nothing. He tries to ignore the eerie electrical charge in the air as he turns the knob, and pushes on the door. But it won't budge. Can't be locked. There is no lock. He is contemplating kicking the wood out of the
frame when the door pops. He trips into the room.

  The curtains are open; so are the blinds. He can see her in the pale moonlight; she's sitting up on the bed. Writing? Juniper branches are brushing against the windowpane, the wind is wheezing, but a spooky silence envelops the writer.

  “Zion?”

  She raises her right hand, he interprets: Your presence is acknowledged. Please do not interrupt.

  A moment later, she clicks on the lamp on the table to the right of the bed. Good grief. She's got Coral's blue blanket draped on her head. Looks like a little girl playing Countess of Castille. She's staring at the northeast corner of the room. Nothing over there, except maybe a spider web.

  “It's still there,” she says.

  “What's where?”

  “Green light…” She points at the corner.

  He gulps down a chuckle. Now he understands. He's familiar with sleep trances. Aunt Coral had this kind of sleep disorder. Unless you knew about her quirk, you would never guess she was sleepwalking, until she said something like, “When did we paint the walls red?” Or did something like stuff her slippers in the breadbox.

  “Green light,” he says, controlling his grin.

  “You can't see it, can you? You think I'm hallucinating.”

  But Aunt Coral never said anything to indicate she knew you thought her behavior was bizarre. “No, I think I'm hallucinating. I could swear there's a blanket on your head.”

  She pulls it down around her shoulders. “It comforts me.” She's wearing a flowery flannel nightgown; her black hair is swirled on her shoulders. Her face glows, as if she just awoke from a really good dream. No sign of any distress equating to what he saw, felt, and heard.

  “Zion, what happened in here? I saw a flash of light, heard a noise…” And the whole house shook, and he couldn't open the damn door. Shut up. That was an atmospheric vacuum situation. Listen to the wind!

  “Probably something bounced off a power line, hit the house,” he says.

  She shrugs. “I didn't notice. I was concentrating.”

  She sounds so sensible and sure of herself, Jonah squints at the corner, wondering if there is a green light.

  “I don't think you can see it with the lamp on. Would you like for me to turn it off?”

  He raises both hands. “No, no, I'll take your word for it.”

  “Are you cold? You have on a jacket.”

  “I was about to take a walk when I heard you scream. Mind if I take it off?” He shrugs off his jacket before she can say she does mind.

  “I'm sure I did not scream.”

  “Well, that's a problem.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I don't have a good excuse for being in here. I was hoping you were in some kind of trouble that would call for my knight-in-shining-armor act.”

  “I was expecting you,” she says with a straight look that gives no clue whether this makes her glad or sad. “Would you like to sit down?” She raises her knees to make room for him.

  She was expecting him. He is Zorro, flourishing his cape out into the hall. He shuts the door, sits down tall on the edge of the bed, strikes an attentive pose. A waft of talcum powder mixed with her heathery perfume tickles his nose. And an odor of sulfur? Probably his armpits…

  He points at the yellow spiral notebook hugged against her lovely chest. Her left hand grips a pen. “You were writing?”

  “I recorded some symbols. But translating them is a problem.”

  “Because…”

  “This will sound strange. Because I don't have my indigo veil.”

  “Indigo veil…indigo veil…” he mutters, bunching his eyebrows, trying to remember where he heard that before. “Did you mention that earlier?”

  “I'm sure I didn't. I didn't remember it until tonight.”

  He points at the blanket. “Is that why you had that on your head?”

  She blushes. “I thought it might help me concentrate. I knew it wouldn't help in translation.”

  “You don't have your indigo veil. This veil helps you translate symbols?” He can't decide, is she tranced out, or into some kind of esoteric writing, requires special rituals and atmosphere? Nostradamus wrote those weird quatrains, peering into a dark mirror surrounded by candles.

  “Well, maybe you'll be able to translate them tomorrow after you sleep on it.”

  “No. Tomorrow I will forget everything that happened tonight.”

  “You know that.”

  She nods. “I was only to record the symbols tonight. I assume I will be able to translate them later. But I do have impressions of what some of them mean now. I think most have to do with the evolution of souls on Earth.”

  “So, you believe in evolution, not creationism,” he says, glad to be off the subject of veils.

  “Both are realities.”

  “I'm referring to the argument, do human beings evolve, or were we created as a finished product, in the image of God?”

  “You think God is a finished product?”

  “I don't know what I believe about God. I think it's obvious something higher than us exists, but god ideas…seems to me man projects his own image on God. What do you think?”

