Jumping (28 page)

All of a sudden, I feel the wind in the Void shift, and I'm literally pushed by it, quickly, into an opening in the wall. I land on my feet with sort of a double jump, pushed abruptly into a side cave, as Duncan Robert had been. There are five robed figures standing in the center who seem to be waiting for me. At first, I'm taken aback. All I can do is stand and stare. They stand, watching me land and collect myself, and then they move forward to take my hands. They surround me, and I think every one of them is touching me, on my hands, my arms, my shoulders. I'm overwhelmed with the warmth of their reception, their kindness, their openness.

“Welcome, welcome, Miles,” they say. “We've waited so long!” I'm immediately comforted. They introduce themselves, shaking hands with me one by one, but I don't get all their names—they're foreign sounding to me. I find it hard to distinguish among them in the dim light. They look alike. They seem older than I am, with long hair and beards.

I ask where we are, and one of them says, “Come with us. We'll show you.”

Smiling, still surrounding me, they steer me to the back of the cave. The back of the cave narrows into a tunnel, which then curves and opens out onto a hillside at twilight. The hillside extends up and away from the base of the hill where we stand. It's a beautiful sight—like something out of a movie. There are small fires scattered up the hill and people gathered around them, maybe a couple of hundred people of all shapes and sizes.

There's much talking and laughing, and children running around, calling to each other in fun. I can smell food cooking, too, and I realize I'm hungry. I didn't eat anything before the jump, figuring it wasn't a good idea to jump into a Void with a full stomach. My companions steer me to some blankets and cushions on the ground nearby, and I sink gratefully into them.

Some men and women are tending a large round skillet without a handle, resting atop a large narrow barrel that apparently has hot coals in it, just under the skillet. A mixture of chopped things cooks on the skillet, stirred and tossed by two men with tongs. Small ebony bowls wait on a small table at their side. Several children on the blankets have already been served and are eating with their fingers, helped with pieces of bread that the women pass around.

I go over to the blankets and sit with my new companions, smiling and nodding at the other people as they smile and nod at me. They are dressed like tribal people everywhere—in colorful cloths, wrapped artfully around their bodies and heads. Their feet are bare and their hair and eyes, dark. They look fierce and beautiful. Someone brings me a bowl of the food, with bread and a mug of water. I eat hungrily, and it's very good—I can taste garlic and oil and think the meat is probably goat, which I've had before. I can taste spices—turmeric, I think, onion and chilies—and there are root vegetables as well.

My companions don't eat. They sit next to me and watch everything. Ran, who seems to be the leader, does most of the talking. He tells me that I was once with them, on Sirius B, a ghost planet now. They were engaged in the populating of Earth, the seeding of it with early versions of humans, created of the DNA of animals already there on Earth and of star seed, from them. This was how the human race began.

Ran tells me of my origins, why I teach writing, to create record keepers. “You do it now because you did it then,” he says. “It's in your DNA. Our job, as storytellers, is to unite and honor all ways and all races, so all can know and appreciate them,” he says, in his soothing, almost monotone, voice.

My chewing slows, but my mind races.

“Now it's time to use the stored records,” he says.

I'm not sure what he means by that. Some of the people on the hill are unwrapping their drums, which were stored carefully in animal hides and blankets, and beginning to tap them lightly, rhythmically. They're becoming a drumming circle—a huge one—as they start to face each other.

“These are the sounds we use to unite and heal—by aligning with the universal heartbeat. Our origins are in unity, not divisiveness,” he says.

I think about my own work and its deep roots in my history of being. Ran is giving me the bigger, truer story of myself.

I know I want everyone to use their own voice to find their uniqueness. Students show up in my classes, which means they have a desire to know. Writing gives them a tool to find themselves, so they can provide their own direction. They think they're there by accident of scheduling or requirement, but they've come for the stories. I help them find their
own
stories.

“Go and join them,” Ran says with a faint smile. He has seen me watching the drummers, moving my hands in time to their rhythm.

“Here's a drum,” he says. One of the cooks has handed a small drum with a handle on each side to him, gesturing with his head towards me. He hands it to me, along with the small drumstick that goes with it. I nod my thanks to the man.

