Children of the Program (6 page)

chapter 8

long hard road home

“Are y' from around here, cailin?  I don't believe we've met,” asked a handsome local bartender. The barman was working the late shift in EJ Morrissey's, off Dublin-Cork Road in Dublin, Ireland, testing a gal's ID and patience, before handing over a cool drink.

              “I've always lived in the flats,” huffed a soft female voice.  “Do you know the old prison museum in Kilmainham?”

              “You're over in the suburbs, a couple miles out?” he prodded.

              “Yes!  Exactly, sham. I'll just end the suspense, I'm almost 18-years-young.  Now, being that you've already served a hapless lass, there's really no sense making a scene or getting either of us into any senseless trouble,” she paused. “You know what, let's have another!”

              “So your name is not Zane?” he asked, condoning her flirtation.

              “No, it is, but I'm not 20, as the card suggests.  Zane Brennan is my birthright.  It basically means, bad arse feek,” she added, with blush.  She didn't want to lose his trust, nor interest.

              “Feek, huh?  Modest, too?” he paused.  “Why are you out drinking before milk and cookies?”

              “Isn't there a commandment on the wall, over there, that says, 'Thou shall not drive through Abbeyleix without pausing in Morrissey's for a pint,'" Zane quipped.

              “Yes!  Believable, or not, you've got a fetching sass!  Carry on.”

              “My parents split, my best friend moved and I'm not having too much luck in love.” 

              “So, you're compensating?”

              “I've dated around, but I'm not really attracted to the lads my age,” offered Zane, biting into a thick moment of still air.  Her body language was a neon sign, stating, “You are exactly the right age!”

              “Maybe I can join you for a drink, sometime?” he asked.

              “That would be your treat!” she joked, with a wink.  “I have to leave town, to visit family in the States, but I'm sure I'll find you passed out in the bogs, when I return.”

              “Sounds like a date,” he risked. 

              “It's a date,” she confessed.

              “I have better things to do than croak with the frogs,” he said, bidding her giddy hand farewell.

              Zane was bedazzled, but painfully average.  She rested comfortably in the security her tattooed cred and grandfather's worn military jacket provided and bathed in the bravado her combat boots added to a tragically hip and painfully ironic purple pixie haircut.  A tiny silver hoop held onto her petite nose. She was a tomboy, posing as a punk rocker.  By all accounts, a disgruntled middle class girl, crying out for attention.  She was a novice in her journey toward self-discovery. 

              We were all heading somewhere. 

+++

              On its long meandering trek across the midlands, my old red fireball pulsated, shook and pleaded for a second wind.  Landscapes changed with the tumbling odometer, while Baltimore waved in the rear view.  The senseless charms and revelations of the road kept my lazy foot pressing on.  Oblivious to traffic, and unwilling to make a distinction between the pavement and the desert made armadillos calming devices.  These hard hat wearing sloths were blessed with an innate ability to block out the world's murderous terrain.  It seemed awkwardly metaphoric.

              I-40's charms boasted of no name gas stations, seedy strip club billboards and missing children, exhumed from the branching lost highways of the Midwest.  My curious tongue was insistent upon French kissing the mouth of the Pacific, regardless of the mischief Arizona had arranged with the heavenly ghosts.  Killing two ravenous birds with a rebel stone justified my cooperative urgency.  My platitude was that the gods of rock n' roll were ushering me to the Promised Land and would awaken the damned with a ceremonious Hollywood riot in my honor, but a looming reality suggested my experience was called to be far more elaborate than a future memory of the Sunset Strip to boast from a Wicker Man's rocking chair.  

              Eighteen hours on the barren road can consume the fading mind with paranoia.  Roadside naps were of little consequence and only littered my ill mind with episodes and day terrors.  My initial stop was a warped refuge.  Hunkered down in a cheap hotel, I was convinced I'd been traced by a bearded set of serial killers, motoring a large and suspiciously clean white economy van.  Unsure if my profile matched that of someone they'd like to kill, eat or enslave, the warm welcome of a bolted door, a receipt of my whereabouts and a direct phone line to the desk clerk was a worthy bid for my shrinking budget.  I incessantly peered from the musty hotel curtains.  Nothing.

              These types of sensations are amplified by distance, youth and only having a beeper to communicate with.  It is hard for me to even type the word beeper without stirring up a generalized anxiety.  H-E-L-P (4-3-5-7)!

