The SONG of SHIVA (32 page)

Lyköan sat on the bed and pulled his legs into the lotus position. Launching the fractal generation program, he raised the yíb with both hands, holding it inches from his face. Outside, the overcast and muted grey sky was growing noticeably lighter.

Starring into the pixilated depths, he felt the now familiar swirling spiral of blossoming rainbows draw him forward. Like standing on the edge of a lofty precipice with a stiff breeze blowing hard at his back, the sensation of instability was overpowering. Resisting the natural impulse to pull away, he gave into the vertigo, let it drag him over the edge and towards the virtual abyss. He felt himself being stretched and pressed exceedingly thin against the display screen, soaking into every pixel of the approaching geometric progression.

Suddenly, a single point at the center of his wafer-thin essence began vibrating unstably, breaking through the plane of the display into the expiating infinite, drawing consciousness with it, becoming the very motion itself. A forest of rainbow-hued single helixes, composed entirely of three dimensional ever-expanding golden sections ― the universal proportion of the pine cone and the spiral galaxy ― rushed upwards, speeding past him at incredible velocity as he plummeted in pulsing stutter steps down the virtual worm hole of colorful strands.

He tried concentrating on his breathing, rhythmically in through his nose and out around a tongue pressed hard against the roof of his mouth, deeper with each respiration. The spiraling staircases of paisley golden-sections flew by like sunlit crystalline methane spray erupting as he plunged ever onward. Mesmerized by its riotous geometry, he did not immediately notice the polite little bells playing melodiously somewhere far off in the unseen distance. He had been too preoccupied with his frighteningly expanding lung capacity ― each breath enough to fill an indoor stadium. He exhaled enormously into the deluge of strains and strings, violins joining the tubular bells. Snatches of susurrus conversation choired past his ears, sound and motion unified in expression.

“Where shall we go?” a voice whispered. “Whom shall we seek?” said another. With obvious authority, a third voice echoed in an unfamiliar tongue, “
mystae agrae, epoptae eleusis, mystae eleusis, epoptae agrae.
”
A host of distinct whisperers chimed in. He caught few of the evaporating phrases: “
Prana jiva
”. What did it mean? Shudders and stops resonated with, “at the ley line intersection,” and “breathe the rhythm of creation,” after which, a barely intelligible, “
guruparampar,
” “gamma-aminobutyic acid,” “well worn ground beaten by innumerable footfalls...” A deafening drumbeat of overlapping whispered phrases, fluttering like the wings of an enormous flock of birds thundering by in a torrent. Approaching from the distance, a sublime orchestra played an ethereal crescendoing fanfare ― haunting flutes and sweet violins echoing from unseen hollows, ricocheting off rainbow-hued crevice walls, painting interweaving colors in the texture of crisscrossing voices, surging with and into the descending fractal array.

Scintillating sparks, shards of consciousness, each containing the whole, each blossoming – exploding and expanding ― until every individual point filled the ultimate void. Vision increasing omni-directionally, limited neither by distance nor horizon, he was moving at the speed of thought, volition uncontrolled and indeterminate, simultaneously capable of traversing space and time itself. Rushing along, metaphysically tumbling down a long bright tunnel of rainbow hues bursting ever onward, inward and outward, pulling him forward at an astonishing speed. Only enough time for a single question. Where?

Above and inside and becoming the little Vauxhall, he watched, felt the vehicle entering Salisbury and recognized the city immediately. His presence filled the interior of the automobile.

He watched and heard himself apologizing to Zhòngní for keeping the escape plan particulars secret, explaining that if the monk were ever interrogated, he wouldn’t be able to divulge what he didn’t know. Nora and this alter-Egan hurriedly exchanged hushed whispers. Zhòngní agreed he saw wisdom in this, but still he could not avoid overhearing much of their discussion. Lyköan, listening with the monk’s own ears, knew this to be true.

“We’re total strangers, Zhòngní,” this former Egan was saying. He could remember speaking those very words. “Why are you doing this for us?”

Rubbing his hand along the side of a glistening shaved head, aural sparks flying in tightening, multicolored fractal spirals, the monk brushed the question aside. “I owe the master more than I can ever repay. It is enough that he considers it important.”

“And now we owe you more than we can ever repay,” the shadow-Egan acknowledged.

“In this lifetime, perhaps,” Zhòngní answered, bowing his head, apparently embarrassed by the admission.

Broken Blossom was lying asleep in an open doorway. Like a dream, the scene had shifted...