“There are open spots in the circle. You are free to take one of them.”

I move through the people still eating, standing, and on blankets, and get to the base of the hill. I climb part way up until I see an opening in the circle and settle onto the blanket. I don't think I've done this since Silvia and I drummed at protest rallies years ago, but it feels good as I listen to the rhythms talking to each other across the circle. I join in.

I settle into my own rhythm, as background to the main rhythm, and look around, at the night, at the other drummers. It's so peaceful. I think of the welcome they've extended to me. How is it that any of us end up fighting each other? But I know that people like these have waged war and had war waged upon them, time and again. I look down at the five leaders, standing to the side observing it all. Usually war is at the instigation of men like that, who don't participate in or appreciate the shared culture. It's fought for their gain. Suddenly, I'm feeling a little uneasy.

The man on my left has been staring at me intently, I realize with a jolt. I look over at him. He's a mutant, a cripple, his body twisted and hunchbacked. He holds a small drum, like mine, in his gnarled hands, keeping the same rhythm I'm keeping, while he stares. I smile. The man smiles, too, a gap-toothed smile. He stops drumming and extends his hand. I take it.

He shakes with a surprisingly strong grip, looks straight into my eyes. “A bond stronger than life.”

I stop breathing for an instant. Tears come to my eyes. I grasp the man's hand with both of mine and hold on, holding onto the feeling of intense joy that our contact brings. This man is my cohort, my team!

As I realize this, I realize instantly the five elderly men are not. There's something else going on here.

I look at the man, who nods his head. “That's why I'm here. To tell you what a mistake this all is—it's all for show, like people having their dog show you his tricks. That's why they look alike. They see themselves as vehicles for entrapment, so they have sculpted their own appearances for maximum reassurance. Look who you were comparing them to—all beloved father figures, figures of trusted authority. It's all a situational projection, created by those five beings, to ensnare you. Yes, you were a part of the storytelling of this group of Syrians; yes, you have a history with them. That's why they've drawn you to them. But that's not the whole story. You were part of creating a controlling group of stories, manufactured stories, designed to mold the people who heard them in a very specific way.”

I look at the elders. The man says, “Don't give them your attention. It's harder for them to know what you're thinking that way. As long as you focus on our conversation and the drumming, they can't get in.” I immediately look back at the man. “My name is Leonid. Having my name will help you stay focused on me. Let's keep drumming, too.” We resume keeping a simple beat, in time together. Happiness in finding him keeps my fingers moving.

“Think about it,” he said. “Think about good stories that build good cultures. In the old days, you'd have an itinerant storyteller, earning his keep by telling good stories. Where did he get them? He didn't make them up. He got them from observing the lives and behaviors of others—a village rescuing a goat from a well, an old woman dying and her husband following her in death days later, a farmer figuring out how to grow his best crop, all the magic of nature—this was the stuff of his stories.

“So everyone contributed to the stories—they didn't come from one source with its own agenda. Stories are powerful things. You know that. Stories are how we hypnotize,” he said. “Think about it. The storyteller is a powerful person to the people—he travels in ways they don't, knows people they don't, sees things they don't. When he tells, people listen, suspending their disbelief until his story is done. His stories get repeated, within families, within villages, within the regions he travels, and repetition is a powerful force for molding people—we structure education and learning around repetition. You know that.

“These people used manufactured stories to isolate people from each other, making them easier to lead and ensuring they remained mistrustful of each other. The idea was that they would only trust the storyteller and whomever he told them to trust. Sure, any itinerant storyteller chooses what to tell and tells it in his own way, but his motivation came from his audience—his job was to entertain his listeners. He did so with integrity, and his listeners knew that. He wasn't looking to control them for his own purposes. He entertained them for the joy of it. It made him happy, and he hoped it made them happy, too.

“If you're a manufacturer of stories, you're not making anyone happy. Stories that lack truth will ultimately destroy the teller, as well as the listener. The stories need to belong to the people—they need to be able to question them, test them based on their own experience, share them or not—they decide if the stories become theirs. These are the stories that endure. You've been part of the manufactured stories, and that's what you saw here tonight.”

