Water (5 page)

I had taken only a few steps into the room, running my finger over a stacked series of battered, yellowing books.  No dust.  Much of it had been recently used. 
Maybe they could curb spending on books and invest in some basic staples of life – like food.

 
"So where’s Waldo?"  I turned to Micah, who hadn’t moved from the door.

Micah walked forward and took the now empty juice box and granola bar wrappings from me.  I heard someone clear their throat softly from the far end of the room.  I glanced back at Micah, unsure.  He waved me forward.  At Micah’s urging, I walked toward the sound, noting the number of windows in the room as possible escape routes.  Navigating my way through the mess, I often found myself at a dead end and had to turn to seek out another path, only to end up at another dead end. 
Forget this, I'd be caught in the maze before I could find my way to the windows.
 

Finally, after circling around an especially tall pile of books, I approached an elderly man sitting on the floor with his legs crossed, taking notes from one of several open books in front of him.  He looked up at my approach and stood, brushing dirt off his lap.  His long silver hair was tied back at the nape of his neck, and might have been considered dignified if it weren’t for loose, frazzled strands floating about his grungy face.  He moved slowly, like a great weight was on him, making him appear older than his face seemed to portray; wrinkles ornamented his eyes, the only flaw on otherwise firm, smooth skin.  His assessment of me went twice as quickly as mine of him, and he turned to Micah, still at the entrance of the door, to dismiss him.

As the most familiar thing to me in this place left, I fought back the urge to protest as an odd feeling of betrayal bubbled up.

"Don’t worry, I won’t bite," the old man said.  His eyes, a dull blue going lucent with age, barely glanced at me, but obviously he didn’t miss a thing.  "My name is Cato."

His name could’ve very well been Einstein, with his scraggly white hair.  "I’m Kaitlyn," I replied, not knowing what else to say.

"I know," he said, winking at me before moving books off a couple of worn, beaten chairs.  "Please, have a seat; I’m sure you have many questions."

"Yeah, sure, lots.  Like, ever heard of a computer?"  Appropriately, I managed to bump into yet another stack of books, nearly knocking them over.  I hurried to steady the stack. 

"Never really trusted them.  Besides, so many trees were destroyed to create all these old books – I can’t let them be wasted."

"Does that same concern for trees perhaps extend toward human life?"  I turned from the books to him.

"I apologize for the sudden manner in which you were taken.  You have to understand, it had to happen this way.  There was no other choice."

My eyes flashed.  "I don’t think
you
quite understand.  In the past days, I have been starved, sleep-deprived, interrogated, not to mention almost killed!"  I paused to take a breath, realizing that I was standing directly in front of the old man shaking my finger at him like I was scolding a three year old.  "Why am I here?"  My last remark resonated from the walls.  An eerie silence followed.

Cato just stood there staring at the floor, perhaps giving me time to compose myself.  Well, at least I had gotten it out of my system.  "I am thankful to have been rescued from the mountainside," I said, speaking through gritted teeth, "but then again, I have no reason not to believe your men created the avalanche in the first place.  Anyway, I fail to see how this couldn’t have been handled better."

Cato smiled at me, "You are too impatient, Kaitlyn.  You always have been."  He watched my reaction.  I said nothing, stepped back, and inevitably hit another stack of books.  I let this one fall.  A piece of loose paper from the top landed on my foot.  It was a handwritten letter with a very familiar signature at the bottom.

"G," I said.

"What?"  He leaned over looking at the paper I held.

After my parents died, I had occasionally received letters from a man signing them "G."  One on my birthday and one on Christmas, at the very least.  I’d always ignored them.  I looked up at him.  "You are my Godfather?"