* * *

The rain beat deafeningly on the umbrella, muffling the sound of traffic as they left Temple Meads Station, headlights reflecting off mirror-puddled streets harsh in the urban darkness. Lyköan felt anxious, viewing every passing figure as a potential threat. Heightened senses or reasonable paranoia? The session with the yíb had put him on edge. He still didn’t know what to make of it.

“Shit,” he said, directing Nora out into the downpour.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“I know it’s a train station ― we should expect it ― but people in there were looking for someone. Just hope it wasn’t us.” As he spoke, he was paying particular attention to two dark raincoat-clad men, positioned at each end of the building, noses buried in their morning papers, cigarette smoke billowing around their heads. Lyköan smelled stakeout.

“Listen, if things get rough and we get separated, make your way upline to the next rail station. But don’t come back here to Temple Meads under any circumstance, you understand?”

“Why would we be separated?” Nora wanted to know.

Lyköan ignored the question. “Head northeast. Hop a bus if you can, a cab if there’s one available.”

“Mind answering the question, sweetheart?”

“I may need to create a diversion.”

Walking away from the station, he had observed the two men consulting under a single umbrella and, stepping off the curb, begin following at a less than comfortable distance.

“Take the first train to Chester and look for me somewhere along the city wall. I’ll find you there as soon as I can. Got that?”

“Aye, aye, captain,” Nora offered with a waggish salute.

S
t. Philips Marsh Postal Sub Station was less than five minutes away, at
34 Feeder Road, but the cold rain thundering upon the umbrella made the short walk feel much longer. The two strangers were less than a block behind when they arrived. Passing in front of the sub station door less than a minute later and casting an eye into the building, one of the men caught Lyköan’s eye as he and Nora waited at the end of the short queue.

“Don’t panic, but I’m pretty sure we’ve got company,” Lyköan whispered, leaning close to Nora’s ear.

She looked at him, eyes wide, resisting the urge to steal a glance at the door.

“Yeah ― two suspicious characters from the station. Right now they’re standing outside the front door, watching us. Let’s see if we can finish our business here before they decide to come in out of the rain. If we’re lucky they’re just would-be muggers.”

Minutes later, Nora left the counter with Diane’s package. Pulling her aside, Lyköan whispered, “I’m the one they really want ― all that Shiva vessel bullshit.” Pushing through the queue towards the door with Nora in tow, he turned and added softly. “Pandavas is after
me
. You’re a target now too, of course, but I doubt they consider you much of a threat. Be ready to make a break when the opportunity presents itself. You’ll know it when you see it.”

The door had barely closed behind them when the two men approached. The larger man pulled his mac aside, displaying a shoulder-holstered handgun.

“If you come along quietly, laddie,” the man promised sternly, showing an ugly mouthful of ill-gotten teeth, “there’ll be no trouble ― no one will get hurt.” Then shifting his gaze towards Nora, he added with a smiling wink, “We’re extending the invitation to you too, lass.”

“Sure, sure, anything you say,” Lyköan answered, eyeing the holstered gun as though it had settled the issue. Stepping in front of Nora and walking up to the speaker, he extended both arms, bent upwards at the elbows, palms spread open and outward. “I agree, we don’t want any trouble.” Trying his best to look resigned to following the man’s orders, beaten and dejected, he innocently asked, “How’d you find us anyway?”

“It’s never a bright idea to let your leave-behinds know your future plans, lad,” the man answered with a telling smile.

“Oh? How bad did you have to mess him up for the info?” Lyköan took a step closer. The fellow took one back. He was being careful.

“Not so much the coroner won’t recognize him.”

Dropping the umbrella, Lyköan lunged, taking a poorly considered swing. Bobbing expertly, the man snapped his head aside, causing the blow to connect with only a glancing impact, throwing Lyköan off balance. Attempting to regain his footing, Lyköan slipped on the rain-slicked curb and stumbled backwards.

For the briefest instant everything went into ultra slow-motion. Instinctively reaching out as he fell, Lyköan thrust a hand towards each man, grabbing the tie of one and the lapel of the other. With all the power of arms and momentum, he pulled both men forward as he fell back, arching his body towards the sidewalk with all his strength and, even though they threw out their own hands attempting to break their fall, he smashed both men’s skulls into the pavement. Obeying Newton’s first law, the miraculous maneuver recoiled energy and momentum. Lyköan’s backpack barely touched the pavement, springing him immediately back to his feet at the same instant both men crumpled into the rain-swollen gutter.

