Stones: Theory (Stones #4) (10 page)

Yarah looks to Jessica for permission. When she gets the nod, she takes the bag and opens it.

The sweet smell of beef jerky fills the cab.

“Go ahead,” Tom says. “You folks look hungry. Now, what was I talking about?”

Jessica takes a long reddish strip of meat out of the bag. “Staying away from Shinto.” One end goes into her mouth, and she bites off a piece.

“Right.” Tom settles back into his seat. “Like I said. I don’t have anything against the idea of unity and nature and the whole Japanese concept of harmony. But I got a bad feeling about this. And I’m not the only one.”

The transport plunges into a forest of broad leaf trees forming a canopy over the top. As they move through the natural tunnel, shadows mix with light to create a jumbled jigsaw effect. On either side, a wall of brown trunks, veined branches and dense undergrowth add to a closed-in feeling. The cab seems to get smaller.

As Matt stares out the window at the darkness, Yarah’s words play through his mind.

He wants to talk about Abomination. But he needs a little help.

Matt thinks his reply back to Yarah.

Got it. I’ll play along and see what I can do.

He turns back to face Tom. “Tell me about it. You say you’re not the only one. I don’t see many people agreeing with you.”

“Oh, there’s quite a few of us, actually.” Tom reaches over to the sack on Yarah’s lap and fishes out a piece of jerky. “Nothing official, just a loose organization that’s been around for a long time, warning about all of this. And what’s to come.”

“Tell me about it,” Matt says.

A big smile swims across Tom’s face. “You ever heard of the
freedom camps
?”

“Sure.” Matt pulls some jerky from the bag and rips it in half, sticking one piece in his mouth. “I heard a bunch of them got shut down in California. Something about mass-producing bootleg dopamine rings.”

Tom shakes his head. “Not true. The authorities made that up. Used it as an excuse to attack the camps and close them down. Killed several hundred of the Children. It’s what we call each other. We’re all children of the Two.”

“The Two?”

“It just means our parents. The parents of the whole human race. The Mother and Father of all.” Tom turns to Matt and reaches out a hand to his shoulder. “That makes us all brothers and sisters. At least most religions have that part right.”

The darkness and constant vibration of the cab have already caused Yarah’s head to nod from side to side. As the pull of sleep wins its battle, her head collapses to the left and rests on Tom’s arm. Jessica starts to get drowsy, and Matt puts her head onto his shoulder.

“You got a nice little family here.” Another gentle smile spreads across Tom’s face, revealing a gap-tooth smile. “I can’t wait until the Two come back to visit their Family. It’ll be a glorious day.” His jaw moves up and down as he works the jerky in his mouth.

The transport slows down as it nears the summit.

“When is that supposed to happen?” Matt says.

“No idea.” Tom swallows a big chaw of jerky. “Could be a few months or a thousand years from now. Nobody knows for sure. But the Abomination will come first.”

“Now that’s a word you don’t hear every day.” Matt stretches his arms up to the ceiling and tries to arch his back to work out a few kinks. A week on the Great Appalachian Trail hasn’t prepared him for a long ride in a truck transport. “
Abomination.
Sounds like the end of the world. We’ve already had a nuclear holocaust. What more could happen? The sun goes supernova? Asteroids destroy the Earth?”

“I guess it’s a common theme in many religions. Nobody really knows what exactly the
Abomination
is. But we have a couple of hints.” Tom lifts his hand and stretches out an index finger. “First, it will cover the earth.” Another finger goes up. “Second, it will be a new technology, very tempting, very enticing. Everybody will want it.”

“That’s why the freedom camps stay away from hi-tech stuff, right?”

“You got it.” Tom leans forward, resting his elbows on the steering wheel. “A whole generation of people out there have grown up without jaxes and slates and bluescreens. When the Abomination comes, they’ll be ready to resist it. The only ones that can.”

The windshield of the transport flashes a transparent red. The words
Construction Ahead
and
Reduce Speed
light up across its glass surface. Tom reaches forward and touches the truck-com, and the transport starts to slow down. As they crest the summit, two yellow earthmovers work against the hill on the right. They have already carved away a fifty meter swath, exposing rich black soil and a mass of tangled roots. To the side of the construction, a large Shinto torii gate stands with its fresh coat of vermillion paint.

Matt gestures out the window. “So what does all that have to do with Shinto?”

“That’s the mystery.” Tom shakes his head. “Here’s what we know. Shinto is covering the earth. MX Global, the biggest tech company in the world, is providing financial support. They are the ones that came up with the new technology to clean up the radiation and fallout after the nuclear detonations. Rumors are that it’s made them billions and billions of IMUs. But beyond that, your guess is as good as mine.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“Two words.
Avoid Shinto.
”

“Interesting conversation,” Matt says. “Mind if I nod off for a few minutes?”

“No problem.” Tom reaches out to the truck-com and changes the motor-tone so it sounds like a day at the beach with a rhythmic surf and seagulls in the background. “I’ll wake you up when we get to the restaurant.”

“Thanks, Tom.”

We’re getting through
, he thinks.
To some of them.

As they leave the construction site and head down the other side of the mountain, Tom leans back. The windshield goes transparent green, and the words
End Construction
play across it. Quickly picking up speed, the transport rolls down the hill, nothing but a broad, straight road ahead for miles.

“By the way,” Tom says. “I never got your name. You seem to know mine, but I don’t know yours.”

Matt looks up through sleep-weary eyes. “My name? Pretty generic. Matt Newmark. But I mostly just go by a nickname.”