+++

              In the still of the night, I settled.  Drifting into the space between consciousness and the void, I was whistled along by a blue bird.  Its presence radiated a magnificent spectrum of light.  Strangling the hands of time, it broke apart and reanimated as a black, white, gray and red bird.  I recognized the riddling red bird and cruel gray, but remained mystified by the murder.  Familiar feelings dripped from heaven, triggering my soul to condensate; misfiring synapses didn't have the nerve to unleash the Tell-Tale Heart lurking beneath the floorboards of my conscious. 

              The birds hovered above the cardinal points of a glowing sphere.  Intersecting with six white lines, a clock emerged upon a targeted desert floor.  A dove then highlighted the Northern and Eastern portions of the timetable.  Isis, the black bird, pecked a septenary into my forehead.

              “Forever this moment,” said the red bird.

              Naked, sweating and crawling from the center, the birds turned gray and viciously attacked me. 

              I was awoken by a loud tapping on my hotel door, in haste.

              “Time to check-out,” insisted a perky housekeeper.

              “One of these nights, I'll dream about a woman and not these wretched fowl,” I muttered.

+++

I desperately longed for female companionship.  No soul embodied the beauty of feminine divinity more than Juno Vestris.  Someday she would tap dance across the Atlantic and capture the gaze of every nation.  She was inspired by the eclipsing architecture of her histrionic Roman yesterdays; her dances, a tribute to the ancient fallen world.  Like the cobblestone streets, her body paved a way for her soul to connect with the simpler hearts of Palestrina, a small commune east of Rome.  The roads were her stage and a constant reminder of an elementary time, when people coveted the virtuous patience needed to leave indelible footprints on the emotional psyche of future generations.

              Deep roots connected her essence to a Christian faith.  Juno often ventured to the Santa Maria della Vittoria to empathize with the suffering human condition, as depicted by the Ecstasy of St. Teresa.  She could feel the fire of heaven scorning the damned heart, and knew the beauty and importance of purging negative energy through positive channels.  Her mind was constantly musing, which left her studies an afterthought; creativity was a through street, mapped by her soul.

              She grew up in a stable environment, compelled to give back.  Participating in various children's ministries and women-focused expatriate groups, she made Rome feel like home.  Time was an offering, consumed by volunteer driven soup kitchens and Sunday morning baptismal classes; it was a labor of love.  Divinity was an unacknowledged hand guiding Christ-followers to the sacred waters of salvation, lurking just beyond the line on the horizon.

              Her style was simple, but inspired.  She rarely bothered with the trappings of an undiagnosed make-up addiction.  The natural beauty of her long wavy red hair, freckles, green eyes and lushly positive confidence spoke in quakes.  To Juno, a flattering solid-colored dress, splashed with an accent belt, was an evolution from deliberately distracting patterns, distancing her far from the repugnant geometric anomaly known as paisley.  She'd harnessed the power of simplicity and reveled in authenticity.

              Her dreams started like the others, though she never saw them as disturbing or frightening.  They were a transmitter for speaking to God.  Sometimes startled, she'd use her nervous midnight energy to create inspired dance routines; recalling their enigmatic calling was a box step away.  She was willing to trust God's plan for her life and believed she was a predestined instrument of purpose.

              Juno never took her life for granted.  She was born a twin, but her sister died in utero. 

              She lived like a tribute.

              Survival instincts sharpen our awareness to kindred spirits.  Though thoroughly perplexed by the intuitive nature of the third eye or why certain vibrations are compatible, it's entirely fathomable to meet utter strangers and know their inner psyche without exchanging a word.  As clairvoyance tightens, snap judgments become an impulse.  Juno was in tune with such signals.

+++

              I scrambled through static.  After long and overly-analytical hours on the road to nowhere, I was able to find the proper channels.  In an instant, I could distinguish between those eagerly traveling toward the western Promised Land, the misplaced, displaced or drug-addled, and the unfortunate souls, passing through the complacency of another day.  Of course, vanity plates didn't hinder my investigation.  Once a baited connection hooked a fellow road warrior, an unspoken pact developed.  The rules implied commandeering a look-out for breakdowns, stranger danger or drifting.

              Hoping to lure free-spirited females, my preoccupied eyes spun lustful webs.  A few California Dreamin' dames, motoring a cross country expedition to Santa Barbara, were lassoed by my lashes; devoid of lip service, we blueprinted our libidos on sprawling dashboards and let the wiles of our imagination marinate over a hundred lascivious miles.  Introductions were a formality, long-forgotten by climaxing pit stops to the Garden. 