Nora had already reached the corner of the block. Splashing frantically across the street and racing in the opposite direction, Lyköan risked a quick glance over his shoulder as the two men stumbled to their feet, obviously dazed, one holding a badly gashed, bleeding brow. The other, seeing his quarry escaping, gave chase, pulling a small communications device from inside his raincoat with one hand, a revolver with the other. Shouting unintelligibly into the device, macintosh tails flailing raggedly as he ran, the man charged after Lyköan as Nora slipped out of sight.

Shifting the thirty pounds on his back and turning his face into the driving rain, Lyköan ran full tilt into the heart of Bristol. Wildly sidestepping sidewalk pedestrians, vaulting the larger puddles and splashing through the unavoidable smaller ones, drawing attention with every step, he was determined to put as much distance between himself and his gun-toting pursuer as his superior running ability would permit.

Crossing the Avon, he turned north, racing for twelve minutes and three kilometers before hazarding another backward glace. Finding no evidence of the black-coated figure, he slowed first to a brisk walk, zigzagging for another half dozen blocks, casting furtive glances behind him only at the turning of each street corner. When he saw no one, he slowed even further, beginning the innocent-looking stroll that would eventually take him out of the city.

Surveying the nearly empty platform as he approached Horfield Station thirty-five minutes later, he couldn’t avoid thinking:
They were waiting for us. We weren’t even one step ahead of them
.
Can’t count on pratfalls to pull our bacon out of the fire every time
. Even now, the once-in-a-lifetime lucky curbside stumble felt outrageously incredible, unreal and dreamlike, especially the perceptual slow motion.

This morning’s hypnogogic revelations continued running through his head like a looped video signal, simultaneously building in relevance and mystery. As strange as reliving the Vauxhall scene had been, it sure hadn’t helped poor Zhòngní.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

None save timeless Night and Chaos, ancestors of Nature,

Communing with Anarchy eternal.

William Wordsworth :
Ode to Immortality

C’mon sweetheart
!
Where are you
?

The long shadow of Chester’s Phoenix Tower stretched ominously across the battlement walkway, marking the halfway point of Nora’s second circuit of the city. Beyond the shadow, inside the encircling wall, a sea of red-tiled rooftops gleamed like a molten sea. Walking south late in the afternoon, oblivious to the picture postcard vista, she continued praying for a miracle.

Saw you break clean
―
tear down the street. What happened? You should have been here by now. 

By any yardstick Chester was an ancient city. Erected in a strategic loop of the River Dee as the Roman fortress of Deva, it had once marked the outer extremity of the civilized world. After three centuries of legion-enforced calm, in the twilight of empire, its garrison had followed a would-be emperor named Constantinus into Gaul and never returned.

Through the slaughter and confusion of the seven centuries that followed, sovereignty had passed fitfully from Celt to Saxon to Norman to Viking and ultimately into English hands. During that period the tower and encircling wall had crumbled and been rebuilt several times and the city’s name changed from Deva to Chester, the long weight of years that had begun in fear of marauding Celts eventually exhausting itself on a far different sort of army ― cash-paying tourists.

Don’t strand me here. Please!

On the grass outside the wall, less than a longbow shaft’s flight south of the tower, Lyköan was inspecting the Kaleyard Gate, headed north. Not an original entrance into the Roman fortress, the portal had been punched through already ancient ashlars during the reign of Henry V by burghers hoping to improve mercantile traffic. Two centuries later, however, Royalist supporters of Charles I would seal it up again in a vain attempt to defend the city from Long Parliament forces come to lay siege in the tumultuous spring of 1643.

Times change. Scholars alter history with pen or keystroke. Mighty edifices become mere relics of a nearly forgotten past. And a once important gate or tower is reduced by the sway of centuries into a five-minute stop along the self-proclaimed
World Famous ‘Walls of Chester’ Walking Tour
― walls still capable of sheltering fugitives.

Shielding his eyes, Lyköan watched the familiar figure gliding along the top of the parapet. She wasn’t looking in his direction, still hadn’t seen him. Sunlight was pouring painfully through each crenel as her silhouette passed in front of the late afternoon sun. Stepping into the shadow to avoid the direct glare, he whistled loudly, then called, “Hey, beautiful!”

Nora stopped. Startled, she looked around.

“Down here!”

Leaning out through the nearest
ambrazura
and seeing him standing at the base of the wall, she let out an involuntary cry.

“I thought you said
on
the wall. What’re you doing down there?”

“Trying to stay out of trouble,” he shouted back. “Wait there. I’ll be right up!”