  “I don't try to think about God. That would be to think about the whole of creation, the whole universe, the love and intelligence that inspired it all.”

  Jonah stares at her. She's like a different woman.

  “I'm experiencing a surge of awareness that will not extend into tomorrow,” she says, as if reading the question in his mind.

  “Why?” he blurts. That was true for his aunt—she never remembered these episodes, but she sure never admitted she was off in LaLa Land while she was under the spell.

  “Because if I were able to maintain this state of consciousness, it would interfere with my life as Zion Rose. Tonight I'm speaking more from my soul. The person I am beyond this present embodiment.”

  “You're like a channeler?”

  “I don't know what that means—channeler.”

  He explains what he knows. People who claim to be in contact with dead people, extraterrestrials, or God. He's seen them on TV. Their eyes roll back in their heads, they slump forward, lift their heads, and start babbling high-sounding rhetoric, usually in a strange accent, voices going deep and important, or precisely optimistic. People have shown him books written by channelers. Lot of big words rendered in stylized syntax, all boiling down to the same old stuff you can read in the Bible, Bhagavad-Gita, Tao, Koran.

  She laughs.

  “Millennial rap,” he adds for ovation.

  “No, I'm not a channeler. Conscious awareness is like a conical funnel. Usually our thoughts are restricted to the narrowest point, but sometimes the scope is expanded. The symbols are a language I know higher up the funnel. It's like trying to pull down memories from a past life.” She sighs. “At least it's a start. Jonah—I'm a scribe, not a warrior.”

  “That sounds a lot more practical.” He gestures at the notebook. “Can I see?”

  She hesitates. Turns the notebook around, holds it over her shoulder, out of his reach. He squints at a half page of symbols that remind him of Mayan glyphs, but they're more elegant than the petroglyphs around Apple Valley, purportedly left by the Anasazi. Is she one of those sensitives who picks up stuff like this out of the ether? Suspicious, she would be making these kinds of symbols in Anasazi country…

  Show's over. She lays the notebook on the table.

  “Have you seen the petroglyphs around here?” he asks.

  “Some. They're not the same. But they may derive from the same source. You know the history?”

  “All I know is, some people connect them with Mayan and Olmec symbols found in South America.”

  “I traveled there tonight.”

  “Oh.” Take a big breath. Control your face. “OBE? Out of body?”

  “Something like that…”

  He's familiar with that claim, too. Supposedly we all have ghost bodies that can detach from our physi
cal “containers,” and go flying off to visit other planets or dead people. If those Hale-Boppers who committed suicide had known how to OBE, maybe they would be alive today. Why they thought dead would be better than alive was a mystery to Jonah. Sure a lot of talk about the “other side” these days. Lot of people wanting to escape their lives. He hopes Zion will find enough happiness here, so she won't have to make a religion of this OBE business.

  “You went to South America?” Spied on a ziggurat, memorized some symbols. It's all making sense now, ha ha.

  “Uruguay,” she says.

  Jonah pulls off his boots, settles back against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. Might as well get comfortable. This is definitely a trance situation; could last for hours.

  “Uruguay is a long way from Apple Valley, all on a Saturday night.”

  The look she casts him indicates she knows he is patronizing her. How else should he take it? As literal truth? Sure, along with her worry she's some kind of alien transplant.

  “Such travel is outside time-space conditions that apply to this denser environment. I may have been there for days, if it were measurable by clock or calendar. I was probably gone from here for ten, fifteen minutes. Travel is a misleading word. Shift better describes what happens. Or projection. It happens instantaneously. One moment you are here—” she pats the bed. “The next, you are there. A molecular rearrangement occurs. You shift to the wave mode above particularization. In the wave mode, you convert to spirit. Your ship is your intent.”

  How can he talk to her? She's serious, too. Correct his attitude, or she'll invite him to go pound a rock.

  “Uh, you intended to go to Uruguay?”

  “It wasn't a conscious intention. I couldn't have projected to Uruguay. I didn't consciously know there was a safe vortex there. It's above a mesa close to the coast, midway between Brazil and Argentina. It was beautiful. I saw white sands glistening under the moon, and a pod of whales leaping in dark waters.”

  “Then what?” he says brightly, suddenly seeing the light. She only thinks she's done writing novels. Got one in the works, as we speak. He's a pretty good storyteller; maybe they'll collaborate. But first she has to get a better grasp on distinguishing her imagination from reality. She's not textbook insane. Her creative genius just needs a leash. No problem. He can reign her in.