“What’s that?”

“The Finder.”

M
iyazawa walks up transparent stairs into the ivory white transport ship. As he lifts each heel, the step left behind by his foot dissolves away, keeping perfect timing with his gait. At the top, he turns to face the masses gathered below. He stands at the point of a wedge-shaped slice of humanity that opens up and extends for more than a kilometer in front of him. Bowing deeply in their direction, he waits for the transport doors to slide shut.

As soon as the doors close, he slumps down into a waiting chair of thick cushions that envelopes and cradles him. An audible sigh breaks from his lips.

“Is everything all right, Master?” A concerned look crosses an assistant’s face on the other side of the cabin.

Miyazawa nods and reaches up to remove his black cap. “Just tired.” His eyes close, a signal that he no longer wishes to be bothered by conversation.

It is happening more frequently. The sensation that
another
is speaking through him. This time, it was in downtown Los Angeles at the first dedication ceremony to take place in a major US city. The old building at 400 South Hope Street had been razed to the ground, making room for a new
jinja
shrine. As part of the ceremony, Miyazawa spoke to thousands of the gathered faithful. But it had not been him speaking. It was the
Other
.

He tries to recall the words that slipped effortlessly from his own lips only minutes before. Words that he did not prepare or intend to speak. As he floats motionless in the chair, the words came back, like a vaguely recalled dream.

It is the work of Shinto to bring men and women together, one with Nature, one with each other. It is only when we are one that we find complete joy and contentment. For in truth, we are not separate, we are not discrete individuals. The experience of separateness is an illusion, an alternate reality that hangs over us like a thin film that masks the truth. Through the experience of Shinto, that film is brushed aside, like a curtain, to reveal what we really are. This, then, is the mission of Shinto. To help us tear away the thin veneer of consciousness that binds us to unreality. When our minds are opened to ultimate reality, it is then that we understand.

All in one, and one in all.

He tries to wipe the words from his memory, but they are burned into his awareness, made permanent like the vertical line of
kanji
characters carved into the single large stone that marks the front of his home shrine on the outskirts of Kyoto in southern Japan. Could it be that he has spoken the words before, on another occasion? He isn’t sure.

What do the words mean? He has no idea and no desire to understand.

But he
had
spoken the words. They
had
been streamed live across the Mesh to every corner of the world. Perhaps people will forget about them. For now, if anyone asks about their deeper meaning, he can give a mystical answer. But if he continues to repeat the words, they will shape the perception of Shinto, create expectations, require accountability.

So he will never speak the words again.

Never again.

As he sinks deeper into the chair, darkness calms his fears. Weightlessness fills his body. Arms and legs drift apart.

He begins to dream.

The darkness resolves into a broad plain of golden sand under a dome of light blue sky. A single tree stands in the center of the plain. He is drawn to it. As he walks over the sand, he glances behind and sees no footprints. Looking down, his feet float above the surface. Lightness permeates his body. The dark outline of finger bones beneath the skin of his palm is visible. His body is saturated with a yellow glow that is visible even under the glare of an orange sun.

An outer robe like that of a Shinto priest hangs down his chest and back, but his feet and head are bare.

The tree is closer now, its enormous cherry blossoms as bright as fire. A massive tan trunk divides into three sections a few feet from the ground. From there, it opens out like the arms of a man, becoming ever smaller and vein-like branches until terminating in tendrils as thin as threads. Broad green leaves larger than his head float at the outer fringe of the tree, each turning its face up to absorb rays of nourishment from above.

Standing under the mighty tree and staring up, the song of each leaf hums over his head like a hundred thousand voices. His hand brushes the smooth surface of the trunk and senses the delicate vibrations passing up and down its length. He scans the lush growth, reaches up and gently brings a leaf down, pressing it to his ear. A single violin string rises above the symphony of interweaving melodies.

A clear voice speaks to him through the music.

All in one, and one in all.

Instinctively, he steps back from the trunk and brings his hands up to his face, palms together. He bows, allowing the tips of his fingers to brush against his forehead. As he closes his eyes, darkness descends. At the same time, the singing of the tree rises higher in his ears until it fills his consciousness. Like a wave ascending from the water’s surface as it nears a beach, the song moves up from the sand, through his legs and into his chest, swirling and shooting down into his arms and up through his neck into his brain.

His body becomes an instrument, and the music plays and resonates through it. It explodes from his skin, radiating out, filling the darkness around him.

When he opens his eyes, he
is
the tree.

From roots deep in the cool sand up to leaves opening to the sun, he senses it all. His voice is the voice of the tree, and he is singing the song he first heard standing below its branches.

As he sings, he looks out upon the golden plains. From every direction, as far as the horizon, multitudes of people move forward to the center where he stands. They come near, and he sees the looks of joy in their faces. Weeping and singing, arms outstretched, they pull toward him. When their fingers touch the smooth outer bark, he senses it on his own skin.

Kneeling down before him, the masses clap their palms together in front of their faces and bow their heads. Two young women dressed in robes of white stand up from the crowd and bring forth a
shimenawa
rope. Made of golden threads, it glistens and shimmers in the sun. Their delicate fingers string it around his trunk and bow before him. Once again, the people kneel down and worship the tree that he has become. Adoration and veneration flow from them like a flood of fresh water over dry soil. It reaches the base of the tree, surges through the fibers of the trunk, and passes up through the branches and out to the leaves. As it reaches a crescendo, glorious white cherry blossoms bloom above and below every green leaf, covering him like a robe of soft silk.