              Due to the inexplicable odds of biting into the forbidden fruit on the open road, these tattooed memories are still a welcome haunting; explicitly dancing in my frontal lobe, forevermore.  These chance events only prove the intimacy of human souls and our inherent need for socialization, security and lust; after all, everyone has an unquenchable thirst for a good story to tell, right?

              Invigorated by spontaneity, I beamed toward the shroud of mystery known as Area 51.  I could allow my imagination to be abducted for a few hours; the desert rendezvous was a loose timetable.  Able to explore my indescribable obsession with ancient alien theory, I found my way to Route 375, gazed and let fantasy unfold.  Devoid of UFO sightings or unexpected attacks from resident Greys, the calm allowed my taxed mind a moment to decompress and enjoy the view of nature's simplicity.

              When I shimmied back into my exasperated car, I heard the familiar song, “Life is a Highway.”  I never knew how motivational and poetic Tom Cochrane could be.  So long as it wasn't another cryptic message from the omnipresent spirit guides, I was content to allow the one-hit wonder to blare through my rickety Toyota Tercel cabin. 

              “This song is terrible, but great!” I debated.  “It's terrible.”

              I knew the Painted Desert was calling; I was refreshed and ready to knock out the ends of my travel.  With one foot comfortably secured out of the driver's side window and a fresh fag lit, life was 'Just alright with me!' 

              The last few hours were a time machine to wits’ end.  Dazed and confused, I emerged from the bone-weary vehicle.

              “Well done, Neco!  Walk north.  I am with you,” said an angelic voice.

              The gravity of the situation gave my wobbly legs reason for pause.  It felt like the entire weight of the unknown had been placed upon my cramped shoulders.  Reluctantly, I soldiered into the vast desert.  It took roughly an hour of dust, sweat and tears, before I stumbled upon the target.  Feeling lost in solitary, suspense mounted.  I paced the pattern beneath, before another cannon fired from the loud speaker in my head.

              “You have arrived.  Wait,” said the voice.

              It was then I heard another unforgettable voice.

chapter 9

the gathering and the mission

Icarus Kali was a not-so gentle giant.  He stood a towering 6' 11'' and was the first of his classmates to grow a beard.  He was born in the Hellenic Republic in Southern Europe.  It was a fitting cognomen, considering the rich mythology and history surrounding Greece.  He played football for St. Catherine's British School, while in upper school and planned to attend Athens College in Psychiko, Greece.  His parents imposed high academic standards, but knew his brawn would inevitably do the bulk of his bidding. 

              Piercing cold blue eyes radiated from his mammoth skull like the waters of Antarctica.  His heart would seemingly beat out of his thick chest with each deep, brooding and oxygen-starved breath.  A caged animal lurked within, awaiting the day it would finally be unleashed upon an unsuspecting society of lemmings.  He would someday reign supreme and be sculpted by the elite, as his namesake and birthright demanded.  He was greater than myth and the embodiment of God's perfect strokes, upon the canvass of human development.

              His stature ensured a justifiable arrogance, only tamed by his father's matching height and experience.  The spoils of a lush background only fueled his expectations.  His mother was a successful defense attorney and his father a businessman; trouble could be quashed by money and justify his withdrawn empathy.  They took turns disciplining, Icarus, physically.  It was important to show dominance and to impose memorable guidelines for his troublesome and often aggressive behavior.  It was the only method he responded to, but also reinforced projection. 

              They'd created a monster!

              He dressed to impress, suppress and repress.  Girls were of his choosing; their hearts were a lottery, and he liked to play.  Those who didn't fawn, would inevitably cower into his arms and pray for a quick release.  He had a long list of female conquests to boast and quickly assumed dominant roles amongst his peers.  The Western sun called him to fly closer than he ever imagined possible.

+++

              The summer heat burned through their clothes, while they cautiously awaited revelation.  Even Dez was no longer loud, proud nor spouting off at the mouth; the buds had left his mind numb.  Off in the distance, Icarus and the three remaining individuals emerged into view.  If Magnus's dream was accurate, the circle would soon be completed and the 12 stones could take their place on the monstrous white mystery.

              Their distance seemed to be multiplied by the group’s divided patience.  Their footsteps were ushered along, like a funeral procession, as they inched toward the gathering circle — their pace couldn’t have seemed slower.  They were covered in the familiar gaseous shroud of a heat haze.  Their silhouettes, like the introduction of an old Mad Max film.  One character stood-out amongst the rest.  He was either really tall or much closer than he appeared.  The impossible volume of this individual suggested he was closer.  He was not. 