Pointing to a narrow stone stairway not far away, he took off running. Nora bolted in the same direction. Even with the backpack, Lyköan reached the top of the stairs first.

“Where have you been?” Nora gasped, throwing her arms around him. “I’ve been here for hours. When you didn’t show, I didn’t know what to think.”

“Blame Wessex Rail. Had some really lousy connections,” Lyköan deadpanned, eyes brimming as he pulled her close. “Saw you turn the corner and figured you got away, but I was forced to take the scenic route. Ended up running through most of Bristol. Took me quite a while just to get out of town.” A group of sightseers was approaching. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

Descending the inner wall, they hurried into the heart of the city, exchanging details of their individual odysseys north. In Crewe, the final transfer before Chester, a single line of train schedule was all that had separated them.  

Eyeing the sidewalk traffic, Lyköan cut the travelogue short. “For the time being, Chester should be safe ― safer than Salisbury or Bristol anyway.”   

“Why’s that?”

Whispering into her ear as though dispensing an amorously sweet nothing, he explained. “No CCTV cameras. They aren’t scheduled to be installed for another year. So there’s no video record of our arrival. We’ve effectively disappeared.”

“For how long?” Nora whispered back.

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“Whitehall’s resources. But he’s lost a step. Catching up will require some old-fashioned legwork. He’s got no local boys to help him out.”

“What do you mean?”

Bussing his lips against her neck, delighting in both the woman’s scent and their mutual subterfuge, he explained. “No local cops. If they were involved, we’d’ve seen uniforms at the post office. Bristol would’ve been crawling with them.”

Picking up on the playful ruse, Nora turned and, pressing her lips lightly against his, asked, “Then who were the two gorillas?”

“Wish I knew,” Lyköan wisped back. “They didn’t smell like New Scotland Yard. Freelancers maybe. Or private dicks ― undocumented covert ops ― spooks. Certainly trouble, but probably not allied with any local police.”

“Charming.” She drew away, smiling faintly.

“One thing’s for sure,” Lyköan continued in her ear again. “They’re damned-well organized. Look how fast they caught up with us. First they find Zhòngní by following your phone or credit card records...”

“Legally?” Nora leaned her head back against his chest as they stopped on the sidewalk, pretending to admire a storefront window display.

“Maybe. Does it matter? Either way it points to professional connections. But luckily ― for whatever reason ― no nationwide APB.”

“How can you be sure?’

“I’m not. But worrying about it’s a waste of time. We’ve got more important things to do right now.”

Taking her hand, Lyköan headed hurriedly deeper into downtown. First stop, a
TerraTrex Outdoor
store, picking up matching Berghaus backpacks, Inyoni utility knives, digital compasses, high intensity flashlights, a replacement chronograph for the one Lyköan had lost at the Node ― and enough Adrenaline
Outerwear: black, khaki, olive high-tech fabrics with lots of rugged double stitching, plenty of odd-sized pockets with zippers, webbed vents, brass snaps, drawstrings and Velcro ― to see them safely through a week or more on the Devon Moors. Which was exactly what, Lyköan told the pushy clerk, they had in mind.

Leaving the store, he laughed genuinely for the first time in days. “My God! Did you see? It’s so damned obvious ― that we’re bloody Americans. The look on that clerk’s face? We don’t have a choice. We need to find some way to work ‘obvious’ into something believable.”

Marks & Spence was next. Back on the sidewalk in twenty minutes, an upscale tourista outfit apiece neatly folded and on their backs. Half a shopping cart full of more mundane items from the Brimley Road Tesco’s followed. Before leaving the store, Lyköan used the public copy machine to transfer the authentic BritRail
activation stamp and rail agent’s signature from Nora’s pass onto his own. By no means perfect, the cut-and-paste ruse would pass a cursory inspection. In the dumpster behind the store they jettisoned the now identifiable pack Nora had taken from Cairncrest.

Stars were sparkling in a clear night sky by the time they secured lodging in Hoole, a working class suburb across the Dee and less than a ten minute walk from the railroad station. Nestled in a drab neighborhood of similarly nondescript establishments, the rundown guest house was a perfect hideaway for a couple preparing for one final act of deception. Lyköan paid a single night’s tariff in advance.

“We’ll be leaving for Bath at daybreak,” he lied. “So we won’t be taking breakfast,”

“I see, then,” the disinterested manager replied from behind his cluttered desk, frayed suspenders and substantial paunch, looking up only briefly.