About a year ago, the letters began arriving more frequently; once or twice a month.  His tone also became more and more pressing as he urged me to make arrangements to visit him or at least write back.  I had no intention of  writing, calling, or visiting a man who decided to start a relationship once my parents, the only link between us, was gone.  Besides, I had suspicions that his urgent matter might have something to do with the large sum of money they  left behind.  It has been sitting in a bank account, untouched, for 13 years now.  Since their loss, I couldn’t bring myself to use it.  Bank statements went unopened and I hadn’t yet set up the online access.  It just felt wrong that I should benefit from their deaths, and hell if I was going to let anyone else benefit from it, either.  I had a sudden, sinking feeling, "Is this about the money?"

"No," he said, "this isn’t about the money.  But yes, I am your Godfather - as I stated in all the letters I sent to you over the years.  And that isn’t a G, it is a C, for Cato."

I suppressed the urge to apologize for the failure to respond to his letters, but stammered out an excuse nonetheless, "I – I – didn’t know…"

"No need to apologize."

"I wasn’t —"

"—These are all letters from your parents to me."  He interrupted before I could defend myself.  "They spent a lot of time writing about you." 

He handed me a stack of letters held together by a thick rubber band, then leaned over and put his hand over mine.  "I am deeply sorry for your loss, they were great people."

I unfolded the first letter, instantly recognizing my mother’s handwriting.  Neat and flowery, she took a lot of pride in her script and always nagged that I should do the same.  She was writing about a camping trip; I remembered it well.  During this particular trip I had become adept at lighting and maintaining campfires.  My father gave me a short lesson, then put me, and me alone, in charge of the fire.  We'd no heat or cooking flame for two days, and I could swear my mom was on the verge of strangling him.  Once I did figure it out, the pride on his face combined with my mom’s relieved hug was well worth the wait.  Her description of the event was so detailed and well written, I could almost feel the heat on my face from the flames that flickered across her words.

"How come…"  My voice cracked and I cleared my throat as I sat down in a chair.  "How come you didn’t just come to see me?  There was no need for all of this."  I folded the letter as carefully as if they were her last words to me.

He sat down, too.  "I apologize for that.  It isn't necessarily easy for me to leave this place.  When it became essential to bring you here, we didn’t have the time for explanations.  But I want you to know that you were never alone after your parents passed.  I’ve always had someone looking after you.  Which hasn’t been easy, considering how much you move around."

"Thank you, I guess…"  I trailed off, then sighed.  "You still haven’t answered anything."

"All right then, let’s dive right into the big question then, shall we?  Why are you here?"  He paused, making it seem half as though he expected me to answer my own question.  I hesitantly opened my mouth before he started again with a reassuring smile.  "To put it bluntly, I lead a movement whose ultimate goal is to save the earth."

I raised an eyebrow, "Save the earth?  You mean like, recycling?  Or are we talking flying superheroes?"

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair, "A little of both, perhaps.  We work to protect, conserve, and provide balance to the planet and its ecosystems."

"It all sounds very hippie."  I stopped his explanation.  "Is it some kind of cult?"

"It is a way of life," he said.  "An awareness of the world in which you are living.  We cannot be everywhere at once, so we concentrate on Earth's most immediate threat.  Our mission is to prevent global devastation, and when time allows we promote ways to respect the environment." 

"I’m sorry, but it’s hard to imagine any of these goons you have collecting trash on the side of a highway."

"You’d be surprised at what they can do.  Take this compound, for example.  We call it the Chakra.  My men all helped to build it as a completely self-sustaining compound, except for the occasional food import.  We produce all our own electricity through a solar panel farm on the property and a wind turbine out back.  The water comes from a natural spring.  This place never needs heating or air conditioning because the building is oriented with the long axis running east and west rather than north and south to promote solar heating gains in the winter and reduce solar gains in the summer.  The basement vents are opened when it gets hot, allowing air currents cooled by the stone floor to flow through the rest of the house.  It’s a very efficient cooling system".

"So… you’re some sort of tree-hugging cult?"  I summarized.

He laughed at my question, but I gave him a look that meant business.  I wasn’t asking for a save-the-Earth lecture.