              “It looks like we're not alone!  Plenty of shams,” puckered Zane.

              “No!  It looks like there are at least 7, maybe 8, others,” added Ben.

              “They look like they need to stand-up and shake it off,” said Juno, interlocking fingers with Ben's unwelcoming hands and lightening the mood with a mock waltz.  Zane welcomed her effervescence.  Ben was unamused.  The lighthearted girls giggled.  “Oh, come on, grump!”

              Exhaustion reduced Icarus to sighs and lazy grunts.  The time it took for sultry blood to circulate through his sky-scraping frame and reach his mammoth brain left him little energy to interact with the group.  Each attempt to connect his mind with his mouth created discomfort.  Nonsensical sounds fell from his lips, like lazy rain.

              “Eh,” tried Icarus.

              Comprehending their calling was a crime against the mind, but not the shoulders they leaned on.

              “So, how many of you were visited by the beautiful spirit woman?” asked Juno.  “I bet she's with us now.”

              “I was terrified!  I couldn't help but wonder how long she'd been watching me sleep — or worse!  Total stalker,” joked Zane.

              “We know we're here to do something — something great!  It's easy for us to take our dreams for granted, but if we weren't special, this desert would be consumed by the heartbeat of 7 billion people.  I don't know what it is, but it'll be something amazing,” professed Juno.  “I can feel the rhythm of the air.”

              “What is amazing about being haunted by precarious dreams and led into the middle of god-knows-where for a celestial meet-and-greet with utter strangers?  No offense, but this is offensive.  I can't help but wonder if the entire universe is punishing me for something I did in another lifetime,” returned Ben.  With staunch pessimism, he squeezed his temples to relieve a pressure headache.

              “Uh huh,” moaned Icarus.

              “Honey, you had to have believed it was going to be something incredible.  You came, didn't you?” asked Juno.

              “You're supposing I had a choice,” said Ben.

              Their dehydrated voices clammed, upon reaching the gathering.  With sweaty palms, they reached down toward the lazy-eyed group.  Like a game of Duck, Duck, Goose, they extended pleasantries and handed down swift introductions.  Magnus, Rand, Simon, Neco, Dez, Ash, Grayson and Elisa were tired of formalities, but revived by the disruption of their speculative time.  Zane, Icarus, Ben & Juno took a seat on the circle. 

              One by one, they purged their story.

+++

              The dusk sunset complimented Ash's fair skin.  Tattooed by the puffy shadows of the sky's love, she complimented the desert floor.  Neco couldn't help in noticing her bold beauty, still resting comfortably in his cramped lap; she was adorned in a bedazzled mystique.  The evening was bathed in twilight.  The merciless desert was finally ready to bestow a warranted empathy toward its exhausted travelers.  A modest offering cooled the temperature to tolerable, as the sun hung in its 7 p.m.
position.  From beyond, an aggressive breeze suddenly gusted about the perimeter, whipped the sand and pulled dust toward a parting sky.

              “Do you see that?” asked Simon, pointing.  His mysticism longed for ownership.

              The group was dumbfounded by a brilliant red, yellow and orange sequence being painted above.  Behind the beautiful colors shined a bright starry light, discarding shadows from the vacant interior of the congregation field.  Human whispers, in various languages, consumed the vibrational field.  Lowered by a cosmic puppeteer, the blue bird assumed the role of a supernova.  Its breathtaking presence overshadowed its underwhelming size.  Though mesmerizing, the magnificence of the sky's Broadway performance only cast a light upon their terrestrial insignificance.  They cowered beneath the unfolding heavenly canvas.

              The royal bird then separated into four gallant new birds.  They circled, challenging the velocity of light.  Like an interstellar beam from an alien aircraft, a sapphire illumination connected the arid ground to the heavens.  A thunderous voice called out, in a deep, familiar and evocative way.  It was The Council.  Its power echoed through the canyon walls, and breathed fear into the already petrified forest. 

              “Beckoning for growth, a tenacious spirit longs for humility.  It is the smallest mind that is able to move the greatest obstacle, through the hands of interconnectedness.  We are one body, within an infinite mind,” said The Council.  Their harmonized tones sent tremors through the desert floor.  “Stand, remove your clothing and lock arms!”