I look around and feel the truth of what Leonid tells me. Everything feels wrong, and I have to leave and not get caught up in this whatever-it-is.

Leonid says, “Yes. Head down the hill, slowly, and I'll help hold the attention on drumming. That will slow them down a little. Don't stop to talk to them. They're pretty good at hypnosis.” He looks at me and I look back. “Just get yourself back to the Void. We'll meet again. Don't shake hands. Just go.” Leonid goes back to his drumming intently.

I whisper, “Thanks.” Leonid doesn't look up but nods his head toward the tunnel. I pause a moment, and look back at Leonid, not sure I'll see him again. Leonid looks up. “The horses?” I ask.

“They were showing you the way,” Leonid says with a smile.

I take a deep breath and start moving down the hill, not running. The elders sit at the bottom, near where they came out of the cave. They watch me. I finally get to the bottom of the hill and move through the people still sitting in groups there, with their families. I'm nodding and smiling, and they are, too.

When I'm nearest the elders, I stop to talk to the people I ate with, thanking them and bowing. They're nodding and bowing. Then I grit my teeth and move up to the elders, who regard my movements with curiosity. I bow, thanking them, telling them I have to go. They get up, try to talk. I just keep moving, quickly, moving toward the opening.

I glance back. The elders continue towards me. I look at the hill beyond them. It's starting to disappear, along with the people, the drums, the fires, the food, to just fade out around the edges. I look again at the elders and I see their faces are disappearing.

Then I'm running, frightened, through the tunnel, back to the cave. I don't look back again. I'm sure I could disappear, too, never to be heard from again. It hadn't occurred to me that I might not come out of the Void. I get back to the Void's edge and stop a moment, to catch my breath, to settle myself, before I try to hurl myself into it again.

I can't believe what I'm about to do—to jump again into the Void. This is very different than the first time. That makes me think of Babe, and I wonder if she has run into any trouble, if she's okay. I picture her smiling, joking face. Then I hear noise in the tunnel behind me. People coming! Thinking of Babe has centered me. I take a deep breath and jump. And fall again.

I
DON'T KNOW HOW
long I've been falling. It's taken me a few minutes to settle into it, wondering if they would come after me somehow. I work to calm my breathing so I can relax into the fall. Gradually it dawns on me that falling feels safer than being back on that hillside. How I feel about the Void is changing. I have to laugh, with a kind of euphoria. Good old Void! Always there when you need it.

I think of Babe again. On an impulse, I close my eyes and call to her. Her smiling face appears in front of me. “Babe!” I shout, smiling, too. “Can you hear me?”

“Of course I can hear you! You don't need to yell.”

“We've never done this before,” I say, referring to our telepathic communication.

“We've never been in the Void before,” she says drily.

I laugh at the humor that I know and love. “I love it!” I say, meaning her and being in the Void.

“You're falling again?”

“Yes! Can you believe it? I was caught in something back there, snared by it. But a member of my cohort saved me. Where are you?”

“I'm on a beach near a desert, and we're heading for a town, where there's a guy who thinks I'm God!” she says, laughing. “I have to go! We're almost there. Stay in touch!”

“Yes! I'm glad we can do this. I'll call you!”

We laugh, and she's gone, and the Void seems a little brighter for my having connected with her. That's something I know as truth, whether or not I can always tell truth, I think, looking back at that hillside. I know it from my own experience—Babe brightens my existence. But I'm shaken by the fact that I fell right into that projection, without questioning it, without noticing anything. It chills me to think I could have stayed there! I have to hold onto the things that Leonid said to me. If we value the uniqueness of each of us, we'll always want to honor and protect that. That feels like a necessary truth to me, and the main one that wasn't acknowledged back there. I think about every baby, every child I've ever known, each destined for its own greatness, each a necessary contributor to the world, each with a full potential to live up to, made up of its own talents and abilities. These thoughts give me comfort, as I try to shed the effects of being in that situational projection.