"It is more than just hugging trees," he said.  "It has to do with the universe.  It is understanding it, communicating with it, taking from it, and giving back.  Which is where
you
come in."

"I still don’t follow," I said, the tone of my voice cold.

"Let me show you something."  Cato stood up and led me further into the room, weaving around stacks of books.  I looked down, only half concentrating on keeping my footing in the mess, and half debating if I should turn tail and run.  It was the whole ‘giving back to the universe’ that had me on edge.  Distracted, I hadn’t realized he had stopped and I ran square into his back.  He stepped to the side and my apology died in my throat.  A giant tree loomed in front of me.

I stammered, "Is this where I start the hugging?"

He laughed, "Of sorts."

Although it wasn’t giant, as far as trees go, it dominated the room, and how I didn’t notice it already was anyone’s guess.  The dark brown trunk was too thick for both my arms.  It supported a massive amount of branches, the lowest of which were too high for my reach.  Each branch had a myriad of vibrant, green leaves.  The color of Micah’s eyes, I noticed.  The leaves shimmered with even more enthusiasm the further up I looked.  Raising my gaze all the way to the ceiling, I saw an open skylight letting in the hot afternoon sun and a gentle breeze.  The duo worked together to give the leaves the magical effect I perceived from way down below.  The fresh scent enticed me to breathe in deeply; I was grateful for the break from the overpowering smell of musty, old books.

Cato turned toward the tree and knelt on the floor, lifting the carpet up where the trunk protruded from the ground.  Dipping his hands underneath it, they re-emerged with a fistful of dirt.

"There is only a carpet separating this room from the earth below us; I like to be as close to nature as possible without subjecting my research to the elements."  He paused.  "Though it does pose quite a problem for keeping rodents out."

"If you want to embrace nature it's got to be all or nothing."  I mimicked the nasally voice of my fruit-cake middle school English teacher; an environmental nut.

He smiled wryly and gestured for my hand.  I let him have it.  Dirt slid from his palm into my own.  As I cupped my hand to prevent any from seeping out, I felt small electrical charges, almost like little shocks.  It wasn’t painful; just pure energy.

"It’s like pop rocks!"  The phrase was out of my mouth before I could think.

He nodded in agreement, "Remarkable, I know."  He transferred his own bit of dirt from one hand to another.  "And that’s only the beginning – let me show you something else."  He picked up a small twig from the ground and turned my hand over, using it to create a deep scratch.

"Ow!"  I pulled my hand away sharply.  Small trickles of blood made streaks down my hand.

"Rub some of that dirt in the scratch."

I looked at him, raising an eyebrow.  He offered no explanation.  Slowly, I obliged.  The sting of the cut ceased almost right away as did the bleeding.  A small amount of foam bubbled out from the cut.  Concerned, I immediately wiped away the foam.  More appeared.  Again, I wiped it away.  Each time I did so, the cut seemed to be slightly smaller and less pronounced.

"The ministrations applied to you over the past few days were nothing more than mud from the surrounding grounds."

"Are you serious?" I asked, eyes open wide.

He nodded, "Let me start with the basics. All matter vibrates at the molecular level. The vibrations emit energy waves creating a natural frequency, which varies depending on the object's size, shape, and composition."

"This is the basics?"

He ignored me. "Some people are more sensitive to these frequencies than others.  You are one of them.  Subconsciously, you have been absorbing energy from this land.  This is one of few places on Earth with a particular frequency that synchronizes with your own energy waves. 
That
is why we call it the Chakra.  Chakras are energy centers on the human body.  They are focal points for receiving or giving energy – just like this particular land.  You can become dangerously strong, quick, and smart here.  Which is why we’ve taken such strict security measures."

I very much wanted to believe.  I’d felt it, particularly during my fight with the gaurds.  But, for all I knew they could have been pumping me with steroids.  I looked from my hand back up to Cato.  "Does this happen with you?"