              With warranted caution, they began begrudgingly shedding their earthly identities.  The young girls removed their knickers, but hesitated with the veils of their chest.  The developing boys wrestled with the insecurity of unfastening their ego-preserving fig leaves.   One after the other, they revealed their bodies to The Council and risked the judgment of their new acquaintances; everyone, too self-absorbed to notice.  They reached for each other’s hands, until the circle was connected and instinctively looked up.

              As if hypnotized, Juno broke free and began to dance; Neco harmonized with The Council; Ash waved imaginary brushstrokes toward the heavens; Simon's body flickered within and out of the visible spectrum.               

              They were the muses.

              Grayson spoke in long-forgotten tongues; Elisa used physics to bend the marvelous lights of The Council's calling; Benjamin riddled in maths, seeking the final digit of the numerical constant known as pi; Rand recounted historical records with precise accuracy, as if narrating humanity for a book on tape.               

              They were the intellects.

              Icarus, Magnus, Zane and Dez walked toward the center of the circle and began mock sparring.  Juno inspired their choreography.  Directed by Rand, clothing projected onto their bodies, like a hologram.  They morphed to represent various moments of their shared human existence.  In the beginning, they fought with spears; in the end, with bombs. 

              They were the warriors.

              Returning to their positions, they interlocked their quaking hands.  The Book of Records was then opened to reveal their past lives.  The consuming beam subtly shifted from sapphire to indigo.  Like lustful voyeurs, they peered into the minds surrounding them.  They could witness their intersecting paths and mistakes and feel the pains of their horror-filled afterlives.  The whispering voices overhead would shift between a choir of praise to the guttural screams of the underworld.

              It was then, they knew.  They remembered it all.  They were chosen for
The Program
.

              The rules of The Program repeated from the sky's mouth.  Words overlapped in various tongues, falling like a purified rain.  Their gravity was synonymous to the laws of nature; they were binding and absolute.  In the sky, the souls of the damned sensually writhed across one another.  Some pleaded, begging for notice.

              “You are now ready!  The Program is an unbreakable cycle.  It cannot be interfered with by The Council.  Your transgressions in these lifetimes will not be chronicled in the Book of Records, but may create a vast barrier between your soul and your mission for solvency and absolution from the physical plane.  If it takes a 1,000 lifetimes to produce a Crystalline child, you will live them all.  Your miracle children will usher in an awakening.  They are the enlightenment of our new age.  You will know them by their indigo eyes,” echoed the Council.

              The group held tightly to each other.  The energy from the radiant lights forced them into a 120 degree angle.  The vibration of the Council's voice sent shock waves through their rattling skulls, but their eyes remained transfixed.  They were possessed by the sky.  The bright light in the middle of the circle morphed into a fire and withdrew back to the heavens from which it spawned.  Black birds dropped like rain upon the desert floor. 

              The group collapsed.

+++             

Hours passed before they awoke.  Dez was the first to his lifeless feet.  He quickly redressed and pulled a fresh joint from his tattered jacket pocket.  Kicking the midnight ravens, he returned to the security of the red rocks, where he'd been arrogantly resting.  His frayed nerves were shot.  The marijuana cooled him, but his new perspective — intoxicating. 

              “I may live a 1,000 lifetimes?” Dez pondered.  “1,001 lifetimes?”

              The Program was a jagged pill to swallow.  His memories, like the others, were now amplified with visceral sensitivity.  He'd feel his skin burn, if he thought about the heartless underworld.  His mind was a battlefield littered with landmines.  An abyss of sorrow consumed him, as he tiptoed through the memories of his losses from former lifetimes.  He could deduce where the fossilized souls of his old friends and forgotten family members were spending their otherworldly days.  The Program didn't invoke his inspiration.  He was haunted by it.  To Dez, it was hell on earth. 

              Zane awoke and joined the shattering man in the distance.  Without a word, she uncomfortably took the joint from his lazy hands and deeply inhaled.  “So, we've got a pretty far out road ahead of us?” she asked, clumsily attempting his phrasing.

              “You may, lass!  I don't know about you, but I'm going to continue living my
goddamned life.  If I find someone, I find someone!”

              “It can't be that hard, can it?” she modestly asked, not expecting a response.  “People and animals are always coupling.  I fall in love, daily.  As a matter of fact, I have a bartender awaiting my charms in Dublin,” she joked, hoping to unearth a glimmer of hope in his mad eyes.  “I'll find someone, we'll have a baby and I'll leave this godforsaken planet.  I can't wait to fall in love!” she zealously proclaimed.  “Though, I could do without all of these dirty birds.”