They climbed the stairs, dumped their gear in the small, spare room – a hideout worthy of a town named Hoole. It had been a difficult day and already too late for the fractal immersion program. Lyköan suggested dinner. Nora hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He had tasted nothing since Salisbury. They were exhausted. A refueling now might alleviate the lethargy that had settled in like an oppressive fog.

“I think I’ll join you,” he announced. “I might’ve taken this fasting business too far already ― turned the corner into full-blown starvation. More than Sun Shi probably intended.”

Whether it was true or not, no amount of improved metaphysical development was worth the muscle mass erosion this lack of nourishment was now producing. He simply had no fat left to burn.

Finding a lively pub around the block incongruously serving Fish & Chips and Chinese, they outlined plans for the remainder of the evening over whitefish, rice and steamed vegetables.

* * *

Nora pushed the clippers smoothly through the dark curls, watching the locks tumble to the floor. In the clippers’ wake, a uniform centimeter of tight black stubble remained. As she worked, Lyköan sat statue-like on one of the room’s two well-worn chrome and aqua vinyl chairs, chin against chest.

“All this beautiful hair ― and under it your scalp’s perfect. Not a mark. Not a ding. Smooth as an egg. The perfect head for short hair.”

“Only for the past week ― believe me,” Lyköan replied, running his fingers above his left ear. “Used to be a nice ragged scar right here – compliments of a neighborhood rock-fight when I was a kid. Gone. Like it never happened.”

There were other recent alterations too. The permanent shinbone irregularities everyone gathers with age? A week ago he had been no exception. All gone. The painful bursitis that had been slowly developing in his left shoulder. Nothing. Total range of movement. No pain. The persistent reminders of life, you knew these things like the back of your hand. Not so much as an ache or scar remained. Only the memory that they had once existed. Even the barely-healed scar from the recent surgery to remove the slug he’d taken only a few weeks before. Not a trace remained. Smooth, elastic skin without a single imperfection. 

“Nothing to show for forty-seven years of hard living,” he cracked.

“Nobody’d believe that either. If we just met and you told me that – if I didn’t know it was true ― I wouldn’t believe you. I don’t think anyone would. Thirty-five maybe. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

He had.             

Nora was amazed. “And a complexion to die for. Not a wrinkle! Though I don’t really remember. Did you have many before?”

“Plenty.”

“Well, it ain’t the haircut, mister.”

“You finished?” Lyköan asked, looking up. “There’s something else I want to check.”

“Sure, fuzzball. All done.”

Nora stepped back, admiring her handiwork. Lyköan went to his pack and removed a tape-measure and mechanical pencil. Walking to the bath-room doorway, he handed her the latter.

“Here. Make a mark level with the top of my head, will you?”

Lyköan stood with his back to the doorframe. Nora, on tiptoes, ticked the molding.

“Got it.”

Stepping away, Lyköan hooked the tape’s angle-edge under the baseboard and pulled it taut.

“I knew it! I’ve grown five centimeters!”

“You sound like you’re complaining.”

“Just wondering where it’s all going to end. My vision’s changed too. Even with ultrasonic correction a year ago, I still needed reading glasses ― you know?”

She hadn’t.

He explained. “Today, all those merchandise labels? No trouble at all. Even the fine print.”

Exchanging roles, Lyköan cropped Nora’s hair almost as short as his own. He helped her bleach out every trace of the natural auburn and then added peacock highlights to perfect the desired
au courant
look.

“Isn’t this too much? Won’t it draw attention?” she asked afterwards.

Lyköan understood, but had an entirely different take.

“If Margaret Cunningham can sport it on the cover of
People
― any natural beauty should be able to pull it off.” It was meant as a compliment.

And why not?
MC
or
Emsee
― as the tabs had dubbed Hollywood’s newest all-American cinema darling ― was only a few years Nora’s junior.

“Yep, you’ve nailed it. What
People
called
edgy display.
Anyway, we’re Yanks. The locals would be disappointed if we weren’t a little outrageous. Don’t worry, it’s perfect.”

Sure, it might attract attention, but she looked absolutely stunning ― astonishingly beautiful in fact ― and utterly transformed from the still attractive although somewhat severe-looking CDC siren he had first encountered back in Bangkok. She had really softened. And there was something else ― a more pronounced alteration that defied definition ― a change that could not be explained by the new haircut and color alone. Could it possibly be some sort of proximity effect? Was his accelerated energy level contagious ― somehow rubbing off? What could possibly be the mechanism? The idea seemed preposterous.